#improper medical practice tw

[embossross]

From His Mind to Yours

Chapter 1 >> Chapter 2 >> Chapter 3

✣ Pairing: Hanma x AFAB fem!Reader

✣ Warning: 18+, minors DNI; unhealthy relationships & dark content

✣ Chapter CW: graphic torture (not of reader); murder (not of reader); very very bad therapeutic practice

✣ Story CWs: patient/doctor relationships; sex (oral, ptv, pta, etc.), degradation, torture (not of y/n), murder, discussions of suicide, trauma and abuse, and many more that I don't know yet

✣ Synopsis: Forced into therapy, Hanma expects to waste his time and yours, but you’re not about to let the chance of a high-profile and higher paying patient slip through your grasp. The fact that you’re both attracted to each other doesn’t hurt either.

✣ Word Count: ~5k

Any day now, the rainy season will end, bringing a brief respite before the humidity of summer becomes unbearable. You often think about moving to a land with a more temperate climate. A country near the equator, where you could invest in a single wardrobe that works year-round, rather than switching out the contents of your closet five times a year to accommodate the seasons.

Raindrops break through the protective barrier of your hooded cloak. When you lick your lips, you taste cold and wet.

The trip from your apartment to your office is a long one, three-quarters of an hour by train plus a nine-minute walk from the station. Plenty of time for the elements to drench and shake you. Snow in the winters proves especially brutal. Waiting at your office is a change of clothes, cosmetics, and hair product. You construct your work attire like a suit of armor. A blank slate of dry-cleaned perfection distracts from your age and makes patients respect you.

Most patients anyway.

On the train, you scan an article about the winner of last year’s Nenmatsu Jumbo. Through the lens of your phone, you read how the lucky fortunate pledges half his fortune to a shrine in Hokkaido and will spend the rest on sending his four children to private schools, lavish vacations, and a plot of farmland. The winner says he has no intentions of retirement just yet.

700 million yen. A transformative amount of money. You have run the numbers, and with about half that much saved, you would be set for life. No need to worry about disability, disaster, or devils sweeping away your years of hard work. With 350 million yen, you would finally be safe. Happy even.

Hanma Shuji is your winning lottery ticket.

The price you charge for his treatment is obscene; more importantly, if you’re successful, it will unlock a new revenue stream with the Tokyo Manji gang. Their organization must be rife with degenerates, neurotics, and depressives, all with blood money to burn. Ten years of catering to the criminal class, and you may well reach your savings goals. When you think about it at night, you fall asleep with a smile.

Your happy dreams assume, of course, that Hanma doesn’t sabotage you at the get, which is not looking promising.

He’s late.

At the office, you change out of your rain-soaked clothes, blow dry your hair, and read your case notes three times over. Your eyes stray repeatedly to the time on your phone as Hanma’s lateness makes the move from possibility to definitive reality. Arriving a few minutes late seems like Hanma’s style, and arriving fifteen minutes late as a power play might be his m.o. as well, but half an hour? He doesn’t plan to show, and you know it.

You walk to the empty reception room. There are a couple other patients on your case load right now, but you are scheduling their therapy around Hanma’s, clearing entire days just to focus on your golden goose. You even gave your receptionist the day off to ensure his privacy. An hour-long train ride here and an hour back would be for nothing if Hanma ghosts you.

Frustrated, you hover over his name in your contacts. Calling and begging him to participate in his own treatment will cede all authority you have.

While your office is disturbingly minimalist – designed to keep your most distracted patients engaged – the reception room is livened slightly by large windows that overlook central Tokyo. The rain beats against the pane thunderously, but you can still see the activity on the street below. It’s an office district, so mostly fellow professionals leaving for meetings or a working lunch. The street is more active than typical as the Samurai Blue are playing a match at the stadium, and your office block is a well-known detour to the venue. You can make out the blue jerseys as lucky fans stream toward the game and unlucky fans look for a bar to catch the match on TV.

It sparks an idea, and you press Hanma’s name before fully processing it.

“Hello, who is this?” Hanma greets, voice twisted with mockery.

