#but your sense of morality was always rather peculiar

[ackerifle]

I personally see yan!Levi being like he is in the show, keeping his emotions in control, being focused and having the whole no-nonsense attitude. While being just a tad bit too overprotective. I doubt he'd ever harm reader if he's caught feelings for them or force himself on them. (just my opinion and personal preference!) But it makes me curious to see how he would genuinely struggle with his feelings, being self-aware of how too much he feels for reader while also being quite dense in a way. Seeing him deteriorate as he's trying to keep up with how he usually is with everyone else. While you see things from his POV, his psychology. And how the absence of any form of intimacy and probably not thinking he needs it affects him. I've read all that you've written and really like your writing and wondered what your take on this would be? a scenario or headcanons, Can be sfw and/or nsfw!

dramatis personae!

yan. levi ackerman x fem. reader

+ CW. — headcanon’s: internal morality conflict, stalking, possessive and manipulative behavior, slight intimidation, implied: forced relationship & eventual mind break; i fear the structure worsens as it continues; not proof-read.

first and foremost, you flatter me, i am delighted to hear that you’ve taken a liking to my writing, and your patience in waiting is well appreciated. this particular ask near reminds me that it is long overdue for me to create a work that is written exclusively in levi’s perspective, or rather, one that happens to centre around his general frame of mind as a yandere.

levi is no fool, love comes easy to the forlorn who have never had a taste of it. and when it comes to you? he knows it’s love, he knows it right away. but these feelings are so… intense, so peculiar, so persistent, so passionate, and so not normal. levi’s struggle with morality is a burden that rivals the responsibility of being humanity’s strongest soldier, truly. and although levi does his utmost to justify his unusual behaviors and progressively concerning actions, he simply can’t. you’re quite unfortunate yourself, to have a man such as levi absolutely and utterly enamored with you, and he wholly acknowledges it. but who is to pay the price, if not you? initially, levi’s solution to suppressing the severity of his feelings, if not the feelings altogether, is distance. but this proves only temporary as absence makes the heart grow fonder, and it isn’t long before he gives up because why would he deprive himself of happiness after just finally attaining it?

it’s almost too much, really. levi feels quite a lot, but most of all, he feels guilty— just not guilty enough to stop. and as time passes, his resolve inevitably weakens, and it becomes easier to rationalize what he does, even if levi is astutely aware deep down that acting upon his own selfish desires will always be wrong, at least with the way he’s going about it. it isn’t entirely justice, per se, but levi does happen to have a strong sense of righteousness, of rectitude, of common decency. human life holds great significance to him, but so does the quality of said life; he wants you to feel everything and anything but suffering by being with him. but there will come a point where i believe that he stops caring altogether. that levi’s erstwhile efforts of concealing his sincere intentions and ardent sentiments would waver in due time, but this would be late into his life, likely after the battle of heaven and earth when you’re even more emotionally eroded than he is.

it starts off small, considering that he is fairly unsuspecting as a yandere, and quite little would change about his mannerisms, at least until you’ve noticed too little too late. levi wants your relationship, romantic or not, to develop as organically as possible so he can get over the fact that it is quite literally anything but. not when he already knows everything he needs to know about you. levi is observant and watchful as is, but he also happens to have a plethora of resources at his fingertips; such as your legal documents, military papers, and medical records. furthermore, it would only take one little harmless white lie to attain more… personal information: family history, biographies, or even reports written by none other than yourself, ones that had been published decades ago, that is.

and while i don’t particularly envision levi as the obsessive, nor delusional, type (as much as i find him to be the possessive type), it may simply pass his mind that this isn’t insanely weird. only until levi finally reels himself in — with rare restraint that levi is usually well renowned for having, even in comparison to his most reticent peers — and he realizes that he’s violated your entire right to privacy, unbeknownst to you. it eventually registers in that lucid state of consciousness of his that he’s going out of his way to do this on his own personal accord, that it is taking time out of his work schedule, and that he cannot accredit this to assisting the survey corps in literally any way. when it settles, he’s honestly mortified. and the worst of it all? you’ve probably only interacted a grand total of two times, three if we’re being generous.

the feeling of levi’s presence is hard to miss, let it be from across the dining hall, or in close quarters, both of which levi will ensure that you become mindlessly accustomed to overtime. as aforementioned, levi is adamant about this bond forming naturally so as to prevent himself from digging a deeper hole than he already has, so the introduction of his company in day to day life will be the first steps in making himself known to you. of course, you already know him, all of the soldiers do, but you’ll find that he is just everywhere, and in particular, everywhere that you are. there is no shortage of his lingering presence; you see him often, more often than someone of your rank should. and it gets to be awfully concerning when your recurrent rendezvous with the man take a gradual turn from fortuitous close-shoulder proximity in the mandatory meetings, to levi cornering you in the furthest and deserted hallways of the headquarters to ask the most obscure and obscene questions that only someone maintaining close relations to you would know.

this is levi’s (not-so) subtle way of letting you know that he has taken an interest in you, even if you are likely to perceive it as him being a hardass that has spontaneously discovered that he fancies finding fault with and denigrating your performance in the corps. levi is a busy man, but never too busy to miss visiting you in one way or another; and although he prefers to demonstrate acts of service to indicate his affections for you, you two aren’t exactly close enough for that, yet. ironically, levi may find that doing anything for you is a little too forward, it is blatant favoritism at worst, and a telltale sign of his relentless loyalty at best; but his definition of forward is very different considering it wasn’t all that forward when he decided to hold you hostage in his office to do menial tasks simply because he wanted you there. and it isn’t that levi is intentionally acting with such amateur impromptu (although granted, not like he has had much experience to begin with), it’s rather him just being careful. levi has no issue when it comes to being straightforward, but this… this is surely quite different.

you may come to the conclusion that his sudden, awkwardly formal yet somehow equally as intimate interactions with you — given no prior history with one another, not even as fellow soldiers — is because he is too embarrassed to outright admit what he wants; which is you. that he is above pursuing whatever this is with another, let alone someone of (presumably) lower status. but levi isn’t necessarily shy as much as he is hesitant, and ideally, it would be you who initiates. for the same reason he feels beside himself and ashamed, it would ease the guilt if you had wanted him back in the first place, with levi believing that you may need a push in the right direction to do so. but that push is more like a shove… off a cliff, because it doesn’t even so much as cross your mind that these are levi’s questionable ways of romantic advancement, and not him attempting to intimidate you into woefully resigning from the military.

and when levi ascertains that he has to be the one to do something, he will. it wasn’t that levi was apprehensive out of fear, nor daunted by the notion itself (… like have you seen this man’s initiative statistics), it is just that it would have been for the best had you played along in the first place. to placate levi’s longing for something, anything, from you in return to give the illusion that his valiant efforts weren’t all for naught, he may have even been pleased, regardless of the fact he can see right through you. but you don’t, because you aren’t stupid enough to give yourself to him, and now that he’s been so kind as to give you a chance, you won’t be getting it again. he’ll be curt as all hell, terse with his wants, and unabashed about his desires; but it isn’t quite what you’re used to.

if i were to describe the connection you hold with yandere levi, it would actually be intimate. perhaps not in the traditional sense: physical, emotional, or other, but in the way that levi feels safe, something he hopes you feel with him as well. that he is free to express the innermost dark and delicate thoughts of his subconscious and as himself as humanity's strongest and levi ackerman— to you, as his confidant, as his comrade, and as his lover. real, genuine and authentic intimacy is something that levi has never had the fortune of experiencing. but once he has, he can’t get enough. let it be known that i feel that levi wouldn’t refer to you with typical terms of endearment, as they still remain rather foreign and ambiguous to him, but also because words alone don’t even come close to expressing the extremity of his feelings. he can just show you, if you let him.

levi may be a man who sustains exceptional self-awareness, however, he is a bit thick-headed when it comes to why he loves this way. it is… depraved to say the least, and while he fully understands that the process of falling and being in love is only natural, which he has reluctantly come to terms with now given his current situation, he just can’t place a finger as to why it has to be this way. his behaviors are susceptible to going unnoticed for an alarming amount of time by those around him, even the veteran soldiers who have come to know him for years; save for erwin who is far too sharp and perceptively nosy for his own good, and hange who is pertinaciously attentive as ever. it matters not in the end, as levi won’t be taking advice from them anyway. as exhausting as it may be to varnish over and conceal his deranged approach to love in the eyes of the public, there are only a handful of people that he owes such pleasantries to; and should a cadet have the gall to address him, levi will see to it that there will be no repetition of such daft inquiries following in their footsteps. but he prides himself in the fact that he is greatly disciplined, his self-restraint and intellectual control are unmatched, and it is a blessing that levi can regulate his emotions with the stability that he does, because by god, you would never know peace otherwise.

only partially have i discussed the manipulative potential that levi has (and already possesses) but not as detailed, nor thorough, as i am about to now. this man will drive you up a fucking wall. you can kick and scream, yell until your voice goes hoarse and berate levi to your heart's content, but he won’t budge. you’ll only be met with a blank stare. and it’s honestly terrifying, you’ll find that some reaction, any reaction; angry, sad, hurt, and what have you, is better than nothing at all. the silence after is what kills you, and it does well to remind you of where you stand. he won’t give you the reaction you so desperately wish to see to soothe the nerves that flare when levi goes dead quiet. but he has no reason to paint himself in any bad light, levi has done nothing but good for you, and this is how he is reimbursed?

levi can cope with a darling that detests him, it most certainly will get under his skin, but he’ll live. specifically because he knows that you never asked to be put in a position that you were, one where there is no way out. because levi knows that if what was left of humanity had fallen, obliterated and defeated by the titans as everyone had once feared, you would leave him without a second thought or even sparing a farewell. and as understanding as he is of the unfortunate circumstances (for you) and the wonderful situation (for him), there is no ounce of empathy or pity that could ever topple levi’s hunger to have you. but he is possessive through and through. your love is irreplaceable, priceless even, but it is merely a perk to having you.

thus, levi doesn’t fret when it comes to getting you to love him, though that isn’t to say he disregards the endeavor entirely. he is eerily forbearing, with the patience of a saint and all the time in the world, levi is nothing if not restrained. be it a day, a month, a year, thirteen years, levi can wait because your submission is bound to overcome any sort of resistance you have left. you are the prettiest when you cave in, give in, and although almost as pleasant, your love cannot compare to your compliance, to your acceptance. that isn’t to say levi won’t try, he wants you to like him, but he acknowledges that learning to love him as he does you will take more time, and he can wait.

levi is a slow burn yandere to the end, and if you think you can best him in the long game, you have another thing coming. at the height of his infatuation, back to the very beginning, you may have found yourself maddened and infuriated to your wits’ end by his constant presence, but he has always been the one person to take such tender care of you; to the point it would be almost strange if he had so suddenly stopped. and when the battle of heaven and earth had become the last calamity to finally break you, you stop fighting him. you’ve only one another left, and levi is all yours, always has been, always will be, and maybe you’ll accept that you really are his.

#ackerifle #yandere #yandere x reader #yandere attack on titan #yandere aot #yandere aot x reader #yandere levi ackerman #yandere levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman x reader

[nostalgebraist]

Indeed, one might even say: it is a human value that the future ought not be "shaped by human values," in the peculiar sense of this phrase employed by the AI doomers.

This is clearly incorrect. I do not think there has ever, in the history of the human race, been a generation that did not overwhelmingly collectively believe that the future ought to be shaped by their values and not the values of their successors or children.

There is no more popular historical pastime than complaining about the poor morals of the young and how they are disturbing the good old traditions of proper conduct. Every generation says this. They say it with despair, because they know it will not happen - that they do not have the power to enshrine their values and prevent their descendants from fucking it up. But they value not changing; they value that very strongly.

If the LWsphere and the Bostom/Yudkowsky argument is in any way unusual, it is because it is much more liberal than any society (the current one included) has ever collectively been, and therefore talks very seriously about how we must not enshrine our current conception of value, but must figure out how to extrapolate how it would change, despite the universal appeal of enshrining our current values - that even if it was us, living forever, our values would not stay the same.

Figuring out that seems even harder than making an AGI, and giving an AGI any chosen values at all rather than something uncontrolled and randomly chosen from some unknown space looks hard enough, that the question of what, given the choice, we should tell one to value, has mostly stopped being dwelt on since CEV was judged unsatisfactory. That doesn't mean no one cares, it means they have more urgent problems.

I mean, I get it. I sort of agree with this. I do feel like I'm maybe being overly idealistic w/r/t "human values," or projecting my own unusually high-openness (?) values onto humanity as a whole.

Maybe, but then, maybe not.

There is no more popular historical pastime than complaining about the poor morals of the young and how they are disturbing the good old traditions of proper conduct. Every generation says this. They say it with despair, because they know it will not happen - that they do not have the power to enshrine their values and prevent their descendants from fucking it up. But they value not changing; they value that very strongly.

I think there is at least one comparably popular historical pastime: making this exact observation, often in a tone of lament or rebuke.

That is, the reason you are here saying this is a "popular historical pastime" is not that you have yourself conducted a survey of generational conflict in numerous historical eras, and have made note of this constant. I mean, maybe you have, but if so you didn't need to. The reason you're saying this is that it's a thing people always say, and (probably) have always said.

It is true that you can go back even to the ancient world and find old people grouching about how the young have lost their morals. But you can also find people from a very long time ago complaining about how every single generation does this.

It is not as though there were some period of 10000+ years in which the old grouched about the young, and the young went on to grouch about the next crop of kids when they got old, but no one ever noticed the pattern -- and then there is some very recent, very brief "modern" period where people woke up and said "wait, we keep doing thing." People have always noticed.

There have always been grandparents, ready to tell you how wild and lost your parents were when they were young, and how much they despaired for the world, seeing it. And, ever since the human or proto-human mind became capable of noting the irony and oddity here, we have in fact been noting it.

Likewise, there have always been at least some grandparents capable of noticing that they now have grandkids, and they seem all right. That society is somehow still running pretty well, despite all their fears -- and even though things really are kind of different, now. Ever since the grandparent or proto-grandparent mind became capable of noting the apparent implication, grandparents have in fact been noting it, and moving closer to being at peace with posterity.

Not all grantparents, not all of the time. Obviously not! The exceptions are all too familiar. But we are too smart as a species to just not notice this kind of stuff, ever, period.

Yes, the elderly tend to complain about the young, but in their best moments they can concede points to the young, too, where points are due.

The cartoon images we draw of the elderly, fixed in their ways and hardened irrevocably against a changed world, have a strong basis in real fact. But we are too smart (among other things), as a species, for any one of us be merely such a cartoon figure, and nothing else, and nothing more.

Maybe I'm being too sentimental, or too idealistic, or too modern, or something. But that's what I think, anyway.

#ai tag

[jcdas-a]

hamish linklater. cis man. he/him. ⸻ i saw JUDAH PREAKER around THE FOREST, you know? the FORTY-FIVE year old that was driving from HARLAN, KENTUCKY when they saw the tree on the road. JUDE has been here for FIFTEEN YEARS and i think they were A GRIFTER before they got stuck in the town. with the way things are now, they are struggling to maintain a sense of normalcy and seek a way out without losing themselves or dying. lets hope you at least survive the night on their own.

 DO NOT PRAY ANYMORE; THE SKY IS DEAF.

full name    judah caelan preaker nickname(s)    jude, judd, father ( per his priesthood ) age   forty-five gender identity    cis man orientation    repressed bisexual place of birth    harlan, kentucky date of birth   september 14 faceclaim    hamish linklater

former occupation career grifter positive traits   benevolent, cogent, steadfast negative traits   pious, headstrong, misguided moral alignment  chaotic neutral parallels preston teagardin (the devil all the time), the priest (fleabag), john pruitt (midnight mass), sam foster (stay) current residency    the town current occupation priest ( some meld between catholic with evangelical christian tendencies )

BIOGRAPHY tw for the following content: religious trauma, forced drowning, child abuse/abandonment, mentions of alcohol & mental illness.

you were an odd child, born to a peculiar family that lived in a little yellow house on the edge of a bluebonnet field. for years, these hues of pallid yellow and lavender paint your life━though they only paled as the years marched onward. your hometown is one that’s never felt quite new, rather, there’s always been a tinge of the past. like that old mining town, you were run down sooner than you knew.

the sacred walls of your little yellow house are where you’d tell your first lies. crosses nailed in each room, wallpaper cracking with temperature and peeling away at the edges. you spent your childhood wondering if it was always like this. soil-covered hands pressed together, you would pray for the unfortunate children down the road who’d just lost their gran. god, you would say, but you knew you were speaking to your father. the shadow in the door frame that stood in that small creak of light, a lean figure stretches out as if you did not see him there. oh, please bring them good graces in this time. let you take the pain from their shoulders. learning to be a ghost in your own home.

taught to behave like a young man ought to, taught to take the deer by the antlers but not to look it in the eyes. you knew only to pray for others, only to care for the world around you, rather than the bruises on your back, or the grazes on your knees━or you mother who left when you were too young to know. the woman who since lived with her new husband, and kids━leaving you and your siblings with him.

you're just a child that first time pa takes you and you watched him wash the sinners clean. you watched them cry out hallelujah and praise jesus, praise your pa. it was your pa’s hands on them, not god’s. pa tells you that god is in you too, and this will be the first and last time a reflection you recognize ripples across the water. 

god is in you, boy. so you let your father take you to the water’s edge again once you were a bit older. you can still hear the hum of the hymnals even now. do you hear the word of god? have you believed another gospel? pa plunged you, washes you of the sins not committed at your hand, but rather, those of your mother. because if she could not be there, you would take her place. shoved beneath the frigid surface by the hands of your pa, under the guise that god made him do it, sending his own son thrashing like some wild thing your pa once claimed he could tame.

your father considers it only a miracle of god that you hadn’t drowned that day. you returned to your siblings, sopping wet on the porch of the little yellow house with the peeling wallpaper. you begin to pick at it when no one was looking, chipping away the watery gray floral print to unveil the wood paneling beneath it. life is stripped of its color but at least you're not alone in this suffering. not that it makes it any better that your siblings are subject to your father’s delusions. it stays like this for a long while. seeing your little sister off to the schoolhouse each morning, and making a point of not eyeing the brown and green glass bottles that she would string up on the tree in the front yard like liquor store wind chimes.

now ... your father wasn’t the man you thought him to be. when you're alone you consider that maybe he was always like this and that you were the last to realize, the last one to find complacency in your disillusionment. and while you very well make it out of harlan alive, you only last a short while before you find yourself betwixt in what you've only known to refer to as purgatory. you look a whole lot like pa these days, wearing black & looking like death incarnate, yet you’ve always got a hymnal tucked into the side of your cheek.  through all the wretchedness,  you are still holy;  from where you’re standing at least.  after all no monster would ever deem itself as such,  this town has turned you inside out,  sure,  but it has also granted you something your life before couldn't: freedom. 

#from.intro #𝐉. 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑⠀ ⠀ 〳 ⠀ ⠀abt #ty and goodnight 🫡

[feelin-lo]

Closed doors. First experiences.

A psychotic soliloquy little story because I have no soul and even less of an existence

Meztli belongs to @aesopsbaby

Trickster / coral belongs to @boiling-potato.

Monsters x Monster hunter au.

Story synopsis: to mark the start or end of a season, Vampires experience an extreme level of bloodlust. And with a Human living in the home of Lo, things have been getting a little more difficult to understand. Or rather... Control.

_______

it has been a few months since Coral moved in with the peculiar couple, but things have been a little wierder than she had originally thought. She had originally thought that because Lo was a vampire, she would be bitten and drained within twenty seconds and since Meztli was a werewolf he would try to make her into a chew toy... But she had know Meztli for ages and they joke more than you think they would.

It was march 1st, and right after breakfast that morning, Lo retreated into his room and locked the door. He never locks the door so this confused the human a little.

an hour passed, then two then three. She was a little curious. "Hey dumbass!" She called, walking into Meztli's room. "Heya girlie, what can I do ya for?" He teased, getting up from his bed and grabbing a chair for the human. "What's Lo's issue? He never locks his door." Meztli took a deep breath and cracked his knuckles, this was gonna be a hard one.

"he's having a vampire period." He said bluntly "What the- Ew" coral replied "But not the kind you might think. He's not got blood coming out of him in a literal sense. They don't teach you this as they should but vampires have a period of time where they have heightened levels of bloodlust. Like I become a wolf at a full moon" He quickly explained as the girl was about to leave. Coral sat back down and listened attentively.

"go on."

"well... in this state, they have absolutely no morals or control. They only care about seeing that red essence. Lo has always been weary of biting you because he doesn't consume human often. Hence why he hasn't." The werewolf explained. "And so, every few hours I grab some blood from the fridge and slip it under his door. That prick is very picky but fair enough because I have animal preferences." He added with a shrug.

"why don't they tell us that? THAT SEEMS PRETTY GOD DAMN IMPORTANT MEZTLI." Coral said, raising her voice a little. "Shut up dude! He is literally next door." Meztli said, putting his hand on her mouth.

"they don't tell you so you don't disobey. Think about it, that's the time when they're more active and so your organisation won't cooperate because of a higher chance of death." And that made a lot of sense.

"I wanna go talk to him." Coral said. "Horrible idea. Did you not listen to me?!" Meztli panicked. Coral sighed "I did listen but I need to go see him. To tell him that it's ok-" "you're insane you know that? Whatever I'm joining you so if you do die I can say I told you so to your corpse." Meztli interrupted with a chuckle.

After a quick trip downstairs to the fridge, the two came to an oak door with Lo's name on it. Meztli took out the key and unlocked the door slowly. The door creaked open and the two let themselves in and shut the door behind them.

Lo was on his bed in the far corner "g-get out... i-ill..." he said, a red glow from his eye as the other wasn't doing to well. "oh shut it and drink" Meztli said, handing the bag to him. Lo took it quickly and didn't even open it, he sank his fangs into it as it was the sensation of puncture that calmed him a little.

"Lo? I just wanted to see you... to tell you that it's ok. You're doing great and all" Coral said, sitting at the foot of the vampires bed. She had thought he slept in a coffin, but she also needed to stop with the stereotyping.

The vamp was quickly finished with the bag and he discarded it into the bin beside the bed, Meztli sat the other side of the taller and offered his wrist "I know you don't like it cold. Might as well." He grinned, his tail wagging happily. Lo swallowed and gently took the wrist, he was more in control than he was ten seconds ago and was more gentle.

Coral watched and swallowed the little worry she had and offered hers too "Just this once?" She asked with an equally large grin.

Lo sighed and bit Coral fist, he was exceedingly gentle with her, going slowly and not taking too much. He then went to Meztli and bit down a little harder on the werewolf as he was used to it. after a moment Lo pulled off and quickly held the two closely "t-thank you..." he said.

"anytime" Coral said, grabbing a handkerchief and wiping the little residue that was on Lo's lip.

The two left and bandaged their wrists "I told you we'd be fine!" Meztli said. And received a punch to the ribs for that.

#Psychotic soliloquy 🪶🩸👑

[kasiapeia]

Alright, so I’d like to preface this with the fact that I don’t like to vague blog about shit because honestly? That shit’s immature and quite frankly, pathetic, but the user this is directed to has blocked me from every means of communication after my previous attempts to reach out to her.

So, fuck it.

You want to talk shit? I’ll fucking talk shit.

You’ve made, what, five posts in the past three days about your view of the situation? You’re that desperate for attention and recognition? I’ll fucking give you attention and recognition, but you sure as hell aren’t going to like it. And if you want to call me out right back for this? Go right ahead. I don’t think I can possibly think worse about you, but let’s see if you manage to change that.

After the amount of shit you’ve pulled, I think you should’ve seen this coming.

“In a perfect world, this will simply never be spoken of again and the two people for whom I dearly care will be allowed to heal in private from the traumatic event.” You’re right. You’re absolutely right. This was never our problem to fucking begin with, but you’ve got the most AMAZING saviour complex I have ever seen in a single person, and I don’t think you’re capable of staying out of other people’s business. I hate to be like “you started this!” like we’re goddamn children, but you really, really did. It is not your duty to speak on others’ behalf about things. This isn’t the first time you’ve done this, so I don’t know why I’m surprised. The amount of times you’ve told me I wasn’t offended enough by something that was directed at me is staggering, and I’m not surprised you felt it necessary to involve yourself in this too.

The two people involved in this should have been allowed to heal from this in private, you’re right, and my sympathies go out to the two involved, but when you’re publicising this everywhere? Unprompted? And all but demanding sympathy for something you absolutely, under no circumstances, deserve sympathy for? I won’t go anywhere near your health or monetary situation because you’re right, those situations suck and you have my sympathy. Nor will I touch your creative works because honestly? They’re good. Your writing is good.

But no writing in the world is good enough to convince people to look past this sort of bullshit.