He knows exactly who is calling and why. Your number is already saved in his phone. You ignore the flame it alights in your gut. Hanma likes to play games, and you can oblige that.

“The Samurai Blue are playing right now. Are you near a TV?”

“Hello to you, too. Hide has been resurrected from the dead and is giving an impromptu concert at Tokyo Tower. Are you near a radio?” Hanma says, mirroring your bizarre introduction.

“That’s funny. You’re funny,” you say, momentarily surprised into laughing before you remember you are angry with this man.

“Mmhmm,” Hanma hums. It’s a filler noise. He’s waiting for the inevitable chastisement, to see you plead for his cooperation. He will be disappointed.

“I’m not going to waste your time asking why you are late for our session or if you’re coming in. if you were a typical client, I frankly wouldn’t care. I’d bill you for the session anyway and treat myself to pork belly on your dime. But Kisaki-san has impressed the importance of working with you upon me, so I want to keep this appointment. Rather than beg for you to have mercy and come in –”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing you try,” Hanma interrupts.

A spark of memory from your last session. Standing at full height, he was mountainous, easily one of the tallest men you have ever encountered. His wide-legged stance, so much space between to settle at his feet, legs lolled out because spaces weren’t designed to contain a man of his stature. The hint of tenting, possible erection. Predator’s eyes.

You ignore him.

“How about a wager?” Silence. You think that’s a good sign, so you bully on. “If the Samurai Blue score within the next minute and a half, we keep our session today. If not, I start looking for flights out of town for when Kisaki-san sends someone knocking on my door.”

“Kind of funny to imagine it might very well be me that he sends in that eventuality, huh?” Hanma says, though it’s not funny at all. “Fine. You’ve caught my interest. Ninety seconds. They score, we meet, and you can try your psychobabble on me.”

“Perfect.”

There’s a flatscreen to entertain waiting clients, mounted above a gurgling water tank. The remote is missing, so you manually press the power button and scroll until you find the match. On the line is silence as you assume Hanma also finds the right channel.

“Starting now?” Hanma asks.

“Time it.”

You watch as the match unfolds. The Samurai Blue are already down one, and their opponent, red jerseys, have possession of the ball. Blue streaks of activity as the national team tries to defend and retrieve.

You don’t have any special affinity towards football, but only the most stubborn could avoid watching the World Cup or Olympic matches, when the radios blared the action from the open door of every convenience store or market stall. In university, most of your fellow students were men, and you would join them semi-regularly at the student bars to watch a promising match; you would call it “making an appearance.” Your boyfriend keeps up with the international leagues, catching the scores on his phone and commenting on coaching decisions without ever bothering to actually turn on a match.

This wager is a shot in the dark from a gun that may not even be loaded. You have no insider insight to guarantee Japan scores, and probability is against you.

That’s why when the center forward retrieves the ball, barreling past the center circle, your heart rises in your chest. The impossibility of it, this quick drive down the length of the field, from winger to striker and now nearing the goalpost, is a pure shot of adrenaline.

What are the odds? Are they as impossible as winning the Nenmatsu Jumbo, a New Year’s miracle?

The goalie lines up to block, and you will the striker’s attack to land. Millions may be watching, singularly concentrated on this very play, but in this moment, you are on the field. Your will is all that matters.

When the ball connects with the net, Hanma roars on the other side of the phone. He doesn’t groan in disappointment; he’s celebrating the goal. Like you, the adrenaline has drugged him. You stare at the players taking their victory lap in disbelief. Your own celebration a quiet closing of your eyes, a silent prayer.

“How’d you do it, doc?” Hanma whistles into the phone. “Did you bribe the goalie in advance?”

“Pure luck,” you say, a little breathless at how true the words are. You have never been lucky, and it stuns you. You have to will yourself back to professional reserve. “You wouldn’t have been interested enough to take me up on a wager if the odds weren’t completely stacked against me. That’s what makes it exciting.”

While the Tokyo Manji gang runs underground casinos and Mahjong parlors across the city, no one reported Hanma as a gambler. Under the right circumstances, you speculate he would thrive on gambling. The moment of tension, when both the loss and the win feel equally possible, is an adrenaline high, and the kind of thing to electrify a bored misanthrope. You did not plan to test this hunch on Hanma so early, hoping to save it for future sessions, but you are happy to see your suspicions proved accurate.

“Smart, and a coin toss wouldn’t have worked because you couldn’t trust me to be honest about the results, and I wouldn’t trust you in return. You know, you’re pretty manipulative. Are you sure you’re not a sociopath?” Hanma says. It’s the first compliment he’s spared you, followed immediately by an attack.

“If manipulating someone occasionally was all it took to meet the diagnostic requirements, everyone would qualify,” you disagree.

“That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking. Yeah, you say all these things about me being a risk-taker, unempathetic, manipulative, whatever, but am I really all that different than anyone else? In my experience, people are plenty self-serving when anything half important is on the line?” Hanma says.

Sampling bias, you think. Hanma’s line of work exposes him to society’s desperates, the people drowning beneath the weight of their previous mistakes and dying to breathe again.

“That’s a good topic of discussion for when you come in. I’d wondered what you thought about my assessment last week, especially now that you’ve had some time to process.”

“Oh, I’m not coming in,” Hanma says. You hear the slam of a car door and the beep of a lock. Now, the sound through the phone is distorted as Hanma walks through the rain to wherever he’s going that isn’t your office.

“Hanma-san, we had a deal…”

“I know that, and I won’t reneg. You can have your 90-minutes, but I never said I’d come to your office. You can come to me. I’m down by the Port. I’ll text you the address.”

“My office is in Ueno. That’s…over an hour away by train,” you say, knowing as you say it that your logistical concerns will be met with indifference.

“And I have a meeting that can’t be missed. I know, I know, self-care, put yourself first, but I think I might be a workaholic, doc. Work, work, work. They don’t even give me holidays off!” Hanma jokes.

Even as you negotiate with Hanma, you know it’s futile and start preparing to brave the elements once again. You zipper your wet clothes into a plastic bag and hang them in your closet. Your receptionist will take them for dry-cleaning when she stops by to lock up for the night.  Your raincoat hasn’t dried off from before and wets your clean clothes as you pull it on again.

“If I come to Koto-ku, will you still be there?” you challenge, imagining making the trek only for Hanma to move onto some other distraction.

“You have my word. I think it’ll be good for you to see me in action,” Hanma says.

You choose not to think about what that might mean.

“If I take the train out to Telecom Center, you need to pick me up. I’m not walking down to the port in this rain, and I doubt you want a random taxi dropping me off at your important meeting,” you say.

Reasserting some boundaries, not allowing Hanma to control the terms. It’s part of your role as therapist, but it feels seedy with him. Maybe because these power plays are standard for his job. Normally your clients are less aware of how you subtly maneuver them.

“I’ll send someone to pick you up,” Hanma concedes.

“We have a deal.”

“I love hearing you say that,” Hanma moans, and then a beep as he unceremoniously hangs up.

As the rain beats down upon your head once again on your walk to the station, you half hope a tsunami strikes the city and carries Hanma Shuji out to sea. But only half.

- - - True to his word, a yakuza decked out with a neck tattoo and everything picks you up from the station and delivers you to a warehouse by the harbor. The grey sea is frothing and angry. Here, the wind is twice as strong, tangling your hair and tripping your feet.

You enter the warehouse, off-kilter and a little afraid.

In the movies, these criminal warehouses are always empty, perfect for a drawn-out battle, but this one is in active use. Rows, stocked with packages, stretch up to the ceiling. A line of cranes sit powered off by the entrance. A couple yakuza stand off to the side, smoking and playing dice.

Your guide leads you past them to a row cleared from merchandise. Amid the narrow row are two folding chairs, in one sits Hanma, and in the other sits a man who is handcuffed and chained at ankle and wrist to his seat.

You swallow.

The bound stranger is in his thirties. He wears a satin button-up, probably a fellow yakuza or at least someone who works in the entertainment district. Freshly shaven, which means he hasn’t been hostage for longer than half a day. The man sports a black eye, but no other obvious signs of struggle.