“Half the people I told decided I was just being dramatic and making a mountain out of a molehill, adding their own fucking knives to the bunch.” Here’s a newsflash: people aren’t obligated to agree with you, and their disagreements aren’t equivocal to a betrayal. The fact that you see any disagreement as a direct betrayal, the fact that you see anything but absolute loyalty as a betrayal is mind-boggling to me. How delusional do you have to be to believe this? Morality is complex, and people are even more so, and people are not obliged to side with you on things. People are allowed to abstain, people are allowed to disagree with you, and people don’t fucking owe you shit.

“There is no betrayal greater than someone repeatedly telling you that your words and actions saved their life and then that person hearing some bullshit, preposterous lie and immediately believing it.” Can we talk about the implications of this for a second? You went out of your way to help people, to supposedly save their life, but this makes it seem like you want them to be eternally indebted to you. You chose to help. You chose to support someone. You can’t take that back now, and if you did, you want that person to, what, die?

Oh, no, wait, you said something about this didn’t you. “So next time you decide to pile on someone because of hearsay, I want all of the joy and happiness and self-improvement that I gave you to wither and die in your soul because you don’t deserve it.” And here your saviour complex rears its ugly head. You expect people to owe you for your friendship. You view it as a transaction. And the instant people turn on you, you remind them that they “owe” you.

Here’s the thing.

Your friends don’t owe you shit. Not after the things you did to them. You were the one who spread the lies. You were the one who told people what to do, and what to say. You were the one who yelled at all those who dared to ask what was happening. I’m sorry that your Patreon is being affected by this, but what did you expect to happen? No one’s been attacking your patrons so they don’t support you. Your patrons have been jumping ship because again:

No writing in the world is good enough to convince people to look past this sort of bullshit.

Content creating is hard. I won’t make light of that situation, and I commend all content creators for continuing to work even under the most difficult of circumstances, but a lack of comments and boosts, or reblogs, or whatever you want is often just how it is. That’s not a sign of sabotage. That’s a sign of usual fandom BS, combined with you pushing away those who used to support you by accusing them of stabbing you in the back. Not, as you say, “[people] spread[ing] nasty lies about you, directly target[ing] your patrons so you make zero money and bully[ing] you out of all fandom activities.”

You said to not fight toxicity with anger – is that what you call this? People calling out your toxicity with justifiable anger? No. These are what I like to call consequences. You can pretend to be filling your own little corner with as much love and as much fun as you want, but that won’t change what you did. You misconstrued something, and then proceeded to slander someone I care about very dearly, and you’re surprised when myself, and many, many others choose to no longer associate with you? To no longer support you?

And I know, with absolute certainty, that this isn’t the first and only thing you’ve done to people you once called friends.

“No one deserves harassment. No one deserves punishment.” On that, we agree, but why, then, did you decide to bring this up now? This happened months ago, except… Except now, you’re seeing the consequences, aren’t you? You’re finally noticing you have fewer people to turn to than you used to. You’re finally noticing that a lack of your friends’ support hurts. You brought this all up again, months later, bringing up painful memories for those involved, and honestly? I’m sick and fucking tired of seeing you hurt people I care about.

You were the one who spread lies about a situation, and then demanded sympathy for it. I can promise you this: you will garner nothing but pity at best, and viewed as pathetic at worst. All lies pertaining “illegal activities” you spread yourself. All disassociation you’ve received from your patrons, you caused yourself.

 “God has decided that I didn’t get the message when He had my mother strangle me that I wasn’t meant to be happy.” I know you’ve gone through a lot terrible things in your life, but how dare you use that as an excuse for acting this terribly? How dare you? As an abuse survivor myself, how fucking dare you? This was never about what you went through. This was never about how I’m still proud of how you overcame what you went through to become a better person. This was about how you manipulated your friends, how you lied to them, how you spread lies in order to garner sympathy, and cut out all those who dared to oppose you?

“I would never call anyone stupid for fostering friendships, even with people I don’t like.” But that’s what you did, isn’t it? You yelled at anyone who dared to ask you why they were supposed to cut someone out of their lives? That’s what you told me. That’s what you told several other people. You kicked them from your life, removed them from anywhere they could contact you. You told us to cancel someone we cared about, and when we asked why – we didn’t even say no, we just asked why – you told us to trust you.

Because in your eyes, people are either with you or against you, and there is nothing in between.

And I pity you for that. Your world is nothing but shades of black and white, and unlike you, I will not wish you suffering. I hope you’re happy in your own little bubble. I hope one day, you can learn from this. I hope that you’ll learn that life isn’t that simple, and if you have anything to say? You’re welcome to say it, because unlike you, I’m willing to admit that I’ve made a mistake or two.

But don’t blame any of this on anyone but yourself.

#you know who you are and you know what you've done #and you think you can get away with this shit? grow up #this isn't high school you petulant child throwing a temper tantrum #Would've sent you this entire thing but you decided to block me as soon as I said both parties were wrong so Tea I guess #but your sense of morality was always rather peculiar

[boytouya]

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘖𝘧 𝘈 𝘚𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦

words:2.3k

WARNING: graphic depictions of violence, blood, angst, open ended/ambiguous ending, descriptions of death.

request: “Can i request sukuna x male reader. Where reader keeps reincarnating with each lifetime for a curse and every time he remembers sukuna, he dies after gaining memories back. You can choose if theres a good ending or angst. Thank you king! I fell in love with him especially after reading that one shot i had to watch jjk and hes hot! Thank you for turning me into a sukuna simp! Much love”

a/n: i went,,,overboard with this request 🗿 BUT IT'S ONE OF MY FAVORITESSIJEHSHE i’m honored to have introduced you to such a foine man

When you were five, only then had you understood the curse deemed ‘Ryoumen Sukuna.’ A rather tall man with two heads, one of which had splattered blood onto your sneakers. You understood the concept of death, of course, but could never truly comprehend the feeling of nothingness after watching your life flash before your eyes until nineteen. But there you stood, clutching the loop of your shorts when you witnessed the murder of your entire village. You didn’t know evil could have a moral compass, but the tall curse seemed to exclude half of the women and children. After the widening of youthful eyes and curdling screams you learned the monster took likings to things too. Women, with shaking forms and broken spirits. He’d stop before them, stare at them with eyes that could- in fact- kill, if they truly wanted to. But then he stopped in front of you.

“Close your eyes, Brat.” Death's hands were just as large as your family painted them out to be, if not larger. Calloused and riddled with blood as they are placed over your ears. You do as he- it says, squeezing your eyes shut and enclosing your eyes behind the meat of your palms just to be extra careful. You can see stars behind your eyelids, just as you can feel the sickening twang of death lingering in the air. You were aware it would happen at some point, Death would find its place for you over and over and over again, you’d been told since the day you were born.

There’s another sound, only muted under large palms. You don’t need your sense of sight or hearing to know what it was, the warm chunks splattering onto your skin was enough. Immediately, you flinched. When you opened your eyes, there were piercing eyes staring straight into your own. It looked so human, but something was off. Uncanny, as if it took years to manipulate its flesh and bone to emulate humans to a T. But there was nothing human behind those eyes, instead a void of nothingness. Death itself. If Death could express interest, you’d have thought that was the expression it was imitating. It offers a hand, one of four. Larger than your face, with sharp claws that could almost be described as talons. Darkened by dirt and remains of your loved ones, if it truly wanted to kill you, it could. It could tear you limb from limb with the wave of a finger. And it knew that.

So you took the hand, and he became your second home.

When you were ten, you learned about the red string of fate. It could never be broken, and those connected by it would always reunite, no matter the circumstances. You often had nightmares, those of which filled with blurred faces and sharp pain that reached you in your lucid state. Dreams of talons, piercing eyes, and double headed monsters. You dreamt under the stars, tasted metal on your tongue, and choked on smoke that wasn’t actually there. You dreamt of facial markings, details that you couldn’t exactly place, a name that you couldn’t quite remember. It left your tongue feeling thick in your mouth, racked tremors through your body, and caused premature dark circles to accumulate under your eyes.

When you were nineteen, you experienced your last breath. The air was stolen from your lungs, crushed under years of heartbreak and terror, and snatched from you in the dead of night. Your eyes glazed over, and nothingness overtook you. It left you for someone else to find, cold and lifeless. A void, similar to the eyes you had finally placed. But that didn’t matter much then, you had already drifted away from your body.

And that was that.

Thus, the cycle repeated. Under different names, different ages, different genders. There was always something gnawing away at your conscience, you felt as though you were forgetting something. But when you finally remembered, it was too late. And there was nothing you could do about it.

It was almost like deja vu, stepping outside your home to find blood splattered on the concrete floor. It made your blood run cold, sent a tremor through your body and made you feel like you were five again. Small and defenseless. You take it as your best interest to go back inside before you pass out, but the second you whip your body around you meet something- someone?- large and sturdy.

“Sukuna.” That was it, the sour taste at the tip of your tongue, the lingering sensation at the back of your brain. Him. He didn’t look the same, no, much smaller with tufts of pink hair. There’s something behind his eyes this time, something almost irrevocably human. For some reason that’s much scarier than what you remember. What you think you remember. He’s much more human, but the way he looks at you is everything but humane. He looks frustrated, angry at something, as if he’ll implode any second and go on a rampage. Dread bubbles up in your stomach, nearly erupting through your mouth as bile. It felt as though something should be happening, like something usually happened when the itch went away. He chuckles, low in his throat as he cranes his neck to put his face uncomfortably close to your own. His hands, still large, find their way to your wrist, gripping your right hand uncomfortably tight. For a moment, you consider how long a trip to the hospital would be if he shattered the bone beneath his fingers. But instead there’s a jolt of electricity that would’ve had you yanking your hand back if he weren’t holding it.

“What? You look different.” He all but purrs, inspecting your palm with long nails. Not long enough to be talons, but longer than those of a claw. It was true, you did look different. He wondered if you spent your lifetimes looking exactly the same. That couldn’t have been possible, he would’ve found you much easier, then. Still quite boyish, as if the body you were in didn’t originally belong to you. Clearly grown out of cargo shorts and polos, much taller than you were before. There was no way he could have forgotten you, the way you jumped when the remains of your loved one splattered across your legs. The way you stared back at him with a look of acceptance, the way you grabbed his hand and allowed him to lead you out of the village. It explained the body memories perfectly, the feeling of large palms on your head and remnants of a brain splattering onto your knees.

“Last time I saw you,” He let’s go of your wrist with a bored expression, then replaces its spot with the top of your head. He shoves you down, and you make an effort to ignore the crack your knees make when they smack against the concrete. Then, he crouches down to stare you directly in the eye, just like he had the first time you met. His eyes were no longer dark, instead a deep shade of red that caught light from the moon. They reminded you of vials of blood. “You were this tall. Much cuter in this century.”

“And you were bigger.” Sukuna laughs as if hearing that was the funniest thing in the world. He leans his weight into you and uses you as a support beam, laughing until his ribs burn and beg for a break. But how could he laugh at a time like this? He didn’t think it was weird? He’s existed for centuries, murdered for millennias and only now has he seen you. That wasn’t how it worked, when you died, you died. But Sukuna was a walking oxymoron to that statement. When he died, if he died, he would return. He’d return through you, the last fragments of his soul would stay bound to yours until the end of time. Perhaps that’s how he knew, how he remembered. Perhaps that’s why he still took the time to find you, even after countless years of failure. It was peculiar, but not as much as being bound to Death himself. It was a sick game of turning the phrase ‘Til’ death do you part,’ because in your case it was literal.

“You’re still a brat.” His voice is closest to something fond, as if he’s reminiscing sweet memories. It was much different on your account, and part of you wondered if Sukuna understood that. He makes no effort to help you up (he explains that you’re “a big boy now”) as he invites himself into your apartment. Nothing special, he doesn’t care much for family photos or if you have them, but the stacks of letters and books on your table peak his interest. He tears apart envelopes as if he owns them, reads through the contents and discards them to the floor if he deems them useless. The way he sits nearly breaks your chair, and, honestly, you weren’t sure what to do with yourself.

So you sit beside him.

“You were so scared,” He says, almost as if he were bragging. But he was known to be arrogant and cocky, that was just his nature. He didn’t truly mean it like that, in fact, he looked quite reverent after letting the thought drift into the air. It was kind of funny, such a powerful thing fawning over past memories. But that wasn’t how this should go, you had your memory back, so why hasn’t anything happened? “When you grabbed my hand you stopped shaking.”

“...”

“It’s a shame I couldn’t keep you long,” He visibly frowns, the skin around his lips worry, but you can't tell if it’s genuine or not. He looks at you with something knowing the second the thought enters your head. “I looked for you, at first. You died young, for a human.”

Ninteen. ‘I should have been there,” he wants to add.

“Why aren’t I dying now?” You interrupt and let the panic sink in, the thought of impending doom sits on your shoulders because, really, it could happen at any moment. But this time, you don’t want it to. You remember accepting death when it came to your door at the young age of five, nineteen, countless times over and over. You had only ever gotten this far, you weren’t ready yet. You couldn’t start over, not now. “Sukuna?”

The question sours his mood in the blink of an eye, and instead of looking through your things, he raises himself from his seat to rest his palms on the table. It seemed he had a thing for staring down at people, making them cower under his stone cold gaze. You note the way his jaw clenches. You open your mouth to speak again, but he seems to have other plans. He squeezes your cheeks, making your lips purse together under the pressure of his large fingers. The movement feels familiar, like he’s done it before. The five years you spent with him were still a bit of a blur, but you remembered holding his hand quite often. He’d tell you to close your eyes if there was something he didn’t want you to see, he’d ruffle your hair a bit too hard, let you sleep on his back if he was out in the town. But that was all you remembered. He remembered it all.

“Respect your elders,” He lets go and sits back down as if he hadn’t just thrown a tantrum over you interrupting him. Sukuna was centuries old, but even then, he’d exhibit immature behavior sometimes. Living for so long had to get boring (and lonely) at some point, perhaps that was why he looked for you. He did consider you something close to family, after all. In truth, there were some lifetimes where you met. Some when you were friends, something more than that, and something inseparable. And that’s why you hadn’t died yet, you didn’t remember it all. “It’s rude to interrupt someone when they’re talking.”

“You’re much more handsome in this life.” His smile is much more intimidating than sweet, the sinister curl to his lips would only ever be associated with bloodshed in your eyes. But it was much more than that. Nights of sleeping together, days of laughter and flirtatious comments, soft moments that only you had seen. And it was bittersweet, because he knew the second he’d jog your memory you’d be gone. It wasn’t just a curse for you, but for him. Maybe it was his punishment for hurting so many people, dragging an innocent soul down with him and hanging them by the red string of fate. The comment makes your skin prickle with heat. Sukuna was quite the charmer when he wanted to be, easily picking at your weak spots with whatever you wanted to hear. But the comment was much more for the sake of his own, instead of yours.

Sukuna stands, hot on his heels as he holds out his hand one last time. If something were to happen to you tonight he’d make the most out of it, just as he did countless times over and over. So many years of starting over, getting to know you in various different bodies, realizing that being trapped away was the only way you’d get to live a full life, it was always on his mind. You were always on his mind.

So you take his hand. And for the millionth time, he’d become your second home.

taglist:

@ryoukuna @indigowren21 @cannedfoodisbestfood @junkwhoore @kissesdenji @sanderssidesangsttrash @i-d0g @kaito-asmr @jream-23 @princejasno @mel-bigia04 @mhasimp666 @onehellofasimp @corporeal-terrestrial @angelaturservice @shadows-of-nightmares @rinkindaugly

#💕.sukuna #sukuna x male reader #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you #sukuna x reader #anime x you #anime x reader #anime x male reader #jjk x y/n #jjk x you #jjk x male reader #jjk x reader #sukuna imagine #sukuna angst #sukuna au #sukuna oneshot

[inkyblinders]

Dancing with the Devil: Part II

Part 1

Pairing: Luca Changretta x Reader

Author’s note: This was so embarrassing to write not because of smut...but because I’m crushing hard on Adrien Brody right now. And I can’t even share this obsession with anyone because… he’s kinda niche? Someone please reassure me that I’m just going through a phase because dear God why can’t I stop watching Darjeeling Limited just to see him ahhh.

The story picks up right after the end of Part 1, so I recommend reading that first. Comments, likes, and reblogs are always appreciated, let me know what you think!

Summary: Following your meeting with Luca Changretta, you face the Shelby family and Tommy's reaction. (2.6k words)

Warnings: Smut, angst, swearing

Tag: Let me know if you would like to be added or removed

@anythingwriter, @rrtxcmt, @shut-chan

_____________________________________________________________

You barely make it into your bedroom before he is all over you. The buttons of his crisp, tailored shirt fall like marbles. He moans when you nip the skin of his neck, right over his tattoo of the black cross, legs tangled together like a depraved waltz.

When he grinds into you, you shudder deliciously at the hardness that meets between your bare thighs.

How easy would it be for him to kill you after he fucks you, leaving your corpse twisted in the bedsheets. You know Tommy would find it when he eventually remembers that he has not seen you for days.

“Signorita, you know I come to you with the most honorable of intentions.” He murmurs, as if sensing your thoughts.

“You're not a very honorable man then.” A laugh that turns into a gasp as he trails his hand lower and strokes between your legs. No, not very honorable at all. And pretty soon all thoughts of honor are forgotten as he coaxes a moan from your throat.

His fingers are magic. The cold outline of his onyx rings scald your skin each time he crooks a finger inside you. Knowing exactly what you need, seeking your depths, swirling, rising to rub the clit, all the while exploring the flushed expanse of your body with his other hand.

Shoulder to breasts to hips and back again.

Without meaning to, you’ve let this stranger take control of your entire being. But God, do you crave this pure ecstasy.

It’s as if he wants to know precisely how much you can take before you're undone. So when you clench around his hand and feel the familiar ache he is right there, helping you ride the wave of pleasure, never breaking the rhythm of his thrusting fingers even as you curse, rake your nails down his back.

You almost cry out his name when you come. But you bite into his shoulder instead.

“Sweetheart, I’m gonna have to hear you next time.” He growls.

His words barely register as you come down from the high. Aftershocks spark like tiny flames. Now you are wearing his scent as much as he is wearing yours.

“Be inside me,” You whimper, tugging at his soft hair, urging him for more.

He rasps an empty warning, “What's my name, sweetheart?”

Of course. All this time you've never acknowledged you know of his identity. There was no use in trying to hide it now.

“Luca,” you breathe. And his eyes gleam with approval.

With a snap of his hips, he plunges into silky warmth. The fullness stretches you to your limit, head thrown back. It’s good, so good. Every withdrawal of his thrust is a blessing because you know what follows next. It’s him inside you again, wrapping you with his touch and the scent of tobacco and roses.

“Does your Tommy fuck you like this? Like the way I do?”

“He’s not mine.” You choke out, punishing Luca with a bite on the neck that elicits a chuckle rather than a yelp of pain.

He kisses you, your foreheads pressed together. “A damn shame for him.” Soon he starts to quicken his pace, going faster, more erratic, his breathing heavy upon your ears.

Yes, you urge him, come on, now.

And this is your chance. In a flash you roll on top of him, pinning down his shoulders with your hands. He tries to arch up but you stop him with a knee.

“How many men did you bring, Changretta?” You ask, making your voice rough to mask the lust, pressing your hands around his jugular.

It's a pleasure to see him like this. Shocked at your actions, maybe even scared. Naked with want but unable to do anything to relieve it. Unless he tells the truth.

“Fifteen. Why baby, am I not enough for you?” He laughs breathlessly, hands trailing goosebumps along your hips, tracing the contour of your breasts. The jib doesn't hurt you. After all, men have said worse. He tries to surge into you again, and his hot member pulses on your thighs.

“Do you swear on your honor? That you’re telling the truth?” You insist, squeezing him harder. The touch brands his skin as much as it brands yours.

In a voice full of self-mockery he says, “Yes I swear on my honor. Now let me in, clever Isabel.”

You take him in you, the sensations amplify a thousandfold. You try teasing him, going slowly in and out, but soon you are caught up in the sensation of him completely at your mercy and you ride him, faster, until you keen his name, until he too is undone.

****

Through the haze of dawn, he stumbles out of bed and gets dressed. Before he dons his hat once more, Luca leans down to whisper in your ear, as soft as sin.

“You tell Tommy Shelby he may expect a visitor in the night. I'm coming for him as the angel of death. The vendetta has begun…” He kisses your hair.

“I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.”

The door clicks shut. You rise from your pillow, and a small, hard lump rolls next to your hand.

It is a signet ring of onyx and gold.

****

“So we all get a death letter from the mafia, but Izzy gets jewelry?” Ada huffs as the family filters into the betting shop. As usual, Tommy holds court at the front of the table, brooding over a glass of whiskey. You roll your eyes as Arthur and John try to cover their snort of laughter with a cough.

“If you want it, you can have it, Ada. He’s probably planning on killing me too.”

“Doubt it. You’re not a Shelby, and we’re the ones who killed his father. Well, someone did, to be precise.” She shoots a bitter look at Tommy, who doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed.

Despite Ada’s matter-of-fact tone, the words cut to your heart. Not a Shelby.

It’s not her fault. No one knows you’ve been sleeping with Tommy, not even your dearest friend. It’s a lonely secret to keep, but at least you can look at the family square in the eye and not have to worry about the things they say behind your back. Or worse, pity you.

You can handle the violence and moral ambiguity of Tommy’s business. But to lose the love and respect of the Shelbys would break your heart.

“What was the mafia man like, Izzy?” Finn asks eagerly. It’s obvious the boy is thinking of the dashing, gun-wielding gangsters he’s seen in the pictures.

“He was a wrinkly old brute. Kind of like your arsehole brother Tommy.” A smile to take the edge off the insult. But Tommy only looks off into space. As if he hasn't paid attention to this entire conversation.

Arthur clears his throat. “Now, let’s get one thing straight. It was me who pulled the trigger on his dad, so the blame falls on me.” He pats Linda’s hand even as his voice is heavy with guilt.

“No one’s blaming you Arthur, you weren’t the brains behind the operation, no offense.” Ada says. He is about to say something when Polly cuts in.

“Stop squabbling like children. We’ve all voted for truce, despite everything Tommy’s done to us—” The words nearly having us hanged hover pointedly in the air. “—So let’s focus on the matter at hand." She fixes Tommy with a sharp look.

“What’s the news from Camden Town? Will Solomons help us?”

“No.” He says tiredly. And all of a sudden you feel sorry for teasing him. He look gaunt. There are shadows under his eyes, even more so than usual. Without you to remind him to eat, you can imagine his diet for the past few days consisted more of alcohol and cigarettes than anything substantial.

“Spent three hours on a fucking tour of his bakery and another pretending to drink his piss-poor rum. I think he was trying to get me sloshed so I’d forget what I came for.” Tommy rubs his head.

“He’s refusing to send his men to help. Said he’s not going to go after another oppressed people.”

“Did you tell him the Italians are rounding up Jews in their country as we speak?” Polly asks incredulously.

“Wouldn’t make a difference to Alfie. Besides, that’s just an excuse. He’s really just a fucking coward.”

Polly looks troubled at this, as does the rest of the family. Everyone had been counting on Alfie’s friendship with Tommy, however peculiar, to help them with the vendetta. What they hadn’t expected was his extreme sense of self-perseverance. How are they going to protect themselves now?

“Before everyone panics, I’d like to say something.” Tommy clears his throat, setting down the whisky.

“As you may all know, two nights ago our Izzy encountered Mr. Changretta in the Garrison. He bought her a drink and asked her to deliver an official beginning of the vendetta.” He chooses this time to finally look at you. You hold his gaze until he looks shiftily away.

“We can also assume that he has been scoping out Small Heath, looking for any weaknesses on our turf. Now, Izzy has something to share with you all.”

You stand up uncertainly. The last time a woman other than Polly tried to speak her mind at the table it had been Esme, who still refuses to come to the betting shop unless Tommy is not here.

“While Mr. Changretta was, er, indisposed at the Garrison, I found some items in his coat that I think could be useful.” You fish out a passport and a stack of papers from your skirt pockets.

“Good job, Izzy! Oh, I knew we could count on you more than my idiot brother.” Ada beams.

“Becoming a right little spy, eh?” John ruffles your hair good-naturedly. As everyone gathers around, Polly gives a low whistle.

“Goodness, if this is your definition of an ugly brute, I wonder who’ll really catch your fancy, darling.”

You flush. The documents were obtained shortly after Luca had fallen asleep. It was an exercise in agility, trying to extricate yourself from his tangle of limbs, especially when you wanted nothing more than to stay in bed, encased in his warmth.

To your own credit, the papers were highly useful indeed. Some were maps of Birmingham, circles drawn in places where the Shelbys are known to frequent. The Garrison. Charlie’s Yard. The Arrow House. There was also stationary from The Stanton, a hotel just outside of the city.

There had been another piece of paper in the stack, a letter. But you kept that for yourself.

“We all have Izzy to thank for bringing us this valuable information.” Tommy’s voice rises above the chatter. “I will be personally examining all the documents and think of a plan. In the meantime, everyone stay alert, stay armed, and stay together.”

“Now if no one has any further questions, I need to have a private word with her. Alone.”