“You made it, doc!” Hanma calls out. In contrast to his prisoner, he’s the picture of casual comfort. He sits backwards in his chair, chin propped against the backrest with plenty of room for his gargantuan legs to stretch out.

“Thanks for sending someone to pick me up,” you say primly, deciding not to rise to the bait and comment on the other man. You glance around and realize your guide has disappeared in the few seconds it took you to get your bearings. Apparently, this is Hanma’s show alone.

“I want you to meet Fujimori Hisao,” Hanma says, gesturing at the bound man. “I’m afraid I can only give you half my attention here. You can ask me your questions, but I need to ask Hisao-kun some questions of my own.”

“And if I don’t like your answers, can I do whatever you do to Fujimori-san to you, too?” you ask.

“Funny! I keep forgetting that you can be funny when you want to be,” Hanma giggles. “I promise to be completely honest in all my answers. I need to set a good example for Hisao here. Don’t want to have him thinking he can pick and choose when to answer me. Honesty is the best policy and all.”

Hanma likes to hear himself talk. Sometime during his monologue, Fujimori starts to silently weep. With his hands restrained, there is nothing to catch the tears until they streak past his chin and collect in the column of his throat.

The scene is unlike anything you’ve ever witnessed. Sometimes you hear about violence in the past tense in a clinical setting, but never before your own eyes. Criminal acts are hypotheticals to you, who has never even noticed a shoplifter in action. Your boyfriend always tells you that you’re naïve in the ways of the world. Innocence must cling to your skin, despite your best efforts to conceal it, because Hanma smells it on you, too.

The surprise reveal, the casual greeting, all of this is an act, a performance to frighten you. He wants to see you break.

You decide to get comfortable, shrugging off your coat. There is no third chair, so you lean against the shelves. You situate yourself close to Hanma. The other man is in your periphery, but you can ignore him with effort.

“May I begin, Hanma-san?”

He grunts.

“We could have scheduled for later this evening when your…appointment wrapped up. Why did you want me to see this?”

“You’re gonna cure my boredom, right? I thought you should see one of the last things that still gets me hot and going,” Hanma says.

“You’ve thought about what we discussed last session. Do you have any thoughts or questions?”

“I told Inui that I was officially a sociopath, and he said everyone already knew. Go figure,” Hanma sneers, and the other man goes deathly silent at hearing his captor self-describe as a ‘sociopath.’ “I stand by what I said on the phone though. I don’t see what’s all that different about me from your average guy. Take Fujimori-san here, he betrayed his friends, giving information on Toman to the HKJ – that’s a triad we’re in business with – and for what? Money!”

“NO! I didn’t. I swear! Hanma-san, I swear I would never –”

The way Hanma bursts from his seat is violent, knocking his chair to the ground with a clang. The way his fist connects with Fujimori’s chin is something worse than violent. Fujimori’s neck snaps back, so hard, you fear it broken, before his head falls limply forward. Frantic denials turn to drawn out moans of pain.

“Don’t lie to me!” Hanma hisses.

Your heart thunders in your chest, as if the threat is directed at you. Rather than return to his seat, Hanma prowls around Fujimori’s limp body. A victory lap or another intimidation tactic.

“People can be self-serving, especially where money is concerned. That’s not enough for a clinical diagnosis,” you say as calmly as possible. “To be diagnosed with ASPD, you need to meet additional criteria. For example, right now, I’m having a physiological reaction to seeing you punch that man. I feel for his pain and wish it would stop. A sociopath wouldn’t have that kind of empathy for someone else’s suffering.”

Hanma drops large hands onto Fujimori’s shoulders, massaging them and getting into the beaten man’s face. “You hear that Hisao-kun? She feels for your pain! It’s true that I don’t, but you should just confess and tell me who your contacts in the HKJ are, so that I don’t have to hurt you anymore.”

Before Fujimori can answer and earn Hanma’s wrath again, you forge onward, “I’d love to know more about how you feel about other people, too. Have you ever felt something you would describe as love? Does spending time with your favorite people make you happy? And while we’re at it, why are your favorite people your favorites? What makes them special.”

“You’re asking too many questions at once, doc. Rookie interrogation mistake!” Hanma chastises.

“That’s because I’m not seriously asking those questions yet. We’ll save them for another day. But I wanted to answer your question about what makes sociopaths different than the general populace, and the answer probably lies in how you’d respond to those questions,” you say. “Here is a direct question for you. In as much detail as possible, since we last met, when were you most bored?”

Hanma seriously considers the question, “Last Thursday was collection day, where all the men who report into me, bring their cash for the week. I just have to sit there, watch people count bills, and threaten to split a few heads if they come up short. No one was short this week, so I just sat there until four, then dropped the cash off with Koko. I called Kisaki, but he didn’t need me for anything. So, I decided to try one of our new nudie bars, where the girls are all pros. Nothing worse than seeing the show and finding out they’re all amateurs that can’t deliver, right? Well, I get there, have a few drinks, and as I’m looking around, I realize, I’ve already fucked every girl in the place. A real drag, right?”

You note Hanma’s verbal tick, the tacking on of ‘right’ at the end of his sentences. Is it to make you complicit in whatever vile things he says or a bid for validation? The former seems more likely.

“You never sleep with the same woman twice?” you ask.

“Where’s the fun in that, am I right?” Hanma says, giving a comradely clap to his prisoner’s arm. “Anyway, that was probably the moment, when I realized there wasn’t a girl in the place to interest me and nothing better to do with my night.”

Like you hypothesized on day one. He craves novelty.

“This is a hard question for most people to answer, but please give it a try. What does your boredom feel like in the moment? Can you find the words to describe it?”

Once again, Hanma takes the question seriously, allowing a long pause to collect his thoughts. You find it impossible to watch him as he ponders because to look at him requires you to look past Fujimori. He has regained some of his wits, mouth shaping around silent pleas for you to save him. You, this strange woman who doesn’t appear interested in torturing him, appear like a guardian angel, but there is nothing you can do. You lack the leverage with Hanma, and you would find a bullet in your skull before you finished dialing the police.

There is a sheen of sweat about Fujimori’s lip that strikes you as especially pitiful, and you look away.

“Cold,” Hanma says, at last. “It feels like that one night in winter, the coldest night of the year, when your bones freeze from the inside. Rationally, you know it’s only a few hours until the sun comes back, but instinctually, some part of you thinks, ‘this is it.’ That all you’ll ever know again is the bone deep cold and the dark.”

A phantasm of cold slices through your gut. You didn’t expect such evocative words. A high school dropout with abysmal marks to show for his public education, you didn’t expect Hanma��s intelligence, but his words move you. They are so uniquely human and familiar to the worst days of your own life.

Softening against your better judgement, you continue your line of questioning, “When I’m cold, I usually grab a jacket, an extra blanket, warm up by the kotatsu. My instinct is to do something to get warm. On Thursday, when you realized there were no girls to seduce, what did you do to warm yourself?”

“This is damn poetic what we have going here,” Hanma laughs, breaking a bit of the spell his words cast upon you. “Let me see…Thursday, I took a bump, and then decided to wander around the city. See if I stumbled on something more interesting.”

“Did the change of scenery help, or were you still bored while you walked around?”

“Still bored. I’ve been walking these streets since I was eleven,” Hanma says.

“And did you interact with any people during this walk?”

“Some juvenile delinquent bumped into me. Literally. Landed on his ass. Then, he wanted to pick a flight like it was my fault. I had to shut him down,” Hanma says and then scoffs when a fissure of concern ripples across your face. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t kill the poor kid. I just flashed a gun, so he understood I was the real deal, and suddenly it was ‘a thousand sorries, sir.’ J.D.s in my day weren’t so quick to back down, but anyway. I ended up at my tattoo parlor. My artist was working on someone else, but she kicked him out when I came in. had her do a color touch up on one of my tattoos.”

“Do you have many tattoos?” you ask, thinking Hanma would fit the profile for a tattoo addiction.