*****

You twirl the onyx ring around your finger as everyone filters out. It’s much too big but you still wear it anyways. The thick band of gold is comforting in its own way. And despite what you told Ada earlier, you don’t want to give it to anyone else.

Tommy’s curt voice snaps you from your reverie.

“Was it good, then?”

A small muscle tics on the underside of his jaw. His previously blank expression is now cold. The coward in you compels you to feign ignorance.

“What do you mean, Tommy?” You ask lightly.

“Did it feel good to have that fucking wop inside you?”

You burst out laughing. “Christ, Tommy. Did you pick up that word from Alfie? You sound bloody ridiculous when you’re trying to be crass, you know.”

“Don’t fucking change the subject, Isabel.” Tommy snaps.

“Oh, so I’m Isabel, now? You only call me that when you’re trying to get me in bed. Is that what you want? A bit early in the evening if you ask me.”

“What I want for you is to tell me how it felt having that man inside you, inside---”

You blaze with anger. “My sex life is none of your business, even if you are an occasional participant. I did what you would have wanted, and now I’ve got intel on the Changrettas that could save your arse!”

“Do you know how dangerous it could have been? Fraternizing with the enemy is exactly what got us into trouble with the Changrettas!”

“And fraternizing with them again has given us an advantage. We know how many associates he’s brought with him, and where they are staying. Good God,” Your eyes widen as you see the mutinous look on Tommy’s face. “Are you jealous?”

The silence of the room presses in until it's almost palpable. Finally he rubs a hand over his eyes, looking utterly defeated.

“I have no right to.” He says, pained. “But I am, just the same.”

The admission of his feelings would have made your heart soar a few days ago, before you met a man who enchanted you in the Garrison. You only laugh bitterly.

“What makes this different from all those other times you made me seduce the men you wanted to spy on?”

He says nothing. But what else is there to say? The past is in the past, and so many hurts have been caused by the both of you, it would be impossible to untangle it all.

You soften your voice, laying a hand on Tommy's arm.

“Let me continue seeing him. He wants me, and we can use that. You know it will be help, you know it might save us all.”

A breath flutters in your chest as you wait for his decision. If Tommy allows it, you’ll do it in a heartbeat. The Shelbys are your family, whether you're one in name or not.

But if he refuses, then perhaps… Perhaps he might actually care for you, deeper than jealousy, deeper than he admits.

“Very well.” Tommy says finally, and something in your heart shatters. The corners of your mouth curve up in a wobbly smile.

“Thank you for trusting me, Tommy. I won’t let you down.”

“You would never let me down, no matter what you do. Just…Be careful, Izzy.”

He closes the distance between you and enfolds you in a hug. You enjoy this quiet warmth, as fragile as spider's silk. With a small laugh, you pull away, patting his arm before turning to the door.

You don't look back to see if he follows.

#luca changretta #luca changretta smut #luca changretta x reader #peaky blinders #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky blinder imagine #tommy shelby

[adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy]

you’re someone i just want around: I

“And I can't wait another minute

I can't take the look she's giving

Your body rocking, keep me up all night

One in a million, my lucky strike.”

— Lucky Strike, Maroon 5

A/N: this idea started as just random concept drabbling between leyla @sunflowervolvimp3​ and i and we never really thought it would amount to anything tbh!! but as we started putting more and more into the plot and characters, we made the spontaneous decision to make it a full on, multi-chaptered collab fic! we have so many ideas planned and so much to elaborate on and we’re just so mfing excited to share it with you guys :’) any and all feedback is greatly appreciated 💌 we hope you enjoy the first part and that you fall in love with this stupid emotionally unavailable moron the way we did! happy reading!!

andrea’s askbox : leyla’s askbox : ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : 

word count: 17.2k

content/warnings: vampire!harry being a lowkey asshole while downing straight tequila like a psycho, getting to know The Crew, Mitch being the iconic legend he is, mentions of smut, and Harry working his immortal charm on an unsuspecting human girl with a peculiar scent and intriguing personality

///

Harry hates clubs. 

In his two hundred years of life, through many trials and tribulations, through tricky scenarios and annoying encounters, through thousands of unappealing circumstances and patience-testing events, he doesn’t think anything quite compares to the crowded, nerve-wracking experience that is a Los Angeles club on a Friday night during peak hours. 

According to his wise, humble opinion, it’s absolutely fucking petrifiying. He’d rather swallow a stake than have to spend hours in a dimly lit room with synthetic smoke choking his lungs, half-conscious humans stumbling around into him, and the stench of sweaty bodies mixed with liquor fumes, alongside the faint yet unmistakable waft of vomit. 

Yeah, Harry would definitely rather eat a red oak spear than have to shoulder that.

Despite his intense hatred for this Californian city during its after-hours, he can’t deny that he fits right into the scene perfectly. Decades of grooming and practice have made him a prime candidate for the fast-paced characteristics that come with the party nightlife. 

Fitting into these aspects aren’t something he had learned willingly; he didn’t really have a choice on the matter, considering his entire existence depends on mortals immature tendencies to get properly shit-faced and make stupid decisions in tightly-packed glorified bars. Harry never understood that— how a fog machine, strobe lights, and an undergrad amateur DJ could ever seem more appealing than the quiet, stable ambiance of a semi-formal bar. How deranged do people have to be to actually enjoy strangers spilling alcohol on them while attempting to shag someone else two feet away on the dance floor? 

Whenever he dwells too much on that thought, he gets a spiking migraine. After this long, Harry’s just come to terms with the fact that humans are regressing as a species. His conclusion is a bit cynical, perhaps, but hardly difficult to accept. One look at a news outlet provides enough proof to launch an Ivy League research project on the matter. 

He really shouldn’t be complaining, however, because the combination of overflowed close quarters and dampened inhibitions makes it the ideal hunting ground. Picking up a living blood bag at a club is basically as easy as walking through a vineyard and plucking grapes right off the stems. It’s practical, it’s fool-proof, and if he plays his cards right, he gets to feed and gets his more intimate needs tailored (a combo that he and his friends refer to as Laid and Drained).  

So regardless of his distaste towards clubs and their eager inhabitants, Harry had learned to mold his persona to fit the bill, making himself as approachable and desirable as possible. His life literally hangs in the balance; he’d put up with throngs of drunk sorority girls and their affinity for shitty perfumed drinks if it means avoiding desiccation. 

It’s not like it’s hard. All Harry has to do is make himself look more appealing than the other hundred men milling around the establishment, which— if he’s being brutally honest— isn’t that challenging. The moral, physical, and ethical standards of men have dropped frighteningly low since his time. Most of the ones that creep around clubs are overconfident, overzealous, boundary-lacking douchebags who think they’re entitled to a woman’s attention, and therefore make complete, utter fools of themselves in the process of trying to court one into their pants. Buying a girl one Sex On The Beach and dry-humping to Daft Punk isn’t the way to convince her to come home with you. 

Harry has developed his own guidelines and tactics for securing a nightly bedroom companion, and his ideas have been working wonders for him for decades now. 

The first and foremost rule is to clean up nicely. Personal appearance is everything. Humans are visual creatures; they build first impressions solely based on outward attraction. That trait is enhanced the higher their blood alcohol content rises. The drunker someone gets, the shallower they become, and it’s Harry’s job to work that to his advantage. And at the risk of sounding shallow himself, he thinks he does pretty alright in that department. 

Especially tonight, present in all the elements of his physique. He’s clad in a pair of high-waisted tan trousers that have been ironed to a crisp, his fitted graphic tee tucked neatly along his waistband beneath his black leather belt. His t-shirt is probably his favorite part of the entire look. It’s a baby blue sturdy cotton number with pastel yellow detailing along the cuffs and collar and a giant cartoon puppy in a striped bowtie taking up its center, smiling cheekily at the onlooker. Arranged around the doodle in faded Times New Roman bubble letters are the words WE’RE IN THE SHIT. 

Harry loves the irony of the article— the innocence of the drawing juxtaposed by the crude message. The piece is a conversation-starter— people almost always comment on it— and that’s exactly what he needs. Something to draw attention to himself and shadow all the other men. Something that shows he has a personality; that he has taste and a good sense of humor and isn’t just another walking genital. Plus, what person doesn’t enjoy a funny little contradiction, especially when it’s this cute?

On top of his graphic top, he’s wearing a tartan cropped blazer (open, of course) with a creme background and royal blue lines. The hem ends at the bottom of his ribs, exactly where his pants begin, and the jacket's hand-sewn buttons and strap detailings show that it's an expensive garment. It shows that he puts money and effort into how he looks, which is something anyone would appreciate when scoping for a possible hookup.

Harry’s shoes are the most casual factor of his fit. They’re a pair of light yellow Vans that match the collar of his tee. They’re plain, but he keeps them clean and they tie the whole look together without a hitch.

Accessories are everything, as well. Aside from the pearls arranged around his prominent collarbones, the gold-dipped cross hanging from a delicate chain around his neck, and the matching dangling cross earring on his right earlobe (again, he adores irony), he’s sporting a plethora of chunky rings on his hands, each unique and effortlessly complimenting his appearance. On his left hand, his index finger dots a ruby jewel embedded into a thick rusted band, another large metal one with dancing bears on his middle, and two clunky golden letters on his last two digits— his initials, HS. On his opposite hand, he has a medium-width plated ring on his middle finger with peace engraved along its rounded edge, an elegant lionhead number with an amethyst stone snug in its mouth, and along his pinky is a decently-sized opal set into a delicate polished frame. 

His two last rings are the most important of all. The lionhead is his daylight ring, which he hasn’t taken off since he transitioned. It keeps him from bursting into flames everytime the sun hits his skin. The opal was his mother’s, and it was her favorite. 

Harry’s attire is something he’s immensely proud of, even though a good amount of people deem him eccentric in the eyes of modern masculinity. He couldn’t give less of a shit. With his lightly tanned skin, alluring cologne and lacquered nails, his shirt stretching across the defined muscles of his chest and stomach, his broad shoulders and tapering waist, his thick thighs, sharp jaw, jade eyes, loosely tousled chestnut curls, and the vast array of dark ink littering his arms...

He looks good and he knows it. And all the people whose gazes glue to him as he passes by know it, too. Especially a random group of young women in line, who ogle at him shamelessly as he casually strolls past. He treats them to a sly wink, an irresistible dimpled smile, and a soft, cheeky greeting of, “Ladies.”

He gets off on the way they swoon at his refined English accent, giggling and waving. 

The only other component Harry has for succeeding in the club environment is simple, but it’s important: Don’t seduce, romanticize. 

Anyone— even inebriated idiots— can try and seduce a woman. And if she’s had enough tequila shots to cloud her thoughts, they just might succeed. But only a real man can romanticize a girl, and it yields way better results. 

Females are an emotional sect (Harry says that with zero misogyny; it’s just a scientific fact and he actually praises it), which means that if you entertain their interests and fluff their egos, they are bound to fall right into the palm of your hand. It changes the game completely because then they don’t feel that they have to pleasure you, they want to. They pursue the guy who flirts without being too vulgar, who appreciates and acknowledges their efforts, and who can go head-to-head with their wit by carrying unforced banter. They chase after him because he’s showing genuine kindness rather than just sexual interests and if he’s that attentive on the getting-to-know-you front, one can only imagine how skilled he could be in other bases. Chatting up a girl the right way, with patience and courtesy, builds credibility and prowess. And as a thank you, they’re usually more than willing to pay special attention to your needs, as well. 

Thus, romanticizing is always the expert move. So, yes, Harry detests clubs and the disaster that is adult recreation. But he’s fucking amazing at playing it to his favor. He’s great at calculating everything down to the smallest detail and he’s going to piggy-back on those skills for the rest of eternity. He’s so good at what he hates that his closest friends have anointed him the title of Walking Paradox. He’s more than happy to keep it. 

All of these thoughts are circulating around his skull, hyping him up for the game ahead as Harry and his friend group walk up to the bouncer at the entrance of the club they had chosen for the night, faint stars twinkling in the dark sky as the sounds and lights of the city fall away into background static. 

They cruise by the long line of people, hearing sounds of disagreement and grumbling coming from the other patrons waiting to get in. Harry casually tucks his large hands into the pockets of his light brown slacks as he pulls up in front of the burly bald man, who is wearing a black shirt with the club’s name printed in neon letters. The security guard is at least five inches taller than him, overswollen biceps and pectoral muscles rippling under the flimsy material of his work outfit as he crosses his arms over his barreled chest, cocking a single thick eyebrow at the seemingly young vampire. 

Harry delivers a good-natured smile up at the employee, despite the man’s obvious begrudging disbelief at what he is about to try and do. His friends chat quietly behind him, uninterested in what is happening; after years of being acquainted, they know that Harry is going to get exactly what he wants. He always does. 

He’s the best of them, that much is obvious. Not only when it comes to his experience with persuading sexual partners and getting himself a decent dinner, but he’s the best at convincing just about anyone to do anything, neutral of gender. He’s the second oldest of the crew, yet he seems to have the most knowledge and practice under his belt; his easygoing charisma, undeniable good looks, and dazzling smile could sway even the most stubborn of souls. Frankly, he’s so successful in getting his way that no one cares to try and argue for the leader position. Not when they can just sit back and let Harry do all the work. 

“Good evening.” Harry’s deep voice chimes giddily in the direction of the bouncer, his accent particularly heavy for no real reason. “How you doing tonight, mate?”

The guard— whose name tag reads Brock and Harry has to actively stop himself from snorting at how fitting the name is for such a brick of a human— looks down at him with a stony expression, voice flat. “I’m good.”

“Well, that’s great to hear!” The curly-haired boy’s simper widens, dimples popping into place as he skates into his next question with dramatic friendliness. “Haven’t had anyone cause you any trouble tonight, have you?”

Brock blinks once, attitude remaining coldly indifferent even in the face of Harry’s cheeriness. His words, however, are snipped and pointed. “Not yet.”

“I’m guessing you’d like to keep it that way.” The young man comments sympathetically, nodding his head along with the worker. “Totally understandable.” 

“Good.” The employee remarks in the same detached tone, shifting on his feet, obviously growing uncomfortable and irritated with the conversation. “So I’m guessing that means you know you have to get in line.” 

Harry glances over his shoulder at the lengthy expanse of people gathered along the side of the building, a light wind filtering through his freshly-shampooed ringlets as he studies the way the bright sign on top of the club casts alternating rainbow colors across the crowd. 

He makes a disapproving sound by sucking at his teeth, lulling his sight back onto the guard. “I don’t know, man. At this rate, I feel like by the time we get to the front of the line, it’ll be last call.”

“Maybe.” Brock shrugs offhandedly. “It is what it is, right? Fair’s fair.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Harry returns his gesture, but his posture shows no intention of moving, the corners of his rose lip set in a knowing smirk. “But since you’ve been having a good night, do you think you could find it in yourself to just let us through? We’d greatly appreciate it.” 

The bouncer’s face hardens, any shred of professional amiability washing out of his defined features. “I don’t think so.” 

The vampire’s shoulders sag in exaggerated disappointment. “Are you sure? It’s just five of us. Don’t think we’ll do much damage. Right, guys?”

Harry glimpses over his back to his friends, who let their conversation falter for a moment to throw out a chorus of half-assed agreements, trying to keep themselves from snickering. 

“We promise we won’t cause any problems.” Xander speaks up, jutting his chin encouragingly at the man as his lips twitch slyly. He lifts one of his hands, the smallest finger sticking out stiffly and wiggling around. “Pinky swear.” 

The rest of the group bursts into a round of light laughter, causing Harry to release a few airy giggles of his own.  

Xander looks over at Niall, raising his eyebrows and quipping in an innocent manner. “Right, Ni? No funny business tonight. That means no climbing onto the bar again and stripping down to your socks.” 

“That happened one time!” Niall exclaims incredulously, socking the taller boy in the shoulder as the others laugh harder than before, his blue eyes narrowed and face pinched. “Once! And it was only ‘cause Harry challenged me to a tequila shot contest.”

The Irish vampire’s accented voice drops darkly as he reminisces. “Fuckin’ hate tequila. Makes me act like a moron.” 

“As if you’re not one already.” Mitch pipes up in his usual soft dialect, chuckling as he ducks away from Niall’s vengeful fist. 

Harry cranes back to face Brock, thumb playing with his daylight ring as his hands stay relaxed inside his trousers. He shrugs one shoulder easily for emphasis. “See? You can let us through. We pinky swore.” 

The entire charade seems to have only infuriated the security guard more than before, his brows now fully furrowed and a deep, unamused frown etched across his previously pursed lips. His voice is on edge with barely controlled anger. “I’m not putting up with any shit. If you want in, go to the back of the line. If not, leave.”

Harry sighs grandly in defeat, head shaking slightly. “Guess I’ll just have to go the other route, then.”

The creature takes a step forward towards the employee, close enough that their chests almost press together. The bulky man stands his ground, though there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes at seeing the smaller boy make such a bold move. 

“What the f—?”

Harry locks gazes with Brock, pupils dilating to twice their size, the usual emerald shade of his irises flickering a haunting red and looking sinister in the buttery light of the street lamps. Horror breaks across the worker’s face, the ability to form coherent sentences disappearing from his demeanor. Harry’s heightened senses can hear the way his heartbeat spikes, blood instinctively rushing into his chest as a response to the adrenaline materializing in his veins. The activation of human’s fight-or-flight modes is always so oddly pleasurable. Just feeling how they react so drastically makes Harry’s fangs tingle with longing. Fear is a good condiment, he’s learned; it gives blood’s usual metallic flavor a certain twang.

But at the moment, a beverage from this specific tap isn’t the one Harry has in mind. He has his interests set on something much tangier and full-bodied; maybe Casamigos golden tequila, or Don Julio's Blanco. Preferably mixed with a young office secretary or a Bath and Body Works employee instead of lemon and salt. 

All in all, Brock is just collateral for a much bigger prize, which lies behind the roped off area he holds dominion over. It’s Harry’s job to break that dam. 

Before the large man can fully react, the vampire begins working his compulsion strategy, tone coming out level and soothing, thick with persuasion and teetering along a sleepy undercurrent. “You’re going to let us through, and you’re going to forget we ever met.”

The guard’s pupils enlarge to match Harry’s, the look of utter terror on his face melting right off. His features go slack as the monster’s magical influence works its way through his brain, coating every neuron and bending him to the deliverer’s will. The man reaches over and removes the velvet rope blocking the group’s path, stepping off to the side obediently with an empty expression present across his appearance. 

The leader of the group smiles just as brightly as he had the second he’d walked up to the door. He passes by the worker, giving him a hard pat on the shoulder and feeling the muscular man strain under his supernatural strength. “Thank you very much. You have a nice night, Brock.” 

Harry’s friends follow behind him, echoing his parting message and sharing a collective chortle.  

The second the group dives past the frame of the club entrance, the whole ambiance of the atmosphere changes. Harry walks across the top ledge of the establishment, coming to a halt at the railing that overlooks the main level of the club, his inhumanly sharp eyes bouncing around all the corners of the building to construct some type of familiar layout in his head. Amidst the blinking lights, thick artificial smoke, and swaying bodies, his keen instincts sketch a mental image for tonight’s hunting ground. 

The bar is at the far left corner of the club, squared off and taking up a large chunk of the colorful tiled dance floor. The music station extends across the entire wall at the opposite end of the tavern, stocked with massive speakers and a professional turntable. Harry’s brows jump in mild surprise— it’s not every day that a club puts so much effort into their mixer. 

The animated dancing area is packed with people, the crowd all jumping and grinding to the beat of the bass, moving as one large mass while the rotating strobe lights hang from the cavernous ceiling, bathing their moving silhouettes in neon reds, drunken blues, groggy purples, and electric yellows. The dim surroundings and heavy fog make all the hues more intense, giving the endless party that timeless quality which people tend to enjoy about nightlife. It’s the night to remember effect that movies and shows always hyperbolize; he thinks this way because he’s well aware that not even a third of these people are sober enough to know what the fuck they’re doing, let alone recall it the following day. It’s comically ironic, really. 

But Harry profits off that liquor amnesia, so he brushes away his sardonic skepticism for the time being, settling his lean forearms onto the metal railing that lines the second story of the venue, which is meant to keep shit-faced customers from creating a messy lawsuit. He carefully absorbs the grandeur of it all, leaning his weight forward with a detached sigh, already flickering through the mental menu of his favorite drinks that he has expertly memorized. 

He’s in the process of choosing between a Manhattan— it isn’t a very complicated drink, which is exactly what he’s looking for; something simple and strong— or just straight tequila in a glass when he suddenly feels a familiar presence arrange itself beside him, bumping his shoulder playfully with their own.

Harry snaps out of his recipe retrieval, eyes casting to the side to land on his best friend of almost a century. He cocks an eyebrow expectantly, waiting for the thin, bearded man to make the first move towards conversation.

“You’re a real dick, y’know that?” 

The green-eyed vampire sputters into spontaneous laughter, the edges of his eyes crinkling as the small pits in his cheeks jolt awake. His tone is humorous and full of fake insult for the hell of the joke. “Wow, alright. So I get us into the club that you chose and that makes me a prick? Good to know. You can handle the muscle next time, then, if you’re gonna talk shit.”

Mitch cracks a gentle jesting grin, which is very on brand for him. He doesn’t seem like much, with his skinny, lanky frame, delicate features, shoulder-length hair, and somewhat scraggly stubble. He’s quiet, reserved, and hardly engages with anyone outside of their immediate group. He’s always been that way for as long as Harry could remember. 

When they had met back in 1924 at a speakeasy in New York, Mitch had given off a mysterious vibe that Harry had found amusing and intriguing. His slightly sickly appearance and distant persona made the younger vampire want to get to know him better; it was just so peculiar that this seemingly impassive man was working at an illegal bar as a live musician. One would think that a performer would have to display an engaging character to keep a loyal audience, but Mitch had been all the talk of the underground despite his unemotional coolness. It was startlingly unorthodox and Harry just had to know more. 

Therefore, with a bit of help from his convincing supernatural abilities, he’d secured a spot as the black market club’s leading vocalist. He wasn’t anything worth a Grammy, but he could keep his singing in tune and follow Mitch’s guitar rhythms easily enough, all thanks to his limited experience with piano. He fit right in. 

From the first show they had put on together, it was like they had known one another in a different lifetime. They clicked so flawlessly it was almost fictional. 

Harry was lively and charming on stage, working the crowd to his favor as easily as he could knock back a shot, wrapping every single patron around his jeweled pinky without breaking a sweat. His witty temperament countered Mitch’s timid disposition perfectly and that uncommon dynamic had been the foundation to their friendship. Their humorous shenanigans on stage (which included Harry pinching at Mitch’s ass and making vague vulgar motions at each other while harmonizing) was a hit within the drunken community, and it bled into their personal lives. They went from only interacting on stage to sharing drinks together afterwards, to hanging out outside of work, to deep late night conversations about the world and their experiences.

Soon enough, they were closer than either had expected to become. And once they found out each other’s true identities (Mitch had transitioned during the American Revolution, when a vampire in his battalion had given him blood to heal from a wound, unaware that the next day, Mitch would suffer a fatal gunshot to the stomach that would trigger his transformation) they grew inseparable. They had remained that way ever since. 

Despite his friend’s withdrawn tendencies, the older vampire never hesitates to make his opinions heard, obvious in how he’d just full-bodied Harry with that snarky comment. Even when it’s at his expense, Harry appreciates and respects the rawness of it. He loves the way Mitch is honest and straight-forward with everything that crosses his path— it’s one of his favorite traits about him and definitely one of the characteristics that had led Harry to deem him his best friend. He’s probably the most fulfilling person Harry has ever met and their friendship brings him a type of comfort that he doesn’t receive from anyone else.

Vampires can be so detached and cold not only towards humans, but towards one another, and it gets old at times. It’s unsettling not having someone to truly confide in, and Harry is grateful that Mitch had been so willing to fill that position.   

Due to this, Harry rarely takes genuine offense in Mitch’s digs. They’re normally expressed as a joke and they’ve both been alive for so long that thick skin is a default.

“How was I dick?” Harry inquires, slinking his head to the side with entertained curiosity. “If anything, he was the one being an asshole. I asked him to let us in nicely and he practically spit in my face!”

Mitch snorts in amusement, shaking his head lightly as his eyes streak across the humongous room in the same cunning manner Harry’s had. “You and Xander didn’t have to mock him that way.” 

That’s another thing that makes Mitch the better half of their power duo— he still has a decent shred of humanity in his unbeating heart. Pessimistic conclusions aside, Harry does have a bit, as well...but his is more like a paper-thin pencil shaving than a shred. Barely there, but there, at least. 

The young man returns his companion’s snort, rolling his eyes up to the hanging lights over their heads. “Was just some harmless teasing. Nothing bad came of it.”

Mitch scowls scoldingly. “It was unnecessary and mean.”

Harry mimics his expression with his nose scrunched sarcastically. “We were just taking the piss, and it’s not like he’s gonna remember it anyways. Stop being such a kill-joy.” 

“Stop being such an arrogant little shit.” 

“Or what?” Harry tilts his chin up challengingly, the amber specks around his pupils glinting tauntingly, faint black veins momentarily webbing across the whites of his eyes. He sweetens his voice into a honeyed drawl. “Are you gonna spank me, daddy? Have I been a bad boy?” 

Mitch belts out a feathery chuckle, shoving his friend with enough strength to send a regular human flying across the deck. But since the taller vampire matches his force, he hardly moves an inch. “Fuck off.” 

“I’m being serious!” Harry cackles, turning his hips and sticking out his ass towards his visibly disgusted acquaintance. “Go fucking in, if you want.”

He lowers his voice into a sultry hum, wagging his backside jestingly. “I like it rough, baby. Why don’t you bend me over this railing and show me who’s boss?”

It’s Mitch’s turn to roll his eyes to the ceiling, voice deadpan. “I think I’ll pass.” 

Harry juts his lower lip into a theatrical pout, sniffling faux tears. “You’re rejecting me that quick? Who’s the asshole now, huh?”

His best friend doesn’t even blink. “Still you.”

“I can live with that. And it’s probably a good call on your end to give up all this,” he signals vaguely up and down his tight torso with a ringed hand, grinning as he watches the veteran vampire pretend to gag, “because I don’t think Sarah wouldn’t be too happy about it.” 

Mitch’s humorous face immediately drops, eyes narrowing at the change in topic. “Very funny.” 

“I know, right? I’m a proper comedian.” Harry quips proudly, batting his lashes mockingly. “Where is Sarah, anyways? Have you heard from her lately?” 

Sarah and Mitch...They’re a complex couple, if they can even be called a couple. The two are more like occasional friends with benefits, “occasional” meaning “once every couple of months, if Sarah happens to be passing by.” 

Their relationship is open and very loose, mostly due to the fact that Sarah is fairly new to the world of blood-driven immortality and has decided to take full advantage of it. She’s been using compulsion to travel the world for the last three years since she changed, which had been the result of an unfortunate car accident. 

Mitch had been seeing her casually beforehand, keeping her around for the purpose of having a conventional feeding arrangement. Every time vampires feed, they heal the wounds they inflict with a bit of their blood, proceeding to then wipe the person’s memory with compulsion in order to eradicate any chances of getting caught. The caveat is that if a human dies with vampire blood in their system, they become one. 

Sarah’s death happened the day after she’d spent a night with Mitch, and one can imagine how distressed she had been when she'd awoken atop a metal table in a morgue within the basement of a hospital. Mitch had been there from the very first second she’d opened her eyes to her new life. Or rather, her dead life. He had helped her get accustomed to the next stage (meaning having to cut family ties in order to avoid a catastrophe— the less people that know the truth about the supernatural, the better) coaxing her through transition and teaching her the way to go about the rest of eternity without putting herself and others in danger. 

Vampires rarely have any compassion for life (usually out of spite, which stems from how their own lives were taken from them), so it’s not uncommon that bodies are found drained of blood in back alleys, abandoned warehouses, and washed up on banks of oceans and rivers. It could be either of two reasons, or even both: the monster doesn’t care about the consequences of their actions, or they never learned to control their urges. 

Harry’s crew isn't that careless. Through Mitch, they had learned restraint, taking up his practice of feeding enough to satisfy themselves without killing the host, healing them, and then erasing the occurrence from their memories. Mitch had come up with the tactic to cling to his humanity— to be as kind and nondestructive as possible— but if Harry’s being honest, most of their friends only play along because it’s convenient. No bodies means no police involvement, and no police involvement means being able to settle down in one place for an extended period, not having to stress about the annoying process of bouncing around the world for the rest of their lives to avoid detection. 

Keeping low was for the best, and when things get rough— whether it be a mistake on their part or a disastrous bender caused by another vampire passing through— they resort to drinking from blood bags until things tide over. Mitch has a contact at the nearest hospital, which is how he gets access to the stock, as well as how he managed to clean up Sarah’s passing so quickly. 

All in all, Harry had only mentioned Sarah to tease his friend, knowing the slight sensitivity that comes with the subject. Vampires rarely form emotional bonds, typically because it can get really messy, really fast, whether that connection be to a mortal or to another creature of their species. All of them have baggage of some sort— you can’t die, resurrect, be forced to abandon your family, and be a slave to drinking blood for the rest of eternity and just...be normal. That type of extreme emotional turmoil is corrosive towards love. It’s always better to just avoid it all together. 

That’s why this is so habitual to joke about; it’s a way to deflect. 

Mitch sighs grandly, Harry’s question echoing in his skull. “I don’t know where she is, to be honest. Last we talked was, like, four weeks ago, I think. She was in Japan, said she was drumming for a new upcoming band. Haven’t heard from her since.”

Harry nods his head once in understanding, itching to steer the theme of their conversation elsewhere now that he knows the topic is in a more sensitive state than he’d imagined. He doesn’t want to push Mitch into a depressive episode when they’re supposed to be having a good time. Spending the night consoling his sulky friend in the bathroom of a club is the last thing he wants right now. 

“I guess that makes Sarah the asshole, then.” He pokes jokingly, bumping the older vampire’s hip with his own. “She’s ghosting you. Get it? It’s funny ‘cause she’s actually dead.” 

Mitch’s sad expression shatters like glass, replaced by one of unamused secondhand embarrassment at the shitty pun. “I fucking hate you.”

“All the people who were ahead of their time were hated.” Harry sing-songs, turning up his nose haughtily. “Copernicus, Socrates, Einstein— all of them were hated for being geniuses. I’m willing to carry that same burden.” 

Mitch blinks at him three times. “No one hated Einstein.”

The curly-haired boy’s lips twitch darkly. “I’m pretty sure Japan did.” 

“You’re going to hell.” 

“I’m already there, mate.” 

Mitch shakes his head, but even through the black lights, Harry can see him trying to ward off a laugh. After a moment’s pause, he speaks up again softly. “It’s not that hard to refrain from humiliating innocent people who are just doing their job, H.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re still on that?” The broad monster groans in exasperation, palms slapping down on the metal rungs below him. “We were just having some fun! But fine. If it helps you fake sleep at night, I’ll try and keep my condescending flare to a minimum.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” Mitch responds peacefully, tapping his nimble fingers casually along the railing, his action much less violent than his companion’s. “S’not too difficult.” 

“Whatever.” Harry scoffs, returning his intent gaze to the dance floor, scoping out the scene once again in hopes of finding a proper meal for the night. 

He zones in on a group of young women gathered along one side of the bar, their messy giggling and lack of balance giving away that they’re obviously sloshed off their faces. Seems promising enough. 

When he talks once more, his tone holds an attitude that plays on a grumble, but it’s somewhat distracted. “The least you could do is let me have some fun, considering I didn’t even want to come.” 

Mitch huffs, making an entertained noise in the back of his throat. “You say that every single time we go out, and yet you always end up taking someone home. Don’t know why you’re complaining.” 

Harry side-eyes him from his peripheral vision, the corners of his pretty cherry mouth dipping down grudgingly, mood defensive. “You drag me to these things so I’m not going to apologize for making the best of it. I put a lot of effort into my pick-ups! I deserve to get my dick wet.” 

“God, please don’t say that again.” His best mate physically makes a vomiting sound. “You’re acting like a spoiled fraternity douche.” 

Harry’s gaze ignites into flames, his back straightening out as he fully turns to face the shorter man. He’s never been insulted so low before. “Take that back!” 

“Take that back!” Mitch mocks in an exaggerated, high-pitched British accent, attempting to stifle giggles. 

“Take it back! You know how much I hate Gen Z.”

“Okay, boomer.” 

“You’re older than I am!” 

“I know. Your lack of maturity is a constant reminder.”

Harry opens his mouth, prepared to make a sharp comeback about how Mitch should have left the shaggy-haired stoner aesthetic back in the eighties, but then a heavy Irish accent interrupts his rebuttal. 

“What’s all this about getting your dick wet?” 

Both of the vampires turn towards Niall, finding Xander and Adam accompanying him in a loose semi-circle. 

Xander isn’t paying any attention, too busy tapping away at the screen of his smartphone, apparently engaged in a very riveting conversation with whoever is on the other side. Adam has his hands tucked into the pockets of his plum purple wind-breaker, looking over Harry’s shoulder, seeming to be adamantly searching for someone in particular amidst the mob on the level beneath them. Niall is the only one interested in their dying conversation, probably only because he heard something crude being mentioned. 

“It’s nothing.” Harry dismisses, but he can’t help but stick Mitch with a glare. “What’s the plan for tonight, then?”

Adam speaks up for the first time. “Charlotte and Ny texted saying they got here about ten minutes ago. Mentioned they were dancing near the DJ station, so I think I’ll go find them.”

“Sounds good.” Harry bobs his head in accordance. “We’ll see you out there, yeah?” 

Adam returns his action, turning on his heel and heading for the stairs that lead to the bottom floor. The leader of the group watches him trot onto the large spiral staircase, disappearing into the thick throng of people scattered across its wide steps. 

Harry shifts his attention to Xander, snapping his fingers a few times in his direction and giving a two-toned whistle. “What about you? What’s got your head?”

“Not what, who.” Niall teases, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and making kissy faces at their friend. 

Xander ignores him, glancing up at the green-eyed brunette to let him know he’ll be with him in a second, returning his focus back to his iPhone. After a few more elongated moments of typing, the older man finally locks his device. 

“I have a date.” He throws out casually, almost as if it should be obvious. 

“A date?” Harry reiterates slowly, not quite buying it. Xander doesn’t date. He couch-surfs just as much as Harry does. 

“Mmhm.” Xander glimpses behind his fellow vampire, eyes carrying intention. “It’s just a random dude from Tinder. I thought it’d be easier to set something up beforehand, just so I don’t have to spend the whole night trying to figure out if a guy is making eyes at me or trying to keep his whiskey down.” 

“Smart.” Harry shrugs his sculpted brows, impressed. A cocky grin toys with the corners of his mouth. “But we both know no one will ever compare to me.” 

“Right.” Xander scoffs in a deadpan manner, gifting him a tight, aggravated smile. “If only you weren’t such an emotionally unavailable prick.” 

“Oh, like you’re mentally stable enough for a relationship?” Harry bites back, but it holds no true malice, just some petty rivalry. “Piss off.”

“Happily!” The other vampire exclaims, clasping his hands together for dramatics. “Have fun finding someone out there. I’m just gonna grab a to-go box for my already prepped meal.” 

Harry doesn’t bother watching him leave. Instead, he turns to Niall, pointing at him to symbolize it's his turn to share his plans for the night. “What have you got, Lucky Charms?” 

His friend breaks into a jolly cackle at the nickname, arms falling crossed over his chest, hands absentmindedly squeezing his elbows in thought. “Well, I dunno, Tea and Crumpets. What’s your game plan?” 

Before Harry can answer, Mitch butts in, feeling left out of the banter and somewhat hurt that no one had assigned him an alter ego. “What’s my country-derived nickname?” 

Niall gives the American a slow once-over, shifting in his dark brown Clarks boots, fitted navy slack riding up his thighs and allowing his rainbow polka-dot socks to peek out. He hums lowly in the back of his throat, a grin spreading across his rosy cheeks. “Biscuits and Gravy.” 

Harry chimes in, his own arms casually folding over his strong chest, index finger tapping on his bottom lip as if mulling something over. “I quite like We The People, actually.”

The Irish lad snaps his fingers as if having a sudden epiphany. “Uncle Sam!”

Harry’s emerald eyes twinkle with glee at seeing the way Mitch’s go half-lidded, no longer entertained. “Four Score And Seven Years Ago.” 

“Okay, I think that’s enou—”

Niall wags a finger at Harry, lifting one shoulder in question, seeking approval on his next idea. “Star Spangled Banner?”

Harry copies the boy’s motion from before, snapping his fingers and making jazz hands. “I Pledge Allegiance.”  

“Ok, I get it!” Mitch whines with annoyed finality, pushing off the metal railing with a curt grimace on his scraggly face. 

“You asked!” Niall rationalizes between hiccups of evilly delighted joy, cupping his stomach as if to keep it from splitting open. 

“Won’t make that mistake again.” The older creature grumbles, leaning his back against the rungs and looking off towards the distance, communicating that he’s done being a part of the conversation. 

Once Harry manages to reign in his giggles, he rubs at his nose with the side of his finger, releasing a wistful sigh. He refers to the question Niall had stated before their little bullying fest. “I think I’m just gonna do what I always do— sway a nice, pretty girl into doing some not-so-nice but very pretty things.” 

“Solid.” The Irish bloke remarks, toying with the plastic buttons on his silk beige top. “Not much to do other than that, to be fair. Adam’s usually my wingman, but I guess he abandoned me for a girl’s night.” 

“Mitch is mine, and he knows better than to dip on me.” Harry roughly nudges his best friend with his elbow, dodging to the side when Mitch tries to hit him in return. 

Niall hums softly in amusement. “Maybe I should make Adam sign whatever contract you drafted for that poor bugger.” 

The curly brunette snorts. “Good luck. Adam’s as stubborn as they come. But, hey, if you can’t find anyone, just come to me.” Harry’s irises flit crimson for a millisecond, an ominous smirk buckling his features. “You know I’m always happy to share.” 

“Thanks,” his friend exhales flatly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“If you’re taking tips,” Mitch pipes up, vaguely signaling at Niall’s shirt with his chin, “maybe don’t wear that stupid shirt next time. The elephant doodles look ridiculous.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not taking fashion tips from anyone who actually enjoyed living in Ohio, then.” Niall snaps in an exaggerated American accent, middle finger jutting towards the other man. “The only thing you know how to dress is a cornfield scarecrow. Must be why you look like one.” 

Harry forces down more laughter, clearing his throat softly. “You’ll be fine. Just don’t get hammered— girls hate that.” 

“Note taken.” The pale boy runs his fingers through his hair, fixing it up and adding texture to appear more laid-back and rugged. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Later.” The younger vampire recites, giving a big thumbs-up. 

“Good luck out there. You, too, Boston Tea Party.” 

With that, Niall saunters away, leaving a fully laughing Harry and a grouchy Mitch in his wake. 

The two acquaintances decide to follow in everyone else’s example, descending down the looped staircase and chatting about Mitch’s latest gig at a new bar downtown. 

Harry praises Mitch's talent with his guitar, specifically the fact that he found a hobby which he enjoys so much that he’s willing to keep it as a permanent part of his life. It’s easy to get bored of things when you have hundreds of years ahead of you; everything can seem pointless, in the end. But Harry doesn’t think Mitch has ever let himself fall into those types of dark headspaces and he finds that extremely admirable. 

Harry wishes he could say the same. He’s no musical prodigy, that much is obvious, but he is an expert at playing a few specific French songs on the piano by memory. He rarely does it, though; only when he’s in a low state of mind, which— given the origin of how he learned said classical pieces— isn’t something he’s proud of. They’re tied to a very gruesome part of his past that he’d rather bury deep inside, but he can only push back his troubles for so long before they begin to leak out, staining the clean sheet of recovery he had sewn into place. Those arrangements just bring him a warped sense of comfort he can’t explain.

Even though he’s aware of the destructive aspects of the songs, he finds himself humming one now out of instinct as he elbows through squished bodies and flailing limbs. The second he notices he’s doing it, he cuts it off, focusing all his intention on making it to the other side of the room to the bar. It’s a hard trip when it feels like the walls of the building are closing in on him. 

When Harry finally breaks free from the Human Centipede re-enactment that is the club dance floor, he practically collapses onto the sleek glass counter. Death was less painful than that walk. 

He cranes his neck to the side wildly, suddenly remembering that his much smaller, much skinnier, much more crushable friend had been in tow behind him. To his utter shock, he watches as Mitch calmly weeds around grinding drunk couples with the poise and grace of a swan, filling the empty spot besides him without a single ailment in the world. 

Harry blinks at him blankly in silence, almost as if he’d grown an extra set of fangs. 

Mitch flags the bartender from all the way down the counter, not bothering to meet the green eyes peering at him in disbelief. “You’re so fucking dramatic, H.”

“How did you not die? Again?” Harry sputters, sight jutting all around the older vampire’s body, looking for any battle wounds or missing appendages. “I almost lost an arm in there!”

“It’s a good thing it wasn’t your favorite one, right?” Mitch smirks at his own lewd joke, the simper molding into one of genuine kindness when the mixologist slides up in front of them. “Hi, how are you? I’m good, as well, thank you for asking! Yeah, I’ve got something in mind. Don’t worry, I’m not one of the ‘just make me something sweet’ type of assholes.”

Harry zones out the rest of the friendly chat Mitch entertains with the employee, letting his gaze wander around the large auditorium-like room. He dances his vision over the DJ remixing music on top of the stage, head beginning to bop along to the beat that is currently shaking the seven foot tall speakers. He’s pleasantly surprised at how good this specific producer is. 

He continues scoping out the rest of the venue, taking notes of the different clusters of people that seem to hold promise for the plans he has in store later tonight. A small group of hippie friends here, a two-party duo of tipsy stoners there, and a clump of college students at the edge of the ruckus, stumbling around loudly. Things are looking somewhat decent, in his opinion. The hippies seem to be catching his attention more than the others— specifically, the one that looks similar to Stevie Nicks. That’s a fantasy that’s been waiting to be fulfill for decades now. 

Harry lulls his head forward again when he feels Mitch give a squeeze at his elbow, telling him that the bartender is waiting to take his order. He decides to go for the gold tequila, asking for it straight in a highball glass without any garnishes. The worker’s eyebrows jump up slightly at the unorthodox request, but he drops a polite, “Coming right up.” either way.

“You truly have no flavor.” Mitch tuts once their waiter has stepped away to prepare their drinks. “No taste buds whatsoever.” 

“Yeah? Well, you can suck my flavorless dick.” Harry chimes brightly, eyes crinkling shut as a result of a theatrical smile. 

The younger vampire goes to turn back around, legitimately interested in the girl he’d seen that looked like one of his seventies celebrity crushes, already running through scenarios in his head on how he’d get her into his bed for tonight. Weed and ABBA are probably good conversation starters for that, if Harry’s undisputed people skills have anything to say about it. 

As he’s rotating his torso, a blurred image catches his eyes. He does a double-take, honing in on a group of girls that look faintly familiar. He scans them carefully as they huddle around the corner of the bar area, laughing and toasting along to the multiple conversations they all have going at once. They look like the typical posse that would be a backdrop clique in a mainstream movie. 

He knows where he recognizes them from— it had been the same girls he’d spotted earlier up on the second deck.

Harry expertly surveillances each woman, picking out potential candidates as easily as he’d pinch petals off a flower. The one in the center of the group is obviously the leader, present in how she’s the prettiest and is somehow managing to juggle all of these interactions at once. It means she’s used to being the center of attention— probably strives under it. He throws her out as a potential; the last thing he needs is someone who everyone knows and seeks out. He wouldn’t be able to sneak away with her quietly. 

The rest of the girl crew all seem to be the same status-wise, appearing as supporting characters to the main one in the middle. He could choose any one of them blindly and it wouldn’t make a difference. They all seem so tight-knit, they probably share personalities, at this point. It’s like dipping his hand into a jar of jelly beans and they’re all the same flavor. That notion makes him laugh to himself a bit; maybe Mitch was right about his lack of taste. 

Then, Harry spots her, and all the other women immediately go up in smoke. 

It’s hard not to spot her. She sticks out like a sore thumb, but not in a good way. 

The prospective contender is off to the side, sitting atop a barstool with her feet tucked along the footrest, tapping them against the metal rung awkwardly. She’s talking to one of the other people in the group, but the interaction seems forced and not very satisfying, obvious in both of their faces. She’s tracing her middle finger around the edge of her glass cup distractedly, the contents inside barely touched, the ice in her drink long-melted. She seems disinterested in the chaos her friends are causing, her expression bored and borderline regretful, as if she doesn’t want to be here. 

The further he sizes the girl up, the more appropriate she looks for the role he needs filled. Since barely anyone is paying attention to her, that means he can lead her astray without too much resistance from her acquaintances, if any at all. She appears somewhat unimportant to the narrative— merely a background extra— and it makes him wonder what she’s doing with this clique of women that can’t seem to be bothered by her presence. It’s sad, really. Sad, but beneficial, because that means he can succeed in making her the supporting protagonist of his narrative, at least for tonight. 

The girl is attractive, but not anything astronomical. She’s unconventionally pretty in a way that makes her relevant, but not particularly distinct in the eyes of regular men with presumptuous standards. She’s easy to pass up, and if Harry hadn’t been actively pursuing someone of her bashful persona to card into his plans, he wouldn’t have noticed her. At the risk of once again sounding shallow, Harry’s aware that— physically speaking— he’s very much out of her league. His above-average appearance gives off the vibe that he’d fit better with the leader of the group instead of with her, but he doesn’t want someone that would raise suspicions as a result of their absence. This girl, sitting along the edge of the party with barely any purpose and no one to really question her whereabouts, is exactly what he’s looking for. She’s perfectly imperfect for the cause. 

Harry continues to examine her meticulously, analyzing other traits that can give him a better feel for her character. She’s clad in a pair of high-waisted pastel pink silk pants that stop right at her ankles, accompanied by a flouncy creme lace blouse tucked into her waist. Tan wedges, no accessories, delicate rosey nail polish, and minimalist makeup. The boldest thing about her is the brick red shade of her lipstick, which is easily shadowed by the sparkly sequin dresses, five inch heels, and layered tops her friends are wearing. 

Harry likes her outfit, though. It’s concise and safe, which he can appreciate. Yes, perhaps she looks like she belongs in a dentist’s office rather than a Los Angeles nightclub, but he thinks there’s beauty in simplicity. She looks cute, and that’s good enough for him. 

“She seems interesting.” Mitch’s soft voice snaps him out of his detail-hungry haze, drawing him back into the reality that is the black lighting of the club and the deep booming of the music’s bass. 

His friend slides his tall drink across the glass counter, the amber liquid inside warping his reflection. 

“I suppose so.” Harry answers passively, shrugging one shoulder in indifference while accepting the cup, ringed fingers clinking against the crystalline surface. 

He takes a leisurely sip from the straight tequila, its tangy kick sending a warm surge up through his ears and down his throat, spreading into his chest and along the trench of his tummy. Alcohol really is the cure to everything. 

Mitch gives him a deadpan look, the strobe lights alternating across the glossy surface of his hazel irises, highlighting smugness. “You’ve been gawking for five minutes. Put your pride back in your pants and go talk to her.” 

The curly-haired vampire flashes him a light smirk over the rim of his drink, absentmindedly tapping his two initial rings along the bottom of the highball cup. “Ever so blunt, aren’t you?”

Mitch scuffs, taking a swig from his trusty beer bottle. Out of everything, that’s the one aspect Harry despises about his best mate— that he goes to a club and orders the same drink every time. Where was the fun in that? Where was the excitement of trying something new? When you have an eternity, the least you could do is utilize it to your advantage. Cycling through every cocktail in human history is a prime example of making the best out of immortality.  

But Mitch is a creature of habit— as are most of their kind— and Harry knows he won’t shake easily. Not when it comes to surrendering his preferred beverage, and definitely not when it comes to sticking his nose in Harry’s intimate business. Meddling and being irritating are what best friends are for. 

“What can I say? Pep talks are my forte.” The older monster remarks sarcastically, bumping his bottle against Harry’s glass in encouragement, using the spout of his container to point in the general direction of the mysterious girl. “Now go make dinner.”

“But, darlinggggg,” Harry whines playfully, a smirk still tugging at the corners of his slightly liquor-swollen lips. “I made dinner last night. Isn’t it your turn?”

Mitch rolls his eyes and shoves Harry’s shoulder harshly, with just enough force that it actually has some type of impact this time around. “Just go, before she gets creeped out by your staring.” 

Harry’s own irises copy his friend’s actions as he pushes himself up from the bar, rubbing at the new sore spot on his shoulder with an exaggerated pout present. “Ow.”

Mitch blinks at him flatly, fighting off a grin. “You’ve had worse. Go.”

Harry swivels on his heel, once again facing the group of tipsy girls at the other end of the counter. It appears that most of them have dispersed into the dance floor, having found partners to entertain them for the time being, moving to the music as if there are no other people in the room. They had left behind three of their companions, one of which is Harry’s aspiring hookup; he gets the feeling that the two girls had stayed behind out of the kindness of their hearts, feeling too guilty to leave the runt of the litter all on her own. He hopes that’s the case because if so, the second Harry inserts himself into the situation, they’ll take that chance and split, leaving him to tend his meal in peace.

He tucks one large hand into the front pocket of his trousers, the grip on his glass tightening a smidge, rings biting into his skin as the condensation of the chilled tequila cools the small spike of pain. He spins his lionhead ring around his finger within his slacks, gradually drifting closer as he goes through a checklist of prized pick-up lines he could use to garner her attention. He ducks and dodges inebriated club-goers with ease now that he’s had something to take the edge off, finally reaching the end of the bar, slowly coming to a halt right behind his target for the night. 