“Not by yakuza standards. Wanna see it?”

Hanma undoes the lower button of his dress shirt, rolling the material up above his abdomen. You can’t see clearly around Fujimori’s shaking frame, so Hanma releases his victim and walks closer to show you. In this suit, Hanma appears deceptively lean, but he’s filled out beneath his clothes. Clear lines cut across a chest and abdomen of defined ridges and dips. Your tongue wets your lips.

A dragon winds around his side, roaring face toward the front and tail trailing to his back. The green ink is fresh and vibrant with an undercurrent of red as the skin is still inflamed from the touch up. The work on the scales looks intricate and must have taken dozens of hours to complete. It is the only tattoo you can see on his chest.

“Pretty,” you admit. “Dragons are associated with the Tokyo Manji gang, right? Do you feel pride in being a lieutenant? Many gangs operate almost as families with people willing to commit unspeakable crimes against outsiders because they’re so invested in protecting the sense of belonging they feel with their in-group.”

“I know what you mean, and it’s what guys like Hisao here should be willing to die to protect. But, for me, not really. I feel pride in how far we’ve come. I’ve been with Kisaki since the early days, and I was part of making all this happen. And, I have a…fondness for some of the top guys, but we don’t feel like a family. I followed Kisaki all those years ago because he promised me a more interesting path than what I could picture for myself, and that’s why I’m still here,” Hanma says.

Something electric is lighting you up from your intestines. The immediate transparency that Hanma offers is not typical of clients. You sense nothing but honesty from his words. There’s a speed to your back and forth, testing your ability to think of the next question and draw connections. The mental strain plus your muted fear on behalf of Fujimoto makes you feel hyper-present, more present than you have felt in weeks as you commute between work, home, and dates with your boyfriend. You don’t want the session to end.

“You don’t feel any loyalty? But you must have had so many opportunities to betray them over the years, and you never took them,” you point out.

“The opportunity never felt worth it,” Hanma shrugs. “But speaking of loyalty! Hisao-kun, I think we’ve neglected you too long.”

Two-pronged annoyance shoots through you. Are you more upset at the promise of pain coming Fujimori’s way or how easily Hanma drops your conversation? The magnetic aura that made you feel as if it were only the two of you in the world must have been one-sided.

“Hisao, I did my research before collecting you. Unmarried, no kids that you know of, parents in good health. No loan sharks breathing down your neck or out of control gambling addiction. So, tell me, what made the money worth betraying your family? Risking your own neck for a couple million yen. If there was some big reason, maybe I could understand it, but without one…you’re hurting my feelings,” Hanma teases.

He keeps his hands tucked in his pockets, almost like sheathing a sword or holstering a gun, but you know he will be quick on the draw. Fujimori suspects as much as well, eyes darting between Hanma’s face and pocketed hands. The purple silk of his dress shirt is stained almost black with sweat at the pits.

“I swear I didn’t do it, Hanma-san. I swear!”

There is no immediate retaliation. Instead, Hanma drops to his knees in front of his captive. You stare in awe at the submissive position. Even on his knees, Hanma’s impressive height puts him at eye-level with Fujimori, who senses nothing good from this change in posture. Unconsciously, Fujimori strains against his bonds. Your fingers flex and twist as if you too were bound.

“We’re both Toman, Fujimori, and that makes us brothers in a way. We both promised we wouldn’t lie, and an oath to a brother is not something to break casually. Do not look me in the eyes and lie to me,” Hanma says lowly. He leans forward so their foreheads are touching, spectacled eyes drilled into Fujimori’s own. You can’t see their faces, just the white column of Hanma’s arched neck. “Now, tell me who was your liaison from HKJ?”

“I didn’t do i–”

Lightning fast, Hanma’s hand darts forward. The attack is soundless. Rather than a blow of force, Hanma plunges a finger straight into Fujimori’s eye. The choice is so startling that Fujimori gasps rather than screams, and then reality catches up to him and he starts to bellow.

“I can’t stand when people look me in the eye and lie,” Hanma sneers.

He stands up to his full height and wipes his hand against his pants. Eyeball juices. His pants are wet with eyeball juices.