Harry nearly passes out as soon as her scent hits him. 

It’s faint and tender and nothing quite like anything he’s encountered before, a mixture of honey and lavender that permeates through her normal perfume. He feels like his head’s been put through a wringer, his whole body clenching for a moment as raging sparks erupt across the pit of his belly. He indulges a deep breath, willing the blazing current away in order to keep his cool, but all he can see flashing before his eyes are images of her leaving traces of that smell smeared all over his face as he bobs his head between her quivering thighs.

He takes another penetrating inhale, centering his mind back into the present. He needs to behave.

Her friends spot him immediately, their side of the conversation faltering to ash. They give Harry a wide-eyed once-over, mouths parting in slight shock as they drink up his attractive appearance, gazes lingering along his thick chest as it strains the baby blue material of his tee. Their sights drag across his broad shoulders, dainty collarbones, and strong neck, faces gawking without remorse, blinking emptily at the slope of his sharp jaw and the peaks of his prominent cheekbones. They seem to be at a loss for words the second his dimples indent into place, his brows shrugging in a half-assed greeting before he cocks his head to side a tad, voice velvet as it directs towards the girl they had forgotten existed.  

“I’m guessing you’re the designated driver?”

Y/N jumps slightly in response at the new addition to the painfully dying conversation, not recognizing the heavy English accent and deep baritone that booms behind her. She had been wondering why Melissa and Isabel had stopped talking so abruptly, and she now has her answer. 

Y/N slowly goes to cast a curious glance over her shoulder and Harry can hear the pulse flaring in her neck from the sudden intrusion to her surroundings. His fangs prick along the inside of his bottom lip due to carnal instincts; he has to will them back into receding. 

 When her eyes land on the owner of the random words, her finger immediately halts its swirling motions along the hem of her glass.

‘Fuck.’ is the only thought that registers through her short-circuiting mind. 

The lanky, curly-haired brunette that stands before her gives a gentle yet confident smile, the gesture dazzling even in the low lighting of the atmosphere. He’s absolutely gorgeous, with deep pits carving into his cheeks, perfect teeth complimenting full cherry red lips, eyes the color of a rainforest canopy, and a broad frame that is somehow not overwhelming. He’s sporting neatly ironed tan slacks, a fitted cotton shirt with a cute yet crude graphic at its center, a fancy plaid coat, and crisp yellow Vans without a single smudge in sight.

Y/N can’t help but take notice of all the little details of his fit, especially the accessories. A beautiful pearl necklace laid along his delicate clavicle, a cross resting between his defined pectorals, and a matching earring dangling from his earlobe. Not to mention the array of clunky rings arranged along nimble fingers, hugging a tall glass carrying caramel liquor and somehow managing to dwarf the cup’s size. The extra decoration is sensual in such an unexpectedly delicious manner. 

The hand he has tucked in his pants ducks out to comb through his dark auburn ringlets and Y/N can feel her mouth water at the new round of elegant rings. The action activates the cologne Harry had thoughtfully spritz in specific pressure points along his body, the scent of tobacco and vanilla traveling through the fog-heavy air and causing Y/N’s stomach to summersault. 

The young man is as close to flawless as anyone could ever come. 

Y/N feels an unmistakable sharp pain shoot through her ankle, and she comes to the realization that it had been the tip of one of her friend’s heels. The reality check jars her out of the embarrassing daze he’d spelled onto her, open mouth snapping shut and her lashes fluttering over her previously unblinking eyes. 

“Oh! Uhm—uh—” She clumsily twists sideways to fully face him, swallowing thickly and tasting the remnants of the alcohol she’d barely been nursing. “N-No. I’m not— well, I don’t think…? We Ubered here so that wouldn’t make any sense ‘cause I have no car to drive...so...” 

The boy chuckles softly at her choppy monologue, his laughter warm and inviting, similar to the look reflecting off his shiney irises, the golden flecks around his pupils seeming to swell and shrink from the rainbow lights cascading across them. Despite being caught off guard and utterly embarrassed, she can’t seem to break eye contact with him. The longer she gazes into his eyes, the more relaxed she begins to feel, a fuzzy heat stemming from the center of her belly and spreading up her neck and ears. 

Y/N gulps heavily like before, willing her tongue to produce a less embarrassing comment. “Sorry. Let me...Let me start over…Hi.”

“Hello.” He quips back playfully, lopsided grin widening in fond amusement. He lifts his drink up a bit in greeting. “M’Harry.”

“Y/N.” The girl squeaks out, copying his gesture because it’s easier than forcing her disoriented brain to try and come up with its own. 

Harry flirts his intent up and down Y/N’s body slowly, checking her out without any subtlety. He wants her to know he’s interested. 

When his sight locks with hers again, he bats his lashes sultrily and pours as much passion as he can into his tone, accent weighing in just right. “S’nice to meet you, Y/N.”

Her entire face prickles at how her name sounds dripping from those faultless raspberry lips. She’d pay anything to hear him say it again. “You, too.” 

This is not what Y/N intended. This is most definitely not what she’d intended to happen when she’d reluctantly agreed to go out with some coworkers on a Friday night, giving in simply because she had promised herself she’d be more social within her new job. 

She had moved to California roughly two months ago, wanting to get away from her old life in the small, boring town she hated to call home. Buying the flight had been a drastic decision made when she had been under the influence of something she’d rather not admit, but the following day— after she had sobered up from a wicked hangover— she found herself not wanting to cancel the trip. Found herself craving the excitement and adventure of beginning anew somewhere far away from everything she had ever known. 

All of Y/N’s friends back home had supported her without hesitation, egging her preposterous idea and congratulating her on “getting the fuck out of here.” Her family had been a little less supportive, but after a few heartfelt chats about following your ambitions and a budgeting lesson from her cousin, they had gingerly gotten on board. They understood that keeping her trapped in that lame town where nothing really happened wasn’t the way to ensure her success in life. Therefore, the people closest to her had swallowed their opinions and respected her choice to dive off the deep end, in search of something better beyond the borders of their tiny city. 

Within a week, Y/N had secured a decent job at a semi-popular cafe, courtesy of a connection from a family friend. Within two weeks, after many sleepless nights full of Rocky Road ice cream and the bright white pages of ApartmentFinder.com, she had managed to book a nice flat close to her place of work. It was a miracle, if she’d ever seen one. Especially within the crowded, expensive community that is Los Angeles. Within three weeks, she had been walking out of the giant glass building that was LAX with only two suitcases in tow, boarding an Uber to her new life. 

Things had never seemed more picturesque, she’d thought. Everything was falling into place in a way that seemed almost blessed by the universe.

Then, the culture shock hit. 

California was different. It’s was so fucking different than anything she’d ever faced and she wasn’t prepared for the social difficulties she’d have to hurdle. All her life, Y/N had grown up with the same people around her, spending every school year with them up until graduation, expanding her friend group as time passed. Even after high school, she’d remained closely connected with most of her graduating class. The region she lived in was tiny, tight-knit and friendly; it was hard not to. She couldn’t even go to the store for groceries without bumping into at least three people from her Algebra II class. 

Point being, it had been ages since Y/N had been put in a situation where she actively had to try and make friends. She’d been through that challenge way back in kindergarten and had never been hit with it again. 

Until it smacked her across the head here in LA.

Y/N didn’t mesh well with Californians, she quickly found out. They were all about crazy parties and club-hopping, whereas Y/N had been raised on community cookouts and mass sleepovers. They enjoyed getting cross-faded and streaking down the beach at two in the morning, meanwhile Y/N liked stripping down to her undies and spending the night binging Queer Eye while stuffing her face with Cheeze-Its and Snickers bars. They freely boasted about their sex adventures while bussing down tables at the restaurant, while Y/N’s intimate life had been nonexistent since the move. 

It was just...startling, to put it lightly. It wasn’t what she had expected at all, and that’s mostly her fault for not doing the correct amount of research before jumping headfirst into a cliche LifeTime film. 

Therefore, Y/N had made a pact with herself one month in, swearing to let loose and allow her surroundings to sweep her into a new dynamic— into a new, social butterfly version of herself. She’d started accepting the invitations from her coworkers to go out at night, and she’d started putting more effort into being open to wild experiences, no matter how scary they might seem. Shutting down and refusing to mold to her environment would only result in her having to return home with her tail between her legs, and she’d rather jump naked off a pier than see her parents’ faces wracked with pity. 

And that’s exactly what she’d done a couple nights ago, at the encouragement of the group of girls she was at the club with now. It had, in turn, ended in her coming down with a mild cold, but at least now she’d be able to tell her friends back home a cool story about dropping inhibitions. 

Dropping inhibitions is also why Y/N’s here tonight, dressed in the most party-like outfit she could put together, prodding an overly-boozy drink into her system, attempting to release some of the tension that had been building in her head for the last couple of weeks since she’d left her old life behind. That’s why she’s here, with strands of her blow-dried hair catching on the dark red gloss Melissa has slathered on her mouth in a thick layer. That’s why she’s here, with synthetic smoke scratching at her lungs and drunken men and women bumping into her every two minutes, most of them too busy sticking their tongues down each other’s throats to realize they’d almost toppled her off her seat. That’s why she’s here, with a blasé expression plastered across her features as her coworkers talk over her head without a second thought, her mind far away from the walls of this overhyped horror house. 

Y/N had been thinking about how she’d just started her Disney+ membership, finding comfort in putting together a mental checklist of all the movies she’s going to plow through the second she sets foot past the doorframe of her apartment. Indulging on her childhood was an ideal form of escapism, in her opinion. She’s positive Walt Disney would agree. 

That’s what her brain had been lost in when Harry’s deep, melodic voice had interrupted her daydreams, sending her spiraling into an embarrassing performance of nerve-induced hysteria. 

Now here she is, blinking back at him dumbly, eyes the smallest bit damp from the smoke machine and neon flashes of light. And here he is, smirking at her over the rim of his glass, eyes raking down her wired up body suggestively as he takes a calm sip from what appears to be the straight tequila in his colossal, bejeweled hand. 

The English boy takes a gradual step closer to her, wanting to make sure he’s not crossing any boundaries that would make her uncomfortable. The scent of his cologne intensifies and she feels a fiery heat suddenly pour between her clasped thighs. It just hits her how long it’s truly been since she’s gotten laid and fuck, it’s sad.

Harry begrudgingly peels his attention away from Y/N for a second, aiming his words towards the girls standing behind her with their mouths still opened stupidly. Even from a respectful distance, his warm breath still washes across her jaw and cheek, causing electricity to zip down her spine. “You don’t mind if I steal her for a bit, do you?”

‘Yeah,’ Y/N thinks in the back of her muddled skull, ‘that’s definitely tequila.’

Isabel and Melissa slowly shake their heads in unison, glancing at each other as if to confirm he’d just spoken to them. 

The edges of Harry’s lips jolt into a kind, easygoing smile. “Thank you. Promise I’ll keep her safe.” 

Y/N feels her heart hiccup at his statement. If she’s not insanely mistaken, it appears to have carried an undertone of dirty intentions. God, she’s praying she’s not mistaken. 

The two girls clamber away on their tall pumps, rounding around Harry and pausing for a moment. They make moaning faces and vulgar motions behind him, encouraging Y/N to pursue the stranger. She then watches them disappear into the throng of crowded bodies, leaving her alone with the beautiful boy and her heart slamming against her ribs. 

Y/N focuses back onto Harry, licking her itching lips lightly, not knowing what to say next as he settles himself beside her. He rests his forearm on the counter along with his drink, tucking his other hand back into  his trouser pocket and fixing himself into a comfortable standing position, crossing his ankles nonchalantly. The friction between his jacket and the bar rides his sleeve up an inch or so, and Y/N gets a view of the anchor tattoo he has along his wrist, as well as the upside-down cross inked between his thumb and index finger. 

Harry catches her looking, mouth twitching with a smidge of arrogant self-assurance. He loves when girls drool over his tats. 

“I have more.” He remarks lightly, a pang of condescending pleasure shooting through his chest at the way she jerks and pins her gaze down to the floor. 

Blood rushes into her cheeks at the realization that she’s been caught and Harry’s teeth grind. It’s so hot watching her fidget for him. Maybe he finds her more attractive than he’d originally let on. “Would you like to see them?”

Y/N timidly coaxes herself into locking stares with him once again, looking up at him from beneath her lashes, barely nodding with a soft, “Sure.” 

She looks so pretty like that, he notices, staring up at him all doe-eyed and shy. It’d probably look even better if she were on her knees.

Yeah, he definitely likes her more than he’d thought. 

Harry proceeds to shift about, shrugging his coat off his strong shoulders, letting it slip down his lean arms and reveal the plethora of dark tattoos strewn across his left arm. Y/N watches avidly, drinking up every flex of his biceps under the black paint and every twitch of his pecs beneath his cotton shirt, the tendons along his throat going taut for just a moment. That moment is enough for her to etch the image into the back of her eyelids for the rest of her life. 

Harry tosses the article onto the table, extending his arm over its surface for her to get a better reading. She doesn’t miss the chance, her pupils tracing over every line and stroke of the pen, over every shaded area and meticulous detail. 

His voice comes out as a low, garbled murmur, his own irises studying her features with just as much intensity. “You can touch them, if you’d like. I don’t mind.”

After a moment of hesitation, the brim of her crystalline cup is replaced by the ridges of his smooth, tanned skin. She drags her digits over the naked mermaid, tracing the curve of her figure and the dip of her tail, then passing onto the stem of the large rose, ghosting over every thorn and prickle. Harry can feel her heartbeat through her fingertips and it’s making him throb. 

“They’re very pretty.” Y/N whispers, allowing her touch to fall away, palm finding refuge across the counter. “Did they hurt?” 

“A bit, yeah. But I’ve gotten so many done that I think I grew numb to the needle after a while.” Harry answers, shrugging one shoulder to show it’s no big deal. He grasps his glass once again and takes a drawn-out swig, extending the action just so she can see the way his Adam’s Apple bobs as he swallows. Once the cup is back in its place, his tongue peeks out and swipes any leftover liquid from his rosy lips, which then settle into a coy simper. “Plus, I kinda like the pain.” 

Y/N’s breathing stutters in her lungs and she swiftly swerves the topic onto something much less explicit. “So why’d you ask if I was the designated driver? That’s kind of an odd question. Very out of the blue.” 

Harry lulls his middle finger across the hem of his glass, exactly how she had been doing earlier, the motion weighed by an innuendo. She seems to understand it, present in how she bites into the inside of her cheek. “I just figured that a pretty girl like you would have easily found someone to dance with. So when I saw you sitting here looking all bored with your drink barely touched…I just assumed, I suppose.” 

And there it is again— the blood pouring into her face. Christ, if she keeps that up, he’s going to fucking lose it.

“Thank you, that’s— that’s really sweet. Proper gentleman.” 

Harry runs his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes snapping to her tinted mouth for a second, establishing some sexual tension that he’ll expand on as they go. “Who doesn’t like a guy who knows how to treat a girl, right?” 

Y/N clears her throat softly, obviously phased by his forward compliment, but she tries to play it off. “To answer your question, I— uhm...I’m not really one for the club scene, I guess. Don’t really like it, but I didn’t want to be rude and turn down the invitation.” 

‘Good girl,’ Harry thinks, silently cheering her on for having more brain cells than the typical human. 

“Well, that’s where we share some common ground, then.” He chimes brightly, a soft smile bringing his dimples to life. “I don’t care for clubs, either, but my friends have an affinity for them so here I am.”

He gestures vaguely towards the general direction where he’d left Mitch, continuing his rant. “The choking smoke, the annoying strobe lights, the crowded floor, the drunk morons—”

“Bumping into you without giving a shit.” Y/N finishes his sentence, her vulgarity drawing a boyish giggle from her companion and now she’s convinced she’d do anything to hear him laugh like that again. “And there’s always a faint smell of vomit coming from somewhere.”

Harry slaps his hand down against the glass table in passionate agreement, voice pitching up slightly as his brows jump in emotion. “Right?! It’s fucking disgusting. Don’t understand how anyone could genuinely enjoy it.” 

Y/N nods vehemently, sharing the same expression of utter distaste towards the subject. “It honestly doesn’t make any sense to me, either. Why come here when you can go to, like, a nice bar somewhere, y’know?”

Harry blinks at her in astonishment, her opinion mirroring his own with psychic-like accuracy. “My thoughts exactly.” 

“Great minds think alike.” Y/N responds playfully, taking a hearty gulp from her drink since the first time he’d spotted her from across the room. 

After a comfortable pause, Harry speaks up, also entertaining another sip from his own drink, which is now nearly empty. “Are you from around here?”

She can’t be. Rarely anyone born and raised here is willing to bash the status quo, and never so openly. 

She’s once again mesmerized by the attractiveness of his rings, but manages to get her composure in check. “Kinda. I moved here about two months ago.” 

Precisely his point.

Harry releases a curious hum over the cup between his lips. “Let me be the one to officially welcome you to Cali, then! Where people go to shitty clubs for fun and tan themselves into a strip of leather.”

Y/N sputters out a half-suppressed giggle and Harry’s brows almost furrow at the weird fluttering in his stomach. He rarely gets it.

Y/N takes another deep gulp of what he thinks is probably an Old Fashioned, silently praising the way she’d finished it off so quickly. She crunches an ice shard between her teeth and lets it melt across her tongue before engaging again. “I’m guessing you’re not from around here either though, are you?”

Now it’s Harry’s turn to chuckle a bit and she fights off an endeared smile. 

“What gave it away?” He asks, purposefully doing a thicker, fuller accent, his teasing nature making the grin she’d just stifled fully break through.

Y/N lifts a shoulder offhandedly. “Your accent seems a little too…posh for this area. Or even this hemisphere.”

Harry scoffs softly, the pinky around his glass sticking up jokingly as he kinks an eyebrow at her, a few rouge curls falling across his forehead. “Keen ears, mate.”

Y/N lifts her drink up a bit with a playfully knowing air, mimicking an English dialect. “Cheers.”

He places his empty cup down on the counter, his middle finger once more ghosting around the edge absentmindedly. She notices the pastel yellow polish covering his nails, tiny black smiley faces decorating the lacquer.

“I like your nails.” She admires, tipping her empty lowball towards his hand for significance. “Did you do them yourself?”

Harry glances at his fingers, stretching and wiggling them out, his features taking on a bit of pride. “Sure did.” 

“Don’t think I’ve ever met a guy at a club who could pull off nail polish so easily.” 

The left edge of his lips flicks upwards. “How do you mean?”

Y/N’s gaze bounces back to his and the tone twirling in his jade irises tells her everything she needs to know about keeping this conversation going: he enjoys being praised. 

She chooses her next words carefully, wanting to appeal to his interests. “I mean that it looks amazing on you. The color suits your skin nicely, makes your hands look good.” 

Harry breaks eye contact, glimpsing down at his shoes and she realizes he’s actually trying to hide a blush. The fact that she had managed to coax one out of him boosts her confidence while simultaneously making his own waver. He’s never like this— never so easily flustered. He needs to get it together.

Harry tilts his chin back up, lower lip strung between his two front teeth. His voice comes out as a flirty laugh.

“Known you for maybe,” he looks at the beautiful watch on his wrist symbolically, “ten minutes, and you’re already stroking my ego just the way I like it. I think that’s a record.” 

Y/N doesn’t know if it’s the liquor she’d just consumed too quickly, or if it’s Harry’s intoxicatingly alluring scent dulling the region of her brain that controls fear, but she’s suddenly filled with a strange surge of courage and her thoughts are spilling down her semi-numb tongue before she can stop them. “I’ve been told I’m pretty good at stroking, so an ego’s not too hard to handle.”

Harry cocks an eyebrow, surprised at her brazen reply. He might have misjudged her more than he assumed. However, he can’t say he doesn’t enjoy this girl more than the one he thought he was going to receive. There’s just something about how she can match his banter without a problem, and how they share a lot of the same thoughts and opinions, that just lights a fire in his stomach. 

“Is that so?” His voice lowers in pitch and he scoots a step closer, fingers just barely brushing against her arm as he repositions himself against the bar. His question comes out as a sultry murmur. “What else can you handle?”

Y/N knows that she’s starting to cross a line, and with every passing moment, the likelihood of returning to her friends is getting smaller and smaller. She’s not mad about it. Riding off of the wave of confidence that had inflated her ego earlier, she mumbles her response back with the same tone and texture. “How about you buy me another drink and then maybe you’ll find out?”

Harry gives her a boyish grin and the indents that pop into his cheeks nudge his appearance from an incredibly attractive man to an adorable cheeky boy. He motions to the bartender for another round of drinks, only letting his eyes flicker away from her for the moment it takes to do it. “How do you like LA so far?”

“It’s...alright.” It’s Y/N’s turn to move closer to him now, flicking her hair off her shoulder, hoping that the motion releases the perfume she’d dabbed on her neck while getting ready. Judging by the darkening of Harry's eyes, it does just that. “It’s definitely a change in pace from where I used to live, but I think I’m slowly gaining the reigns. I feel like once I get acquainted, I could grow to love it.”

“LA’s definitely a toggle. You could either vibe with it, or it’ll eat you alive and spit you back out.” 

She bats her lashes at him in stunned fright at his bluntness, his face deadly serious without any twitch or give. 

Harry then bursts into high-pitched laughter, eyes crinkling shut and nose scrunching. “I’m just fucking with you, love. Ease up, hm?”

“You asshole!” Y/N exhales grandly, half in relief and half in indignation, slugging him on the shoulder. All she feels is hard muscle beneath. 

He continues to cackle, sticking his tongue out at her. “Looked like you were about to cry.” 

“It definitely crossed my mind, yeah!”

The bartender arrives with their fresh drinks and Harry tells the man to but both of Y/N’s on his tab. She feels her cheeks glow, telling him he doesn’t have to, but he waves it off and says he’s more than happy to serve such a nice girl as herself. Especially if she “hates the same things I do. Think of it as your initiation gift into the Anti-Club Club.” 

A handful of heartbeats tick by, full of comfortable quietness as they both savor their new beverages. Harry pipes up first, regaining their topic from before.

“But, yeah, Cali’s for sure a special place. You meet some cool people if you hang around for a while. But sometimes,” he pauses for a second, eyes gleaming with something she can’t quite interpret. “But sometimes you can meet a really interesting person in just one night.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” Y/N clicks her nails against her Old Fashioned distractedly as Harry fixes her with that beautiful emerald gaze that makes her ears tingle. She cocks her head to the side knowingly, flashing him a soft smirk. “Sometimes, you just happen to meet that one in a million.”

“A lucky strike.” He adds, lifting his tequila an inch off the counter and tilting it towards her in what appears to be a toast, irises dancing with a certain type of suggestive mischief. “To meeting interesting people.”

The human girl clinks the rim of her lowball to the edge of his cup, shrugging her brows and reciting his comment back to him. “To meeting interesting people.” 

Y/N measures how the rest of their interaction goes by how quickly her drink shrinks. 

When she reaches down to the first ice cube stacked on top, Harry has managed to coax multiple rounds of laughter out of her, his humor startlingly similar to her’s in the most refreshing way imaginable. She quickly learns that despite his broad shoulders, lean torso, dark inking, and flawless features, he’s a complete and total dork. His personality consists mainly of voice impersonations and contorting his expression into an endless array of silly faces, which she takes to easily.

By the time Y/N’s amber drink has reached halfway down its container, the default touch barrier between the two has broken completely. There had been a few caresses prior, but now it’s more frequent, more noticeable, and each touch extends in time. She had been the one to initiate getting physical, which had sat so right in her stomach because that meant he was respectful and patient— definitely unlike most men in clubs. 

The mortal girl had gently shoved Harry’s chest when he’d made an nonchalant joke about how losing his swim trunks at a nude beach had been both the best and worst experience of his life, her cheeks boiling as she had felt nothing but more toned muscle beneath the cotton fabric of his top. She had gone back to tracing at his tattoos the further they got into sharing anecdotes and opinions, glancing up at him for permission in the middle of their exchange and smiling to herself when he’d nodded casually without a second thought. As the conversations continue, they both unintentionally get closer in distance to the point where the arm Harry had settled on the bar is now fully wrapped around the small of her back. She willingly leans into him, their knees and thighs brushing with every shift of their bodies and those minute moments begin to pile up their excitement.

By the time the alcohol in her possession bottoms out, she is nearly sitting in his lap, faces only a few inches apart. Y/N can’t recall half of what she had said, the subject having steered into so many different places that she couldn’t be bothered to keep track. Besides, she’s too focused on trying to keep a straight face as Harry plays footsie with her below the counter, his light yellow sneaker toying with her heeled velvet wedge. 

An important question on his behalf snaps Y/N out of her flirty stupor.

“So how do you like your new home?”

She blinks at him slowly, partially to try and give a seductive tinge to the interaction and partially because the liquor has started to truly settle in. It takes her a few heartbeats to process the inquiry. “I love it, actually. It’s a place of my own, for the first time ever. I couldn’t be happier.”

The corners of Harry’s swollen lips tick in genuine happiness on her behalf. “That sounds amazing. Congratulations on such a big step.” 

“Thank you! What about yourself? Renting anything neat?”

“Oh, I own a condo here.” He mentions casually, outlining the criss-cross pattern along the circumference of his highball glass. “I used to visit so often that I finally just decided to pull the trigger on one.”

“Look at you, investing in real estate.” She says in a teasing voice, her heel grazing around his calf slowly, cheeks sizzling as he parts his legs a bit to allow her the pleasure of traveling higher up.

“Mmhm.” Harry licks his red lips, free hand starting to trace over her own. The tips of his fingers are calloused and cold, the motion of them over her skin almost pulling a tremble out of her body. She does her best to restrain it, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. “Is it nice?” 

“Hm?”

His lips twitch in endearment at how he’s managing to make her lose her train of thought. “Your apartment, darling.”

She rests the rim of her drink on the bottom of her lip as she speaks. “It’s nothing huge or fancy, but it’s a decent size and l can call it home. Can’t get much better than that.”

Y/N loves how Harry's eyes flit to her lips for what she thinks is the billionth time tonight, his vision sketching along the curve of her cupid’s bow and dotting every peak.

Another warm glow of confidence spikes through her veins and she’s talking before she can analyze her thoughts. “Well, at least I think it can’t get much better than that. Although, I could just be biased. Could probably use an outside opinion.” 

It takes Harry a moment to register what she’s suggesting, a light blush creeping up the base of his neck as he realizes how he’s stopped so abruptly. Humans usually never get him this unnerved and it’s one of many times she’s made it happen. “An outside opinion?”

Y/N lists her head to the side. It sounds like he’s accepting the vague invitation, but she’s so anxious to mess this up that she’s second guessing herself with every passing second. However, with every touch, she wants Harry more and more, and that’s enough to propel her towards a more direct approach. “Mmhm. Like yours, maybe. Would you like to come back and see it?”

Harry pauses for a few of her heartbeats, and then bobs his head in acceptance. She can breath again. 

He finishes off the last inch or so of his tequila, a wicked grin creeping its way across his pretty, flushed mouth, long fingers carding into his loosely arranged curls. “I’m more than happy to be of service.”

A smile works its way onto Y/N’s own face at his response, her foot dropping back down his leg slowly. “I’m glad to hear.”

“Mm.” Harry takes her hand completely now and she almost moans at how much bigger his are, his rings pinching a bit, skin rough in some areas, but silky smooth in others. And strangely icy, but she enjoys it. “Shall we say goodbye to your friends first? I wouldn’t want them to worry about you.”

He knows her “friends” couldn’t care less, but he wants to be as much of a gentleman as possible. Romanticize, romanticize, romanticize.

Y/N snorts, knowing full well that they’d probably purposefully embarrass her in front of him as a joke. 

She squeezes his grasp lightly, giving him a soft smile. “You’re sweet, but it’s fine. They were actually behind you earlier, encouraging this whole thing, so I’m pretty sure they won’t mind.” 

Harry hums deep in the back of his throat and the sound melts into a cute chuckle. “I’m glad they helped, then. Think you can deliver them my thanks some other time?”

The young woman chews on the inside of her cheek at his comment, realizing that it suggests he aims on keeping her occupied for the rest of the night and well into the morning. She has to will herself not to lurch forward and kiss at his annoyingly perfect lips right then and there. “I’ll make sure to pass the message along.” 

With one last cocky simper, Harry helps her down from the stool and pays off their tab, offering her his jacket since most of her outfit is made of flimsy fabrics. Y/N takes it appreciatively, lashes fluttering when his scent envelopes her like a blanket. It’s the unique smokiness from his cologne, mixed with a slightly sweeter smell that she assumes is his shampoo, and a bit of something that reminds her of a vanilla candle. The aromas are sewn into every thread of his coat and she can’t wait to have those scents glued all over her more deliberately later tonight.  

Harry turns and plunges them into the throng of partiers, weeding through bodies with a type of determination that makes her insides twist. His arm comes up in front of him as he plows people out of the way with absolutely no regret, leaving her to throw out a few half-assed apologies in his wake. The idea that he’s excited to be alone with her has Y/N’s insides churning. 

Once they escape all of the grinding limbs and tight spaces, stumbling into the cool air of the starry night, she takes a huge gulp of air. She prays it will tide over the jitters running along the inside of her tummy. She has just now realized how riled up he’d gotten her and it’s all coming to a raging boil. 

Harry paces past the bouncer, throwing up two fingers in parting. “Later, Brock.” 

The security guard gives the young vampire a confused look, not recognizing him at all and wondering how he knows his name. 

Y/N repeats Harry’s phrase for the hell of it, squeezing his hand jestingly and he glimpses over his shoulder, grinning at her with sheer amusement and something much deeper swirling around the specks of copper in his irises. If there was a bit more light, perhaps she would have noticed the way his irises had glinted blood red instead of olive green.

She ogles at the way his back muscles shift and flex below his pastel blue shirt, her mind vaguely taking note of the light yellow detailings along the cuffs and collar. The tee is intriguing and fun and she hopes he’ll let her sleep in it after they’re done. 

She also gets distracted by the baby curls decorating the nape of his neck. She’s itching to tug at them and see what his response would be. Would he shiver in her grasp and let out a soft moan, or would he smirk darkly and tell her to go harder?

Harry suddenly halts, snapping her out of her thoughts as he presents his car. Y/N’s jaw nearly falls off. “This is yours?!”

She gawks at the vintage jet black convertible before her, feeling like she isn’t worthy of its chic presence. It looks new, shining in the street lamps like a thousand diamonds, not a scratch or dent in sight. 

Harry unlocks the passenger’s door, opening it and guiding her inside with a gentle pull at their clasped hands, shrugging his brows playfully. “Hope it’s not too shabby for your liking.”  

“Are you kidding?” The human mumbles in awe as she ducks down into the patented leather seat, running her free hand over the elegant cover. She sighs softly at the way his smell is lingering inside the vehicle, just as much as it sticks to his clothes. “I feel like I should bow to it or something.”

He laughs fully now, leaning down to get a view of her sitting prim and proper in his favorite car, looking gorgeous in her flowy silk pants, lace creme blouse, and his own clothes. He gnaws at his bottom lip to withhold a needy groan. “I think you fit right in.” 

Y/N feels warmth erupt into her face and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to distract her fingers from shaking. “Looks like I’m not the only one that’s good at stroking egos.”

“S’hardly a task. You make it easy, doll.” 

It’s the second pet name he’s called her tonight— it’s strangely vintage, same as his car— and she can’t wait to hear what others he has in store. Preferably in the form of breathy pants and broken whines.

Y/N flicks her gaze up at him through heavy lashes, attempting to stifle a sheepish smile. “Quite the charmer.”

A moment of silence suspends in the air, a light breeze filtering through Harry’s curls, swaying the jewelry around his neck as well as the earring hanging from his lobe. Harry speaks up with a type of hushed desire she hadn’t heard from him yet. “Can I kiss you?”

She blinks up at him once in mild surprise and then releases a sigh of utter relief. “Fuck, I thought you’d never ask.” 

Her hand reaches upwards outside the confines of the car, knitting into the thick fabric of his shirt and yanking him down. The second their mouths meet, it sets off a dozen fireworks in the pit of her stomach. His is softer than she had imagined, wet and warm, and his tongue carries the sourness of the tequila he’d been swishing the whole night. 

Harry’s breath hitches in his throat, and then a quiet whimpery moan streams down his tongue onto her itchy skin. “Christ, that was hot.”

As much as she loves the taste of him— the tartness of the alcohol mixed with an inherent sweetness his lips carry— she forces herself to pull away, but keeps her sweaty forehead pressed to his. “Yeah. It was.”

With one hand still gripping the car door, Harry uses his other to cup her chin lightly, guiding her into another kiss. Now that they have both developed a feel for the other, this one is less tentative than the last. She tastes so fucking good on his tongue, like strawberry syrup—probably from her lipgloss— orange bitters, and bourbon. He just has to have more of it.

A helpless gasp escapes Y/N when Harry's teeth graze against her upper lip, only nipping enough that she craves more. More of anything he has to offer. 

He pulls away and the whine that plucks her vocal chords feeds his eternal soul like nothing else has in a while.  

The young man grins at her for a moment, half in smug satisfaction, half red-faced and desperate, before carefully closing the car door and making his way to the driver’s side. He slides in with ease, shuts his own door and buckles up with a click of the belt. The simple action has never looked so attractive before, but she’s certain that anything Harry does with his ring-covered hands would be attractive.  

He fishes his keys from his front pocket, asking her where she lives in order to try and orient himself. As it turns out, she’s not too far away from his own flat. He knows exactly which condominium she’s referring to without having to even search it up— a perk of living here for a few decades.

He also chuckles to himself a bit at the fact that she hadn’t mentioned he shouldn’t drive under the influence. Vampires have an extremely high tolerance due to their self-healing properties, so the drinks he’d had only gave him a soft, warm buzz. He just finds it comical— and slightly arousing— that she’s so eager to get at him that she’d let that detail slip her mind.

Harry starts the car, but doesnt pull out of the parking spot. Instead, he glances at Y/N as a crease appears in his beautifully sculpted brows. The idea of something displeasing him bothers her, and she’s about to ask what it is when he murmurs a quick, “Just a second, dove.” He reaches across to grab her seatbelt, pulling it over her body and securing it into place on her behalf, making sure it’s nice and proper before leaning back in his seat. He doesn’t know why he cared to do it, but he had. 

The simple action leaves another layer of heat on Y/N’s cheeks. Having him bent over her like that was just a teaser of what was going to unfold later and it already has her mind spinning. She can only imagine how much of a mess he’s going to leave her when there’s no clothes restraining them.

“Thanks.” She whispers, playing with the tips of her fingers.

“No need to thank me. Just wanna keep that pretty face in one piece.” 

He plops one hand on the steering wheel as he shifts into reverse, carefully backing out of his spot. His arm ducks behind her seat, head turning and veins chiseling into his neck. It takes all of Y/N’s willpower not to lean up and begin to darken his tanned skin with hickeys. 

Harry cruises up to the exit of the club parking lot, waiting impatiently for the turn signal, digits tapping away at the leather below them. Y/N can see him throwing pained little glances at her from her peripheral vision, obviously restless to feel her skin sliding against his. Each look causes the warmth between her thighs to swell. 

She’s talking before she can stop herself, voice bashful and soft as ever, yet full of boldness from the liquor she’d consumed. “If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to do something to you that’s gonna get us both killed.”

The tapping of his fingers halts and he cranes his head to face her fully, ignoring the flashing green arrow on the stoplight before them. 

Harry reaches over the center console, his nose dragging up the length of her cheekbone, causing her to squeak out a tiny whimper at the feathery sensation. It’s the first time tonight he’s touched her so intimately. 

The sentence he grits out next makes her entire body visibly shutter, his breath hot against her ear, damp lips smearing over her jaw as his oath burns into her flesh.

“And if you say something like that to me again, I promise you I’ll pull this car over and make you eat every fucking word.” 

#harry styles x reader #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles fic #harry styles smut #harry styles series #vampire!harry #harry styles #1d fanfiction #1d fic #one direction fanfiction #one direction fic #1d smut #one direction smut #ysijwa #harry styles one shot #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles dirty fanfiction #vampire au #smut #harry styles blurbs

[heartrevoked]

i think c!awsamdude is super interesting actually!!

cw: torture, abuse/neglect || all /rp & abt the characters not ccs

there is a lot of time spent in the dsmp fandom claiming that certain characters are morally grey, and while i have my own gripes with how that phrase is often misused and overused, man i think sam really exemplifies being morally grey to a tee, and it has an interesting execution!!

he’s in such a peculiar situation, he’s head of an inescapable prison that he built from the ground up, that only houses one prisoner; an abuser that the whole server hates and wants locked up, who’s only alive because he has the power to revive people. oh yeah and that dickhead was the one whole commissioned the prison in the first place. which on it’s own is already a super interesting premise!

i personally think that sam has good intentions, he doesn’t do things out of greed, but more of a desire to keep others safe or out of a sense of duty, an obligation to his position of being the warden. he has such a strong sense of obligation to being the warden and protecting people that it can be a fault. we see this when he’s faced with the ultimate trolly problem; getting tommy out of the prison cell but with the risk of letting dream out vs making sure dream stays in and can’t hurt anyone else in the sever (he can revive people, so he’s free to murder) and he chooses the later, in the process leaving tommy stuck with his abuser, where he eventually gets beaten to death. he protected the rest of the server but at what cost.

something i’ve noticed about sam is how his actions tend to be passive. for example; not giving dream food. it’s a form or neglect which is passive abuse, a lack of meeting a physical need rather then an active action. (note: neglect is still just as bad as more active forms of abuse!! and it should be taken just as seriously, i’m only bringing it up to show a pattern of behaviour that sam displays) he doesn’t physically torture dram, but gives quackity the tools and turns a blind eye. he has a vary serious and no nonsense persona as ‘the warden’ a stark contrast to his usual friendly personality, shifting his sometimes cruel actions onto the persona, away from him as a person.

but recently there’s been a bit of a shift, ponk stole sam’s warden cards, and his response was to hunt him down, torture him and rip off his arm. we’ve always known that sam takes his warden duties extremely seriously but i don’t think any of us would have predicted that he’d chop of the arm of his close companion and valentine.

what lead to this suddenly more actively violent sam? well, we all saw how he reacted when tommy was killed because sam didn’t get hi, out of that cell, he truly failed tommy and being particularly responsible for your friends death has to have an huge effect on you mentally, especially being someone so dedicated to your duty as sam is. paired with getting used to having a separate scary persona that you associate your wrongdoings with.. and then there’s the egg that possessed him at one point (remember when he cannibalised himself??) and just the weight of being responsible for the one guy who if let out could go ona. whole torture murder spree- what i’m saying is: things have been building up and it’s all starting to take a tile and really distort sam.

sam has gone from basically switching the lever on the trolly problem to passively facilitating abuse if it will help keep others safe to chopping off his closest confidant’s arm to get back cards he needs for his duty as warden and it’s scary as fuck!! he wants to keep dream in the prison to keep the rest of the server safe but he’s come to the point where he will hurt others in order to keep everyone in the server safe and i honestly don’t know what will happen if he keeps going down this road.

and i mean sam nook is also cool so there’s that!

#can u tell i only just found this in my drafts and it was written before ponk lost his arm #uhhhhhhh it’s 3 am so if i make typos or don’t make sense that’s why #my head normally hurts discussing character’s morality because it nearly always ends in argument #but sams so interesting/complex so i’ll do it anyway #he has good intentions #and sometimes doesn’t realise he’s going about it with the wrong means #but sometimes he does #and you can tell he feels really guilty #but he continues to do stuff because at the end of the day it will help others #it’s both admirable and scary when taken to extreams #idk i haven’t *really* done a big ish analysis on dsmp yet so #i hope this dost flop #as always i’m open for debate and if u dispageee #*disagree #fell free to say ur points #dream smp #dsmp #dream smp analysis #dsmp analysis #c!awsamdude #tw torture #tw abuse #c!awsamdude analysis #awsamdude #dsmp awsamdude #character analysis #also it’s 3 am so if u see me rebloging this @ 9pm gmt it is because i’m a little proud of this and i kinda what people to see it and #- idk if anyone is really on at this hour #okay okay okay #gn! i’m exhausted

[bintadnan]

Islam and youth in the modern world

Yesterday I was feeling quite down in the dumps over something I couldn't pin down, or probably over one of those trivial things you feel guilty about worrying that are not within your power or control. Anyway, since I didn't have any lectures/classes after Dhuhr I decided to watch a few Khutbahs in order to regain my sense of optimism and I stumbled upon this particular one by Nouman Ali Khan where he exhorted people (primarily the youth) to withstand challenges and difficulties they face as Muslims in a modern world drawing from the example of the People of the Cave (Surah Kahf). And SubhanAllah, a pall of tranquillity had descended upon my heart towards the end of it and instilled a tremendous sense of self-confidence and strength that I was lacking especially on how to carry yourself when you're engulfed by non-Muslim in every social circle. He discussed how to stand tall as a Muslim and hold fast to your deen and iman during these peculiar times when filth is doing the rounds everywhere and the majority of the world is bending the rules according to their will devoid of morality or succumbing to it. While we as Muslims can still stand erect and upright rather than buckling under the pressure to not stick out. And while it might sound a tad bit cliche, all of a sudden I felt eternally grateful to Allah Subhanahu Wa Ta'ala for bestowing Islam upon us and honouring me as a Muslim, Alhamdulillah. How often do I ponder upon the fact that simply carrying a Muslim identity is the most profound blessing Allah has graced me with? That He chose to shine His guidance upon me especially considering that I used to feel inferior (for a lack of better adjective) among non-muslims and decided to just mingle with the tradition of those people for the fear of being alienated and feeling outcast? That I never did take a stand for my religion which is the biggest ni'mah and rahma my Rabb has bestowed upon this humanity? The religion which embellishes our lives in every aspect and yet I directed my concern to people's criticism? That I almost lost my conscience in the way of condoning things which my Rabb has sternly forbidden because that is the popular standpoint of the world?

I can just sum it up by claiming that I do not have to shy away from asserting my identity as a Muslim and neither do I have to bend to the tide that normalises things which are clearly displeasing to my Lord. I do not have to be reluctant to stand out as someone with a differing viewpoint even if draws the ire of the people. I do not have to fear allegiance to my deen even if it buys me the label of an “extreme” person. Adhering to the Qur'an and the Sunnah of our Rasūlullah (ﷺ) is the need of the hour even if it ruffles people's feathers. Since we're living in an era where the fitnah is so rampant and the line between morality and immortality or right and wrong is blurring, we need to unwaveringly cling to the “most trustworthy handhold” and that will suffice us, In sha Allah.

In this lecture, Nouman Ali Khan presents a beautiful metaphorical analogy (I'm just paraphrasing):

Imagine a tree with firm roots that is standing unbudgingly whose roots run deep into the earth. And then there's a deluge or flash flood and its current is carrying people and everything along with it. In this situation, you will certainly want to rescue yourself from getting carried away by the flood. So you decide to hold fast to the tree which isn't budging. And although you might face resistance and pressure and feel the grasp loosening, yet you continue to hold on to it, thereby saving yourselves from the perilous situation.

This example has got etched in my mind. The tree obviously represents the Qur'an and the sunnah of our Prophet (ﷺ) and so when something uncomfortable or unnerving befalls you and you're conflicted about your choices and preferences all you've got to do is hold tight to the guidance of Allah SWT and His messenger (ﷺ) even if you face harsh and severe resistance from all the sides in the form of people's rebuke and slander or Islamophobia. And while the rest of the world gets carried away by the deluge of ignorance or misguidance you will save yourselves from it. And nothing is greater than the force and power of the word of Allah SWT.

Lastly, I sincerely pray to my Rabb:

Ya ذو الجلالي والإكرام, in this age where the line of distinction between morality and immorality is getting conflated, I seek refuge in you from lending my solidarity to things which are displeasing to You. I request you to plant firmness in my heart, just like you endowed the heart of Musa (As) with strength, to stand up for the truth and the just despite my vulnerabilities. I ask you to never withdraw your guidance which pulled the wool off my eyes and strengthen me in this beautiful religion so that I could always hold fast to Your Word and the teachings of our Prophet ﷺ. I cherish my deen, my love for You and Rasoolullah ﷺ and his companions, my iman and this religion more than my life so, please do not deprive me of these, ya Rabbi. Please lend Your guidance to my brothers and sisters in the faith who are conflicted and undergoing tremendous pressure and mental stress due to Islamaphobia. Please uplift us in our eman so that we feel content to have been sufficed with this beautiful deen. Ameen <3

#muslims #islampost #nouman ali khan #khutbah #islamic guidance

[snek-snacc-ficc]

One Is A Genius, The Other’s Insane

Summary: Logan had seen enough of the world to know it was a horrible place, greatly in need of a competent leader. That was a job he was more than willing to fill, and so, by the age of twenty, he began his tireless work to plan the perfect scheme for world domination. Things became much more complicated, however, when Remus, his complete opposite in nearly every sense, stumbled his way into his life.

(Pssst, it's a Pinky and the Brain au)

Words: 3,177

Logan Ackeroyd couldn’t pinpoint exactly when he realized the world was a horrible place. It had been more of a gradual thing really. He studied history in school and learned of all the horrors man had committed against man throughout the thousands of years of humankind's existence. Everyday he’d watch the news and see atrocities happening across the globe in real time. When he turned sixteen, he had to get a terrible job as a fast food cashier, enduring impatient, rude customers demanding cheap food that tasted like it had been chemically manufactured (and he figured it most likely was), just so one day college would be slightly more affordable. And, perhaps worst of all, when he did reach college, he was forced to listen to pretentious English professors take the likes of Sigmund Freud seriously. Listening to an old man tell a room full of his fellow peers that Hamlet wanted to copulate with his mother was the last straw, and so, by the age of twenty, Logan Ackeroyd decided that he would take over the world. 

He wasn’t the absolute perfect choice for Earth’s ruler, he knew, but he also knew that he had an immense amount of intelligence, and a righteous moral code, and that put him above nearly every other world leader in his book. 

Unfortunately, Logan found, working to become the world’s benevolent dictator didn’t pay well, in fact it often depleted his pocket book, and so he took up a job as a middle school science teacher by day, and would dedicate his nights to working out the perfect scheme for world domination. 

It was supposed to be a secretive, solo endeavor. Involving others in his plan could get messy and chaotic, which was rather counterintuitive to his goal. Along with that, it could prove disastrous to alert others of his plans for fear it could somehow lead to interference from the authorities. It was best, he decided, to simply keep to himself with a clear mind. All of that, however, was ruined the day he met Remus.

Logan’s trip to the hardware store was meant to be quick and simple. He was working on what he thought was the verge of a breakthrough, (a prototype of a device that would allow him to brainwash the masses through the use of a high pitched sound wave), but he was missing some of the tools needed for its completion. When he turned around from the shelf he had grabbed a collection of bolts from, he was brought face to face with a man with a handlebar mustache staring at him. He was startled for a moment, but the feeling quickly gave way to annoyance.

“Excuse me,” he said, pushing past him.

“Is that blood on your sleeve?”

Logan looked down at his long sleeved polo. He hadn’t noticed the red stain on it earlier and he thought it odd that the stranger would point it out.

“I don’t believe so. There’s a stronger possibility that it’s jam.”

“You should totally lick it to find out.” 

“That would be highly uncouth,” Logan deadpanned, hoping the peculiar person would soon leave.

“It could be cool. If it is blood then you’d be like a vampire.”

Logan moved towards the check out, delving into an explanation of the definition and proper pronunciation of “uncouth.” The man continued to trail behind him, apparently satisfied with his shopping trip of a cartful of spray paint, chattering on about what seemed like disconnected nonsense. By the time he was finished with his purchase, excusing himself once again to leave, Logan was relieved to no longer be burdened with the annoying distraction.

He rushed to his lab with the missing parts once he reached home, eager to begin work on the project once more. He had little time to do so though, as right as he began the door to the room swung open. Logan jumped, grabbing a screwdriver on instinct in case he had to defend himself, and spun around to see the man from the store standing before him. 

“What?!- Why’re you-” he sputtered, completely flabbergasted.

“You left this at the checkout,” the man said, thrusting forward a plastic bag with a collection of wrenches in it. Logan hadn’t even realized he’d left it behind, but his attention had been split when he was checking out thanks to the other.

“So your first reaction was to stalk me and break into my house?!” Logan’s voice rose with anger and unease. “How did you even find where I live?”

“I followed your car.” The man said it like doing so was the most casual thing in the world. “I almost missed ya, but I caught up just in time. Lost you for a second at a stoplight though. And when I found you again your car was already in the driveway and you were gone. I tried knocking at the front door but you never answered, so I just walked in and heard you doing...whatever this is down here.”

Logan was silent, both confused and slightly disturbed that the man’s first solution had been breaking and entering, but he had little time to dwell on that. His cover was blown. His lab had been exposed to an outsider who would most certainly bring an end to his work. It had always been a concern of Logan’s, but he didn’t think he would be faced with it so soon. He kept his composure though, already theorizing which high security prison he might be thrown into. 

“Well,” he said, “I suppose now that you know of my secret you will contact the authorities. I’d rather you do it now and get it over with. My phone is right over there if you need to use it.”

The man did not move to grab it however. He remained where he was, darting his gaze around the room.

“Why would I do that?” he asked, still taking in the surroundings.

“B-Because you know of my nefarious plans now, to take over the world.” Logan gestured to the large bulletin board on the wall labeled “Plans for World Domination,” using the same tone of voice he used when re-explaining concepts to students that had been zoned out in class.

“You’re trying to take over the world?!” the other sounded ecstatic, “Woah, how?”

That hadn’t been the reaction Logan expected at all, and he still was unsure whether it was a trap of sorts or the man in question really was this...dense seemed the best way to put it. Either way, he had little left to lose. If he was going to get arrested, at least he would finally get the chance to explain his genius plan to someone beforehand. He turned back towards the device on the work desk. 

“Well if you must know, I’m working on this prototype of a device that would send out a high frequency noise to anyone within a ten thousand mile radius. Once it’s finished, I was going to hide them on numerous radio towers and implant a message within it that would brainwash everyone that heard it, allowing me to gain total control of a large number of people quite quickly and efficiently. The only problem thus far seems to be a simple yet pesky error on my part; These wires on its main control panel keep falling in the way when I try to work on it, and there's no way for me to move them all at once and simultaneously continue my work.” 

“Well I can help with that Dr. Dork-enshmirtz, here.” He moved over to the control panel, lifting up the bunches of wires that hung over it. “That better?”

Logan, though still a bit stunned, dug around in the bag the man had brought over, taking out the wrench he needed to continue where he left off. 

“My name is Logan,” he said, “but that is quite helpful, thank you…?”

“I’m Remus,” the other chirped eagerly.

“Thank you Remus.” As much as he loathed to admit it, it was fairly nice to have some sort of companionship. Being able to share just a bit of his idea already gave him a rush of excitement, despite the odd circumstances it had occurred under. And having someone to be an extra set of hands was an added bonus.

“Would it be possible for you to further offer your assistance to me?”

“Sure thing Nerdy Wolverine, as long as I get Australia privileges when you brainwash everyone. I’m gonna make a spider army.” 

The plan fell through in the end (Logan hadn’t considered how difficult it would be to travel the globe, climbing thousands of radio towers), but from that moment on Logan had Remus as his partner in justifiable crime.

---

"Heeeyyy Logie, what are we gonna do tonight?"

Logan rubbed his temples. For ninety-five nights in a row Remus had asked this same question, and every single night Logan's response was the same.

"The same thing we do every night Remus, try to take over the world."

"Ooo neat! What are we gonna do this time? More sabotaging jam companies?"

"No Remus," Logan sighed, "after last night's disaster we're lucky we aren't on some government watch list." He was most disappointed that out of all of his plans that one fell through. Creating a utopia where only Crofter's jam was consumed would have been a dream come true. But alas, he had to move on.

"Truth be told I am rather stumped as to what our next approach should be, but I'm sure with some copious amounts of effort I will come up with another brilliant idea."

"Why don't you take the night off Brainiac?" Remus asked.

"Take the night off?" Logan scoffed, "When the world still remains in the clutches of corrupt, incompetent leaders? Never. Besides, what would I do if not plot to take over the world?" 

"You could take a nap," Remus suggested, "You've got circles under your eyes so dark you could pass for a MySpace profile picture."

"While I appreciate the concern, my friend, I am quite fine. Though my sleep schedule is a bit off of an average rhythm, rest assured I have calculated a routine that keeps me functioning regularly. Though, given that you sleep a full 9 hours each day I doubt a set sleeping pattern can do much to create normal behavior." Logan muttered the last bit watching Remus grind his nails against his teeth like they were a nail-filer.

Remus halted his movement, inspecting his hand with one eye closed as he spoke. "Well then we could do something fun. We could watch this one documentary I want to see about this religious cult that made all it's followers fuck each other on a bridge and then jump off," he let out a cackled laugh, "Crazy how all that religious stuff can control people like that."

Logan scrunched his nose. "Remus, I ask that you keep your disgusting documentary drivel to yourse-" He paused for a moment, the last thing Remus said sinking in. 

"Remus, what did you just say?"

"It's crazy how all the religious junk can control people," Remus repeated, "that's partially why I gave up organized religion, in fact…" 

He trailed off but Logan wasn't listening, the gears in his head turning, formulating a new idea.

"Remus," he exclaimed, eyes lit up as he cut the other off without realizing it, "are you pondering what I'm pondering?"

"Hm, well I think so Logie," Remus said, "but I'm actually allergic to synthetic body glitter."

Logan grit his teeth, face falling. 

"You would make for wonderful evidence to prove it's possible to de-evolve, Remus. No, I was referring to the idea of preying on the population through the use of religion. If I were to somehow convince the masses that I were a god I would have the world tied around my finger; They would do anything I commanded."

"Woah, you'd be a much better god than Sky Daddy Logan," Remus said, "but how are you going to get that many people to trust you?"

"From what I've observed, most people seem to distrust claims of the supernatural due to a lack of perceivable, verified evidence," Logan said. "If I could find a way to create some sort of projection of myself to a large number of people all at once, it might be enough to convince them that I am a deity. And right here in America would be the perfect starting point, because most people here are rather gullible and severely lacking in critical thinking skills."

Remus clapped his hands together. 

"Yay! We're gonna start a nerd cult!"

---

Tireless nights were spent working to bring the plan to fruition. Logan had to work out exactly how he could create a convincing projection of himself, as well as find a power source with enough energy to fuel it. After weeks of building, planning, and re-working the contraption was finally finished and ready to be put to use. 

It was about half past ten o'clock when Remus and Logan headed out to the nearby electrical company. Its small amount of security and large source of power made it the ideal location to put his plan into motion. When they arrived and had successfully snuck through the wired fence, Logan turned to Remus.

"Here," he said, handing him a thick metal pole he had under his arm, "you use this to knock out the security guards while I hack into the security system and cameras. Try and meet me in 15 minutes."

Remus gave a two-fingered salute. 

"You got it Dorkenshmirtz."

Logan rolled his eyes at the nickname, but couldn't truly be annoyed by it. So far everything was going perfectly according to plan. Logan even found himself grinning as he made quick work of disabling the security, the flow of adrenaline making him nearly burst with excitement. Once the system was completely down, he turned tail to head to the main center. He unzipped the bag he was carrying, carefully taking out the disk-like platform he would use for the projection, and untangling the series of wires and cords to put together. To his dismay, he found that the last cord was slightly bent, most likely from being shuffled around in the bag on the trip over, and wouldn't properly plug in to the outlet without hands on assistance. The concern was quickly diminished though. Remus would be able to hold it in place while he was on the platform. Just as the thought crossed his mind the door swung open and Remus stepped in. His hair was slightly more astray than usual and a noticeable bruise was forming around his jaw, but he was smiling madly, chipper as ever.

"Did you take all of the guards out?" Logan asked.

"Yup, I bonked 'em!" Remus said, proudly. "A few of them put up a fight but I went like this," he swung the pole through the air, "BONK!"

Logan couldn't help the amused quirk of his lips. 

"Wonderful," he said, making his way towards the platform, "Everything has been put into place, except the cord over there. I need you to hold it into the outlet for this to work. Do not let go."

Remus nodded.

"Amen Sky Daddy!"

He plugged the cord in, keeping it upright and steady. Almost immediately the platform lit up with a surge of power. Logan walked towards it, nearly trembling. Finally after years of work, trying and failing and trying again, he was going to succeed. The world would finally be his to craft to his perfect, peaceful vision.

Once it was completely charged up Logan took his step onto the platform. Outside an enlarged image of himself filled the sky for miles. He cleared his throat, preparing his speech for the people, when suddenly his moment was interrupted by the sound of Remus cursing to himself as softly as he could manage. His head whipped around and to his horror he saw sparks of electricity flying from the place where the cord met the outlet, sending repeated shocks through Remus, who was struggling through the pain to keep the cord plugged in.

Remus looked to Logan, seeing him hesitate.

"Go on," he whispered, though his voice was strangled with discomfort, "I'm fine."

Logan turned back around once more, but got no further in his speech as he caught the sparks growing larger out of the corner of his eye. 

Time seemed to freeze for Logan, his head was spinning, torn between the task at hand and Remus' pained whimpers.

He'll be fine.

He'll get electrocuted and die.

It's one person vs the future of the rest of the world. This is what I've worked towards for years, and I'm going to blow it.

But he's helped so much. 

Stupid, loyal Remus with his constant screw ups, and dumb jokes, and annoying nicknames, and laughter and chatter that always rang through the house, that filled a void I didn't even notice was there before, and-

Remus cried out, his body completely jolting with an electric shock, but still he forced himself to keep hold of the cord.

"Remus let go!" Logan shouted.

"N-no, y-you-" Remus couldn't get out another word before another strong shock struck him. The surrounding wires and cords were jumping with sparks as well, and Logan caught sight of a fire starting at the floor where Remus sat slumped weakly against the wall.

"Remus!"

Without thinking twice Logan bolted from the platform, heaving Remus into his arms just as the flames began to grow and approach his body. He rushed out of the building, lungs burning from the toxic fumes of smoke that filled the air, but he didn’t slow his pace until they reached the car, the sound of sirens already blaring in the distance.

The drive home almost certainly broke the speed limit, but Logan cared little about that, glancing at Remus, unconscious but miraculously breathing, every few seconds until they reached home.

---

It was evening two days later when Remus finally awoke. He groaned, blinking his eyes open. Just as he came to, Logan walked into the room, rushing over to the bedside.

"So Logan,” Remus said, flashing a dopey smile up at him, “what do you want to do tonight?" 

Logan threw his arms around Remus' neck, the position awkward due to him being sprawled out on the bed, but neither paid any mind to it. Tears leaked out of Logan's eyes, that he tried to hold back.

"I think," he said, sniffling, "that you can choose what we do tonight Remus."

Soon after, the two were curled up on the couch, Remus' head resting on Logan's thighs. Logan sipped hot chocolate from his #1 DICK-tator mug, a Christmas gift from Remus, carding his fingers through the other's hair as a true crime documentary played on the T.V. Maybe, he thought, world domination could wait a bit when he had his whole world lying right in his lap.

---

Ah! I’m so glad I finally finished this! Think of it as my own little celebratory work to welcome in the new Animaniacs reboot.

Taglist: @bullet-tothefeels 

#sanders sides #intrulogical #logan sanders #remus sanders #intrulogical pinky and the brain au #slight angst

[witchyintention]

10 Witches Of World Mythology

Witches and witchcraft have captivated the minds of everyone: from angry villagers wondering why the women of the town were gaining a sense of independence to the average Joe wondering whether that herbal tea last night was a potion or just really bad tea. Witches have been seen as objects of wisdom and evil in folklore for many generations.

10. Kikimora

The kikimora, whose name is extremely fun to pronounce, is a household spirit who must—above all—be respected. She is the female equivalent and wife to the domovoi, or male household spirit, and her presence is always made known by wet footprints. So what makes the kikimora a witch you don’t want to cross? Well, she’s somewhat harmless, but if she is disrespected, she will whistle, break dishes, and throw things around. Unless you like all of your things broken, you’d best stay on her good side.

9. Circe

A famous character in Homer’s Odyssey, Circe was a witch who lived on an island called Aeaea. She took up a rather peculiar hobby—she would turn passing sailors into wolves and lions and all sorts of animals after drugging them. Hey, some people collect stamps, others like turning men into animals. Who are we to judge?

When Odysseus visited Aeaea, Circe turned his men into swine, but Odysseus was given a magical plant by the gods that prevented Circe from morphing him. After making Circe swear not to betray him, Odysseus and his men lived under Circe’s protection for a year before attempting to sail back to Ithaca.

8. Morgan Le Fay

Most people are vaguely familiar with the legend of King Arthur and his companion the wizard Merlin, but few of us remember a character by the name of Morgan Le Fay. In the myths, she works tirelessly with her magic to bring down the good Queen Guinevere, who banished her from the court when she was younger. She tries to betray Guinevere’s lover, Sir Lancelot, and foil the quests of King Arthur’s knights. The ultimate fate of Morgan is unknown, but she does eventually reconcile with King Arthur and brings him to Avalon after his final battle.

7. The Witch of Endor

The Witch of Endor wasn’t necessarily malevolent, but the fate she spoke of was not one to be ignored. As the story goes, King Saul went to the Witch of Endor for answers about how to defeat the Philistines. The Witch then summoned the ghost of the prophet Samuel—who didn’t tell him how to defeat the Philistines—but prophesied that he would be defeated and join his three sons in the afterlife. Saul, who is wounded the next day in the battle, kills himself out of fear. And while the Witch didn’t technically make Saul kill himself, she was certainly an accessory.

6. Jenny Greenteeth

Depending on where in England you’re from, you may know this cruel hag as Ginny, Jinny, Jeannie, or Wicked Jenny. Jenny Greenteeth was a hag who would intentionally drown the young and the old for the sheer fun of it. In some legends, she devours the children and elderly. In others, she’s just a sadist who enjoys the pain her victims go through. She’s frequently described as having a green complexion and razor-sharp teeth. As with many creepy characters from folklore, she was probably used to scare children into behaving and staying close to the water’s edge when taking an afternoon swim. But the main moral to this story is this: stay away from green river hags.

5. Chedipe

Ah, the Chedipe. What art thou: a witch, a vampire, what? Either way, she’s no pretty dame in the moonlight. The Chedipe is a woman has died during childbirth or committed suicide and is to the Indian equivalent of the succubus. She rides on a tiger in the moonlight, and when she enters a home, not a soul will wake or notice her. She then sucks the life out of each man through the toes—yes, the toes—and leaves without a trace.

4. The Weird Sisters

Shakespeare’s Macbeth is one of the Bard’s defining plays, with brilliant characters galore and a story rife with magic, betrayal, and fear. But the very first characters in the story are the ones that set everything in motion—the Weird Sisters. And yes, they are more than a little weird, but in this case “weird” means “fate,” so they are the Sisters of Fate. They act as agents of destruction and not only send Macbeth into a spiral of corruption and paranoia, they send all of Scotland to war just to take one man out of power. Now that’s evil.

3. The Bell Witch

The Bell Witch is the most famous witch in American folklore, and her story is the kind that you’d tell around a campfire. The Bell Witch was supposedly a poltergeist that appeared in the home of John Bell, Sr. in 1817. The Bell Witch would attack members of the household and frequently swear at the family, and she eventually poisoned John Bell, Sr. by leaving a bottle of poison in the guise of medicine. Remind us to burn some sage tonight.

2. Hecate

Hecate was the Greek goddess of witchcraft. She was also the goddess of witches, sorcery, poisonous plants, and a host of other witchy attributes. Hecate was the daughter of the titan Perses, and she is still worshipped by some Greek polytheists today. It is said that the very concept of a jinx came from her, and shrines to her were raised to prevent the wrath of evil demons and spirits in the Greek mythos. One of her names—Chthonia—means “of the underworld.”

So what makes her so fearsome? Well, she’s the goddess of witchcraft. If she existed, she probably wouldn’t take too kindly to Europe’s (or Salem, Massachusetts’s) ancient habit of hating and burning/killing “witches” (who were likely just the unfortunate innocent). The fact that we’ve turned witches from fearsome wise-women who could inflict pain and healing into beautiful, televised women who use magic to cheat on their exams would probably irk her slightly.

1. The Graeae/Morai

So what witches do we conclude our list with? Why the very spinners of fate, of course. The Graeae and the Morai are two separate trios of witches who understand the whims of fate, but since they are often lumped together we’ll mention them both. The Morai spun the loom of fate, and everyone’s fate was tied to their loom, even those of non-mortals.

The Graeae, on the other hand, were three malevolent sisters—kin to the Gorgons (Medusa and her two lesser-known sisters). The Graeae were not the friendliest bunch, but they did share an eye, which they passed between themselves. The Graeae also had knowledge of the unknown and of fate, but they did not control it. So which is worse—sisters to Medusa or those who could snip your string of life? We’d steer clear of both of them if we were you, dear reader.

#witchblr #witchcraft #witch community #witches #witchythings #wicca #mysterious #europe mythology #magick #learning magick #real witchcraft #witchcraft blog #witchcraft 101

[mbti-mom]

Myers Briggs Cognitive Functions (How To Figure Out Your Myers Briggs Type)

It’s been awhile since I posted on here, but I wanted to post something that would be helpful. Often on the internet I see a lot of misconceptions about the Jungian cognitive functions, so I wanted to try and create more compact summaries of the functions as Jung described them. I’m currently waiting for my WikiHow article on how to figure out your cognitive functions to get approved (if it ever will), so for now I’ll just write out what I wrote for the article here.

I also added some extra notes for beginners on the bottom if you are completely new to typology and confused about what any of this means.

Without further ado, I’ll now get into the summaries.

Introverted Feeling. Jung describes introverted feelers as 'Still waters run deep' type of people. They are quite silent and inaccessible, and can be rather difficult to understand. They often act childishly or banal, and sometimes quite melancholic. They don't tend to shine, and rather keep a type of concealed air about themselves. They don't wish to change others or affect others and don't care to impress. People see them as having a sense of indifference or coldness to their behaviors. They prefer not to be emotional, but their emotions often end up infiltrating their unconscious mind. People may see them and not think that they are feeling, but their feelings are intensive rather than extensive. They develop into their depth. When they try to express sympathy, it often looks like coldness despite their intentions, due to it doing nothing visibly. They may express their aim in inconspicuous ways, preferring to put their passions into things silently. Due to this, this type may often be drawn to the arts. This type of person may particularly draw in extraverted types of people. When they are unhealthy, they may become mischievously cruel or unscrupulous in their ambition.

Extraverted Feeling. Jung describes extraverted feelers as people who follow the guiding lines of their feeling. Their personality often adjusts to external conditions, such as the people that they are talking to. Their feelings correspond with objective situations and generalized values. They often have requirements for the people that they tend to date, and these tend to be things that can be measured on an external level. People who value this function highly often repress their logic to make room for their feelings. This does not mean that this person does not think logically at all, and they could easily think a great deal. They just prefer to use their feelings as a guideline and use their logic to back up what they feel. This type of person would be described in the phrase "I cannot think what I don't feel."  When this individual is unhealthy, they tend to become a servant to their feelings. These people may have the most obsessive and hideous thoughts during this time, which breeds even further doubt in them therefore furthering the control of emotions onto them.

Introverted Thinking. Jung describes introverted thinking types as being influenced by their subjective logical ideas. They will follow their ideas internally, seeking to understand their logic with intensity. This person may have a distinct feeling that they only matter in a negative way. They often will have an indifference to objective sources and prefer to stick to their subjective ideas. With this person, everything about them externally remains concealed. Their judgment appears cold, obstinate, arbitrary, and inconsiderate, simply because they are less interested in the objective reality than the subjective thoughts. Courtesy, amiability, and friendliness may be present in their behaviors, but they often display this with uneasiness. When it comes time for them to transplant their ideas into the world, they merely expose them and are annoyed when their ideas fail to thrive in objective reality. This person often lacks practical ability, and may even have an aversion to practical matters. If in their eyes their idea seems subjectively correct and true, it must also be in practice, and others have to bow to that truth. Hardly will they ever go out of their way to win anyone's appreciation of their ideas, especially if it be anyone of influence. At their unhealthiest, they may allow themselves to be exploited in negative ways if it means that they can continue their internal pursuit of ideas. Their convictions may become rigid and unbending, and they may become incredibly isolated and dependent on their internal world.

Extraverted Thinking. Jung describes extraverted thinkers as people whose constant aim is to bring their total life activities into relation with their intellectual conclusions. These intellectual conclusions are always oriented by objective facts or generally valid ideas. This type of person gives the deciding voice to objective reality, not only to themselves but to people around them as well. They determine good and evil through this measurement, as well as beauty and ugliness. All is right that corresponds with this formula, and all is wrong that contradicts it, and everything that is neutral to it is purely accidental. The person who refuses to obey this law is unreasonable or immoral in their eyes, and without a doubt has no conscience. Purely ethical aims may lead these individuals into critical situations, which sometimes have more than a semblance of being decided by quite other than ethical motives. These people may find themselves in deplorably compromising situations, or in dire need of rescue in this case. Their resolve to save often leads to them employing means which only tend to precipitate what they most desire to avoid. At their unhealthiest points, their desire to advance the salvation of man is so consuming that they will not shrink from any lying and dishonest means in pursuit of their ideal. They may neglect their health in pursuit of their ideals, even neglecting their family or the people that they care about. They may also become incredibly dogmatic, to a rigid extent.

Introverted Sensing. Jung describes introverted sensing as a type characterized by their peculiarities. They are an irrational type, as they are guided simply by what happens to them. They may stand out by the calmness and passivity of their demeanor, or by their rational self-control. They may have an illusory conception of reality, and in the worst-case scenario may even reach a complete inability to discriminate between reality and their subjective perception of reality. Due to their lack of knowledge of objective reality, they can often appear quite strange and odd in character due to their differing perception from objective reality. When others treat them badly, they may prefer to take a position of stubbornness and resistance than to full out aggressiveness. At their unhealthiest, they are incredibly aware of every ambiguous, gloomy, and dangerous possibility in their reality.

Extraverted Sensing. Jung describes extraverted sensing as a type characterized by their attentiveness to reality. Their sense of objective facts is extraordinarily developed. Their life is an accumulation of actual experience with concrete reality. This person does not believe themselves to be subject to sensation. They would actually ridicule that statement as being inconclusive since, from their standpoint, sensation is the concrete manifestation of life. Their aim is concrete enjoyment in objective reality, and their morality is similarly orientated. For in their eyes, true enjoyment has its own special morality, its own moderation and lawfulness, its own unselfishness and devotedness. This person may have little tendency for either reflection or commanding purpose. When they wish to create in objective reality, they do so aiming to fill their senses. They may be incredibly good at putting together aesthetics, or creating great sensational experiences. At their unhealthiest, they become crude pleasure-seekers or unscrupulous hedonists. They don't see reality as a beautiful thing anymore, but rather something to use to solely feed the endless need for new sensations. They may become incredibly jealous individuals running off of high anxiety. They may even turn morbidly primitive, or extremists in behavior.

Introverted Intuition. Jung describes introverted intuition as producing a peculiar type of person. This person may be a mystical dreamer and seer on one hand, and a fantastical crank and artist on the other. There is a general tendency of this type to confine themselves into the perceptive character of intuition. The intensification of their intuition naturally often results in an extraordinary aloofness of the individual from tangible reality, they may even be a complete enigma to their own immediate social circle. If they are an artist, they reveal extraordinary, remote things in their art. Their art may be lovely and grotesque, or whimsical and sublime. They may have visions, where they think to themselves "What does this thought mean for me and the world? What emerges from this vision for me and the world?" The pure intuitive who represses judgment will never meet this question fundamentally, because their only problem is the how of perception. They concern themselves with the meanings of their visions, and troubles less about its further aesthetic possibilities than about the possible moral effects which emerge from its intrinsic significance. At their unhealthiest, they may become quite impulsive, and struggle with unrestraint. They may also have issues talking to people about their visions, as they are often arguments without convincing reason.

Extraverted Intuition. Jung describes extraverted intuition as producing a person who is always aware where possibilities exist. They have a keen nose for things that have a promising future. They can never exist in stable, long-established conditions because they are always looking for new possibilities. Stable conditions often feel suffocating to them. They take on new subjects with extreme enthusiasm and intensity, only to abandon them cold-bloodedly and seemingly out of nowhere. As long as a possibility exists, this person feels bound to it. They have their own characteristic morality, which consists in a loyalty to their intuitive view of things. At their unhealthiest, they may rely entirely upon a perception of chance and possibilities. They may become incredibly attuned to hazards in their life. They may also become a hypochondriac as their fears and phobias increase.

What do I do now?

Order your functions. You will now need to order your functions from most used to least used. You will want to choose one thinking function, one feeling function, one sensing function, and one intuition function. Then order these based on the amount that you use each of them, from most to least.

In Jungian cognitive functions, there is a rule that each function in your stack has an opposite opposing it.

These opposing functions are thinking & feeling and sensing & intuition. Each person will have one of each function, and they can only have two introverted functions and two extraverted functions. You can't have two extraverted opposing functions, nor can you have two introverted opposing functions. You also can't have two extraverted functions paired right next to each other, or two introverted functions paired next to each other.

An example of this would be the function stack of ISTJ: They lead with introverted sensing, then their auxiliary function is extraverted thinking, then their tertiary function is introverted feeling, then finally their inferior function is extraverted intuition.

Another example is the function stack of ENFP. They lead with extraverted intuition, then their auxiliary function is introverted feeling, their tertiary function is extraverted thinking, and their inferior function is introverted sensing.

Remember that lesser valued functions will not be as apparent in your life. A high introverted thinking user may not relate to the extraverted feeling description of preferring emotion over logic, and that is to be expected. The function you value less is often suppressed for the greater function until you learn to use them in harmony.

Know the names of the cognitive functions.

Each function has a name as well as an abbreviation that is commonly used.

Introverted Feeling, also commonly referred to as Fi.

Extroverted Feeling, also commonly referred to as Fe.

Introverted Thinking, also commonly referred to as Ti.

Extroverted Thinking, also commonly referred to as Te.

Introverted Sensing, also commonly referred to as Si.

Extroverted Sensing, also commonly referred to as Se.

Introverted Intuition, also commonly referred to as Ni.

Extroverted Intuition, also commonly referred to as Ne.

The Types:

ISTJ - Si-Te-Fi-Ne

ISFJ - Si-Fe-Ti-Ne

ESTJ - Te-Si-Ne-Fi

ESFJ - Fe-Si-Ne-Ti

ISTP - Ti-Se-Ni-Fe

ISFP - Fi-Se-Ni-Te

ESTP - Se-Ti-Fe-Ni

ESFP - Se-Fi-Te-Ni

INTJ - Ni-Te-Fi-Se

INFJ - Ni-Fe-Ti-Se

ENTJ - Te-Ni-Se-Fi

ENFJ - Fe-Ni-Se-Ti

INTP - Ti-Ne-Si-Fe

INFP - Fi-Ne-Si-Te

ENTP - Ne-Ti-Fe-Si

ENFP - Ne-Fi-Te-Si

Learning how to narrow types. If you find that you have a function stack that is oddly laid out, such as Ni-Ti-Fe-Se, determine the closest likely type. In the case of those functions, the closest match would be INFJ. In the case where you relate to two extraverted functions of opposing function groups, you must determine which of the two you relate to more. For example, if you relate to both Te and Fe, try to narrow down which you think describes you better and choose the introverted function for the other one.

If you need any further help, feel free to shoot me an ask at any time.

#Myers Briggs #Myers Briggs Help #Masterpost #myers briggs masterpost #myers briggs functions #cognitive functions #jungian functions #carl jung #jungian cognitive functions #myers briggs cognitive functions #MBTI #mbti types #mbti masterpost #mbti cognitive functions #mbti functions #mbti typing #typology #personality types #personality typology #personality typing #istj #isfj #estj #esfj #intj #infj #entj #enfj #istp #isfp

[imachildprodigy]

Abuse ~ s.b ~

includes: 1.6k Words+ one swear word, parental abuse (little mentions), mistreatment, solitary confinement, practically torture, small crush, angsty, some fluff however.

summary: As Orion, Walburga, and Regulus are out on a meeting with the Dark Lord- although they never admitted it, they left Sirius locked in his room under the supervision of Kreacher. You rescue Sirius, although it's proven tricky.

You treaded through the creaky, narrow hallway briskly; peering into the ajar doors every once and a while. Your new, black Doc Martens stomped onto the tatted old, handsome green coloured rug beneath your feet; a faint trail of wet footprints trailing behind your path. The huge, glass pane windows did little to block out the harsh wind from the outrageous storm brewing outside; the wind causing the paint-chipping, old-fashioned windows to jolt forward, nearly breaking free from the restraints of the latches.

Grimmauld Twelve Place, was no different from when Orion, Walburga, and Regulus had stayed there. It was still, a dark, glum, and inconspicuous place, without the little life of the members of the Black Family. The three Blacks were out on a meeting in some unknown location; Orion and Walburga leaving their eldest son behind with the old, hunched-over house elf, Kreacher.

Kreacher was loyal to the Blacks, he always was. He would always follow his Mistress's orders and requests whenever he was required to do so, and would stop at no measures. When Walburga strictly told Kreacher that Sirius was to be kept in his room at all times, he was more than happy to oblige.

Sirius would be undoubtedly suffering from the lack of physical touch from the outside world. Although he had the little mirror which was used to be able to keep in touch with James, it wasn't enough, it wasn't the same. He longed for the physical company of his best friend; for the company of Hogwarts.

You were a pureblood yourself. The child of parents of whom are pureblood supremacists. You had an advantage in this situation. Sirius's parents adored you; them believing you went strictly with their beliefs and morals. In reality, you were no different from Sirius; not caring about blood type, and fighting for what's right.

The end of the narrow hallway lead to a broad, wide room. It was dark; with the lack of windows not allowing any sunlight into the room. There was multiple doors; assuming this is where the Black's bedrooms were. On one side of the rather wide room, there was a door with Slytherin banners hung up onto the old-fashioned door hinges. However, it was the opposite on the other side. Gryffindor banners hung up instead. It had to be Sirius's room.

At that moment, old-hunched-over Kreacher came waltzing into the room; his ugly, bulbous eyes bulging out of his head violently. "Kreacher welcomes you into the Noble House of Black! Kreacher was not expecting Mistress Y/N today," Kreacher croaked. Your lips upturned into a sweet smile. "Yes Kreacher. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about my arrival. I'm here to see Sirius," you spoke, peering down at the filthy house elf.

Kreacher thought for a moment; his face contorting in a look of discombobulation, before returning to his wrinkled, neutral face. "Kreacher thinks Mistress Black won't mind," he croaks yet once again, before turning on his stubby heels, before leading off back into the narrow hallway. Kreacher truly was a strange little thing.

Your Doc Martens treaded over towards the door, knocking on the wooden door. A faint rustle of bedsheets perhaps could have been heard through the door; before it quickly swung open. At once, you took in his dreadful appearance. His eyes which were once an enticing, extravagant cerulean blue, now darkened to a dull, boring silver gray; with added horrible purple and yellow eyebags embedded under his eyes. His once astonishingly styled hair, was now matted and tangled dreadfully.

"Y/N," Sirius croaked weakly, eyes glassy and watery. "You came," Sirius smiled delicately. At once, the raven-haired boy incased you in a tight, longing hug. Your breath hitched at the sheer tightness, yet you allowed him to hug you. He let go of you reluctantly, tears forming at the swell of his eyes.

"Oh Sirius," you coo gently, wiping away the newly formed tear with the pad of your thumb. Sirius just smiled widely once again, happiness evident on his exhausted face. "Just, come in please," he spoke, voice cracking. You obliged, following him into his bedroom.

His room was tarnished; dirty laundry thrown everywhere, parchment and quills in rather peculiar places, bedsheets and pillows, filthy dishes, candy wrappers, cigarette ash, and tear-stained tissues. Sirius's window had been boarded up well; although he has clearly made multiple attempts of escaping the treacherous establishment.

"I'm sorry for the mess. I've tried to clean up I swea-" You hush Sirius. "It doesn't matter. I don't care about this mess. For god's sake Sirius you've been locked up in your room for two whole weeks! Walburga is a horrible woman, you don't deserve any of this," you gritted, angrily. Walburga was a bitch, and everyone knew it, although no one would want to admit it; in fear of the power she possesses.

"Now, I'm here to rescue you from this torture chamber." Sirius stuttered for a moment, trying to dig to find the correct words. "But- but what about Kreacher! He could tell my mother, then my punishment could even be worse than this for Merlins sake!" You sighed knowlingly.

"Sirius, it's not just me who's trying to rescue you. The Marauders, Lily, Marlene, Mary, Dorcas, Dumbledore, and McGonagall are all in on this too. Dumbledore chose me for this mission since my parents are friends with yours, and your parents have their trust in me. Your parents trust me, although that trust is about to be broken." Your eyes flitted across the filthy room for a moment, before stepping towards the boarded up door.

"Let's get you looking presentable," you began. You treaded briskly over to Sirius's closet, looking at the long train of the ridiculous amount of trendy outfits. "I suppose you don't have an outfit for this type of mission?" You chuckled. Sirius giggled, his face lightening up instantly. You wanted to stop time, to take a photograph. Seeing Sirius's face look so alive and enlightened after a torturing two weeks was so refreshing.

You closed the closet door as Sirius changed out of his filthy clothes. During this time, you couldn't help but stare at your reflection in the mirror. You suddenly became very aware and self-conscious of your current appearance. Of how your hair was slightly ruffled and windswept; how your cheeks were embarrassingly red, and the small pimple on your cheek.

You'd developed a little crush on Sirius Black perhaps. But you couldn't help it. His strong, sharp jaw, handsome face, plump pink lips, ravishing eyes, confident personality. God, could you truly ask for a better man? The closet door swung open, and Sirius stepped out in some loose denim jeans, held up by a black leather belt, a David Bowie shirt, and a new-looking pair of leather boots with mustard yellow laces.

"I tried my best okay?" he chuckled. You laughed. You've always admired Sirius's sense of fashion; it was so in-style and trendy, yet it suited him so well. "Now, we probably don't have time to do your hair, so just tie it up." Sirius was quick to comply, grabbing an elastic hair tie and briskly throwing his locks into a bun.

Your breath hitched audibly. Sirius rarely put his hair up, and it sure was a sight to see. The pulled back hair made Sirius's handsome complexion so much more prominent; as you fought back the urge to perish in thin air. "You alright there?" Sirius asks, innocently and clueless. "Yeah" you swallowed harshly, before turning around and hiding your bashful expression.

"Let's keep on task, right." You inhaled deeply, before clutching your wand tightly and removing it from your right denim jean pocket. Pointing the wand towards the boarded up window, you took no hesitation before screaming "BOMBARDA!" At once, the wooden planks burst open at the sheer spell; exploding and landing all over Sirius's tarnished room.

The window panes of the paint-chipping, old-fashioned windows were slightly cracked at the weak corners, however the rest remained visibly fine fortunately. Walburga would hardly notice, as most of Grimmauld Twelve's place windows looked like that anyway.

The raining, stormy streets of London came into view. Thunder struck loudly somewhere nearby; as lightning illuminated the clouded sky. "Raincoats," you murmured, reaching behind to your backpack and pulling out two pairs of clear, large raincoats.

You handed Sirius one; him pulling it over himself as you did the same. At that moment, you lifted the latches of the window; opening it. Pop. Kreacher appeared. "Kreacher is alerted when Master Sirius tries to escape. Mistress Y/N, why you helping Master Sirius escape?" Kreacher croaked.

You sighed, tired and wanting to get on with the mission. "Kreacher, I've come to help Sirius escape. I know it may be weird knowing I'd do such a thing, but you must promise not to tell Walburga anything." You knew Kreacher couldn't keep a secret from his own Mistress, so you didn't know why you bothered.

"Kreacher must tell Mistress Black everything." Kreacher replied, before he left with a pop. He was going to tell Walburga. You had to act quick. At once, you began clambering down the high window, before landing on the front door step of Grimmauld Twelve Place.

Sirius landed shortly after you; Doc Marten cladded feet stomping. "Your mum is probably going to apparate here soon, so we have to go. Dumbledore told us to wait at the train station, everyone's going to be there and then James's parents are going to take us to their house for the rest of the holidays."

Sirius nodded, eager to leave. The two of you began walking down the rainy, glum streets of London together, your two figures eventually becoming smaller an smaller from the sight of Grimmauld Twelve place.

#sirius black #sirius being sirius #all the young dudes #atyd #fanfiction #fanfics #moony wormtail padfoot and prongs #remus lupin #james potter #lily evans simp #lily evans #wolfstar #marlene mckinnon #dorcas meadowes #reccs

[theyreonlynoodlesmike]

Could you do a Star x reader, star disappears every other week or so for a couple days. David gets annoyed so he follows her or one of the boys. They see Star enter the readers house, braid their hair, do makeup, nails, etc. the readers style is girl next door with some sparkling eyeshadow. At beach Star and the reader attract more attention, Star sends the reader to get drinks as she secretly drains the boys, reader has no idea. David confronts star afterward, maybe the reader should join them

Ooooh we love Star fics!!! So, since you said that she drained them, I'm assuming you want Star to be a full vampire in this fic.

If You Like Her So Much (Star x Reader, David) fic

Warning: the boys are a bit creepy in this one, slight nsfw

Word Count: 2199

David was getting beyond annoyed with the female member of their coven. He'd turned her to eventually have her, convince her to be his. She'd even accepted their life, after a few missteps and mishaps. But she'd fed. She was one of them. Convincing her should've been easy. But he couldn't do that when she kept disappearing. She was a full coven member, so David didn't see a need to keep her under his thumb. He hadn't even thought anything about it at first. At first, it'd been a single night. Then, three weeks later, she'd done it again. Now, almost every other week, she spent several days away from the cave.

The cave was supposed to be her only home. She was a runaway, and David couldn't imagine any other place she'd be able to disappear to. Especially one that she would visit night after night. So, one night, he followed her. He told the boys to trail behind him after another minute or so, so they wouldn't alert the other vampire. Usually, he'd make snide comments about her leaving. Maybe even ask her where she was off to. She'd never give him a solid answer, no matter how much he demanded. Tonight, he just let her go. He let her fly out of the cave, and then, a minute behind her, he started after her.

He hung back. He didn't want her to catch his scent. They flew through the night, the sound of the wind rushing past their ears silencing the sound of his coat flapping behind him. He watched as she approached a house, hanging back high in the sky, and she landed silently on the roof. She knocked at the window, and David saw a most peculiar sight.

You, a typical girl next door with nothing special about her besides the eyeshadow glittering her eyelids, opened the window. David heard rather than saw his brothers stop next to him in the sky. Paul seemed ready to speak, say something to interrupt the silence, but Dwayne was quick to give him a sharp look to silence him. David could see your smile from here, and he watched in growing frustration as you pulled Star closer and-

David stared. He couldn't believe his eyes. He felt his mouth go dry, and any remaining color leave his pale cheeks. Suddenly, a lot more things made sense. He watched as you pulled Star into your room, and heard a comment about, "How do you even climb up to my room anyways?" Before Stars tittering laugh danced through the air. She pulled the window closed behind her, and the night was quiet once more. The other boys seemed just as shocked as he was. David let his feet find the branches of a tree, and he gripped the branch above his head. The others fell into the very same tree. They could see, but they were shrouded in darkness. He'd heard Star laugh. Sometimes. But, as he watched the two of you sit on your bed, he realized a few things.

First, David realized Star was a lesbian. Or bisexual. Whatever. She liked women, and David was going to blame his failure at wooing her on that. Second, Star had a girlfriend. He would've laughed if it wouldn't give his spot in a nearby tree away. Marko had his thumb placed between his teeth to prevent himself from doing so as well. Third, Star seemed...happy. Star had always been a little mopey. He thought it was just her personality. Like how Paul's was to be annoying as hell. But he watched as you took her hands into yours, and began to paint her nails. He watched the look she gave you. It was one filled with complete adoration, and she graced you with a smile that she had never, not even once, given David. She asked you a question, but the boys couldn't hear through the shut window. They could only watch.

The two of you chatted, and Star talked more than she ever had with any of them. Paul made a snide comment, but he was quickly punched by the smallest in their current ranks. You blew on her nails to help dry them, and then you left the bed for only a moment. You returned with a bag, and Paul audibly groaned when he watched you pull out various types of makeup.

"Are we really going-" But Paul was quickly shushed. Yes. They were going to watch the two of you for as long as David wanted. He'd started to have just a sliver of hope. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe you weren't dating, and maybe you were just close friends. Friends could kiss from time to time, especially girls. He was so lost in thought that he almost hadn't registered you straddling her hips. David tilted his head. He watches as Star laid back and you did her makeup. The position was suggestive, but the act was...normal. He didn't have to give up hope just yet. You did her eyes, her eyebrows, dusted some pink on her cheeks, and then even put some lipstick on her lips. Silent words were passed between you, and then you laughed. Apparently, Star had made a joke. David found himself completely shocked, and then he watched you lean down to kiss her. This one wasn't nearly as short as the other, and it quickly caught all of their interest. David frowned, and quickly any thoughts of the two of you being just friends left his mind. They watched as she pulled you closer, and held you by your waist. They watched Stars hands drift under your shirt with unafraid familiarity. She traced her hands over your skin like she'd done it a million times before, and your lips locked like it was an action so practiced that neither of you had to even think about it. They saw a flash of tongue, and they could almost hear the moan that escaped her lips. You had begun palming the front of her shirt, your fingers tracing through the thin material of her tank-top. David let out a breath, and he licked his lips when he watched Star flip you over. She was between your legs, and she'd surprisingly taken control. She was eager, and they watched as one of her hands dipped underneath your pajamas shorts and how your mouth opened into a moan. Star swallowed it, and they could only see her wrist moving and the effect it had on you. They watched your chest rise and fall in quick breaths, and how you clutched at her arms. At her hair. She mouthed at your jaw and neck, but she didn't bite. She pressed open-mouthed kisses to your skin, before she was starting to lift up your shirt and reach-

David tore his eyes away and launched himself into the sky. He couldn't watch this. For his own sanity and his own loose sense of morality. Dwayne followed him just as quickly, but neither of the blondes seemed particularly happy with having to leave the sight. Marko practically had to drag Paul away, and he bitched the entire time back to the cave.

"Things were just getting good-" He started as soon as their feet hit the floor of the cave. David whipped around to send him a sharp glare, and venom laced his voice as he spat,

"Shut up." And Paul did. The command had been heavy in his tone, a rare use of his compulsion on his own coven members. Paul clammed up as if he'd never spoken a day in his life.

David was fuming. He was heartbroken, betrayed, and- Slightly aroused. He knew that was sick. David had always known he wasn't exactly the nicest man in the world. He was a killer. But he preferred not to think of himself as more perverted than he had to. He didn't want to lump himself in with Paul.

When Star returned that night, David had already commanded all of them not to breathe a single word about the events they'd seen. Star couldn't know that they knew. While neither of the blondes said a word, they both still smirked and snickered. They were making quiet jokes to eachother, and Star frowned and asked them what was so funny. They waved her away, assuring her that it was nothing. She narrowed her eyes, and David shot them a warning glare.

It had been like that for the past week. David tried to forget, as did Dwayne. But the blondes still through it was the funniest thing that had happened in a long time. It didn't help that one night Star had pulled away from them, and, while they boys were wandering, they saw you. The blondes had nearly lost all their composure, but it was quickly replaced by an almost excited gasp from both of them when Star appeared. She called your name to get your attention, and she had a wide smile on her face. David hummed. So that was your name. She had an icecream cone in each hand, and she passed one to you. You smiled and took it, quickly pecking her cheek before anyone, anyone who wasn't already watching, could notice. It was still the eighties, and you two weren't in your bedroom anymore.

You couldn't hold hands or kiss in public, even if Star looked at you as if she wanted to. It didn't take long for two pretty girls alone on the boardwalk to catch attention, and David lit a cigarette as he watched a pair of boys approach you. You politely entertained them, but it was almost annoyingly clear that neither of you were interested. When they persisted, Star said something to you. David furrowed his brows as he watched you look at her with slight concern. She gave you a reassuring look, and then you gave her a soft smile. You agreed, and then you left. Star had sent you away, and David watched as you floated through the crowd. He let out a puff of smoke, and then he nodded in your direction. Dwayne didn't need to be told. He tailed after you. Even if Star wasn't willing to tell them about you, she was still their family. And they weren't going to let her get hurt by letting you get hurt. The other three watched as Star lead them below, and David almost wanted to compliment her for how she'd grown. As a hunter and as a predator. Though, he'd have to scold her for her choice of where she left the bodies later. Under the boardwalk was never truly safe. She returned completely unchanged. She was the cleanest eater out of all of them, and she'd probably used some of their clothes to wipe whatever had spilled. She was back in your spot before you'd even returned, and you passed her a drink. You had only gotten one, and the two of you shared it as you began wandering along the boardwalk. You couldn't hold hands, but you could link arms. The pair of you looked like a couple of close friends. But the boys knew better.

That night, David had to confront her about it. Star was playing a dangerous game. To keep you unaware, but so close to her true nature was only asking for trouble. She'd end up breaking her own heart if she continued this. Not that David cared.

He decided to be nonchalant about it. Subtle.

"Make any friends tonight, Star?" He asked from his chair. Star was reading on the couch, and her eyes flicked up to his. She stared at him for a moment, before her brown eyes were quick to retreat back down to the page.

"No." She said, and David arched a brow. He blew out a puff of smoke. He'd been chain-smoking all night. He knew it was a dead giveaway, but he couldn't help it. He narrowed his eyes, and he waited. He watched Star wet her lips, and then she sighed. She closed the book. "There's this girl-"

"Your girlfriend. Y/N, isn't it?" He asked, and a sadistic part of him was delighted by how Stars eyes widened. Star opened her mouth, but not a single word came out. She didn't know what to say. That was clear. David took another drag, and then he added. "You must really like her if you kept her from us. Though, how long did you really expect that to last?" He asked, but it was mostly rhetorical. Star mumbled an answer anyways.

"Not long." She said, but David knew. She knew it couldn't be long before they found out, but she would've kept it from them for as long as possible. David could understand why. It was clear that he'd liked her. But if Star hadn't, no, couldn't feel the same then how could she tell them? She could've been rejected from her coven, expelled and left out for sunlight to fry her. David calmed all those worries with two sentences. He sounded almost bored as he said,

"You should turn her. If you like her so much."

#the lost boys #star the lost boys #the lost boys star #star x reader #the lost boys imagines #the lost boys 1987 #the lost boys david #david the lost boys

[perkwunos]

When Fichte says, ‘the ego is all’, this seems to harmonize perfectly with my thesis. But it is not that the ego is all, but the ego destroys all, and only the self-dissolving ego, the never-being ego, the – finite ego is really I. Fichte speaks of the ‘absolute’ ego, but I speak of me, the transitory ego.

… according to Feuerbach the individual can ‘only lift himself above the limits of his individuality, but not above the laws, the positive ordinances, of his species’. But the species is nothing, and, if the individual lifts himself above the limits of his individuality, this is rather the very self as an individual; he exists only in raising himself, he exists only in not remaining what he is; otherwise he would be done, dead. Man with a capital M is only an ideal, the species only something thought of. To be a man is not to realize the ideal of man, but to present oneself, the individual. It is not how I realize the generally human that needs to be my task, but how I satisfy myself. I am my species, am without norm, without law, without model, and the like. It is possible that I can make very little out of myself; but this little is everything, and is better than what I allow to be made out of me by the might of others, by the training of custom, religion, the laws, the state. … the prematurely knowing and compliant one is determined by the ‘species’, the general demands, the species is law to him. He is determined [bestimmt] by it; for what else is the species to him but his ‘destiny [Bestimmung]’, his ‘calling’? Whether I look to ‘humanity’, the species, in order to strive toward this ideal, or to God and Christ with like endeavor, where is the essential dissimilarity? At most the former is more washed-out than the latter. As the individual is the whole of nature, so he is the whole of the species too.

Max Stirner, The Ego and Its Own

Feuerbach resolves the religious essence into the human essence. But the human essence is no abstraction inherent in each single individual.

In its reality it is the ensemble of the social relations.

Karl Marx, Theses on Feuerbach

… we live in a world where other persons live too. Our acts affect them. They perceive these effects, and react upon us in consequence. Because they are living beings they make demands upon us for certain things from us. They approve and condemn—not in abstract theory but in what they do to us. The answer to the question “Why not put your hand  in the fire?” is the answer of fact. If you do your hand will be burnt. The answer to the question why acknowledge the right is of the same sort. For Right is only an abstract name for the multitude of concrete demands in action which others impress upon us, and of which we are obliged, if we would live, to take some account. Its authority is the exigency of their demands, the efficacy of their insistencies. …

… we live mentally as physically only in and because of our environment. Social pressure is but a name for the interactions which are always going on and in which we participate, living so far as we partake and dying so far as we do not. ...

… It is false that every person has a consciousness of the supreme authority of right and then misconceives it or ignores it in action. One has such a sense of the claims of social relationships as those relationships enforce in one’s desires and observations. The belief in a separate, ideal or transcendental, practically ineffectual Right is a reflex of the inadequacy with which existing institutions perform their educative office—their office in generating observation of social continuities. … A theoretical acknowledgment of the supreme authority of Right, of moral law, gets twisted into an ineffectual substitute for acts which would better the customs which now produce vague, dull, halting and evasive observation of actual social ties. … The relationships, the interactions are forever there as fact, but they acquire meaning only in the desires, judgments and purposes they awaken.

John Dewey, Human Nature and Conduct: An Introduction to Social Psychology

To be a capitalist, is to have not only a purely personal, but a social status in production. Capital is a collective product, and only by the united action of many members, nay, in the last resort, only by the united action of all members of society, can it be set in motion.

Capital is therefore not only personal; it is a social power.

When, therefore, capital is converted into common property, into the property of all members of society, personal property is not thereby transformed into social property. It is only the social character of the property that is changed. It loses its class character.

…

In bourgeois society, living labour is but a means to increase accumulated labour. In Communist society, accumulated labour is but a means to widen, to enrich, to promote the existence of the labourer.

In bourgeois society, therefore, the past dominates the present; in Communist society, the present dominates the past. In bourgeois society capital is independent and has individuality, while the living person is dependent and has no individuality.

…

In place of the old bourgeois society, with its classes and class antagonisms, we shall have an association, in which the free development of each is the condition for the free development of all.

Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, Communist Manifesto

If we consider the process of production from the point of view of the simple labour-process, the worker is related to the means of production, not in their quality as capital, but as being the mere means and material of his own purposeful productive activity. … But it is different as soon as we view the production process as a process of valorization. The means of production are at once changed into means for the absorption of the labour of others. It is no longer the worker who employs the means of production, but the means of production which employ the worker. Instead of being consumed by him as material elements of his productive activity, they consume him as the ferment necessary to their own life-process, and the life-process of capital consists solely in its own motion as self-valorizing value. … this inversion, indeed this distortion, which is peculiar to and characteristic of capitalist production, of the relation between dead labour and living labour, between value and the force that creates value …

Karl Marx, Capital, Vol. 1, Ch. 11

#max stirner #karl marx #john dewey #friedrich engels