The screaming stops. Wait, no, you see Fujimori’s mouth still open in a wail. Above it, blood stains his cheek, and above that…No, the screaming continues but you aren’t processing the sound. You are in shock and dissociating from the stimuli around you as a method of self-defense. Looking at Fujimori’s battered face is impossible, so you look at his legs instead. Panic has set in, and the man is using all of his weight to thrust up against his bonds, arcing the legs of the chair into the air and back down. It’s futile; the chains holding him are too strong.

Eventually, you look to Hanma and realize he’s been observing you the entire time. There is a smile on his face, too obvious to be anything but performative. Like when he threatened to masturbate in your office, he is looking to unsettle you. This time he has succeeded.

“You okay, sweetheart?” Hanma asks.

Even under the traumatic circumstances, there is a fierce streak within you that refuses to back down. Hanma is watching you with a sympathetic expression as fake as the blonde streaks in his hair. You don’t want to reward his bad behavior, or worse, provoke more of it.

“What did Fujimori-san do?” your voice shakes through the question.

“We’re negotiating a deal with the HKJ, big opportunity for us to expand our slice of the Meth trade. If we can secure entry through Hong Kong and replace our current suppliers, we’ll cut our costs by 5% and mark up our prices by 10%, free money. It’s a good deal for everyone involved, but that doesn’t stop greed from setting in. everyone wants to walk away with the sweetest deal. That’s why we think the HKJ will try to infiltrate Toman, plant a few moles. If they can cause a problem for us – say an unexpected police raid or losing our current supplier – they can then swoop in, play the heroes in clean up, and then demand the better cut. In general, we keep a close watch on our subordinates’ bank accounts to make sure everything is on the up and up, and an offshore account wired Hisao-kun ¥5,000,000. Payment for services rendered, perhaps?”

The last question he directs to Fujimori, who sits paralyzed in fear. Denials could lead to another outburst of violence but staying silent doesn’t bode well either. Against your better judgment, you catch a glimpse of his eye. It isn’t dislodged from the attack, but the eyeball is swollen with blood, thick like the juices of a passionfruit.

You shake your head in disbelief, like the gesture might change things.

“That’s it? One suspicious deposit in his bank account is all you have to go on? All you have to justify…this?” you gesture helplessly at Fujimori.

“Uh huh.”

“But that could be anything! Maybe a relative died and willed him some money! ¥5,000,000 is a lot, but it’s not a yakuza-only level of money!”

You know that the Tokyo Manji gang tops police wanted lists not just for their role in organized crime but their penchant for violence. It’s rare to see a yakuza gang in the news for murder these days with so many yakuza fighting to keep their government-granted legitimacy, but Toman bucks the trend. Of the top lieutenants, Hanma is the guard dog, biting any hand that would near the leaders. If Kisaki directs the madness, Hanma executes it with extreme prejudice. You know that.

But you always imagined the violence unleashed against those who had “earned it.” The triviality of Hanma’s evidence, enough to condemn a man, shocks you more than his aggression.

Hanma flings himself back into his chair and says, “Hisao-kun, did someone die and will you the money? Mind I’ll have someone verify before we leave her, and if you’re lying to me, I’ll gouge the other eye out completely and make you eat it.”

“No! No one died!” Fujimori swears quickly.

“Welp, there goes that theory. Got any others, Doc?” Hanma waits for you to answer, but you shake your head. “No? See the truth is it doesn’t matter. Hisao-kun is hiding something, or he would have explained where the money came from already. Maybe he’s not in league with the HKJ. Maybe he’s taken a bribe and not given us our cut. Maybe he’s skimming off the top. Or maybe, he’s our little rat. Regardless, he doesn’t get to keep secrets from his masters, and so here we are.”

It makes sense in a cruel way. Maintaining a criminal enterprise requires absolute silence. You sign your secrets away at the doors. The way the movies depict it, you would have thought gangs were all about freedom and rebellion against society’s rules, but really you just trade for a whole new set of restrictions and far more dire consequences. Gangs are about money. And, if someone would try to steal hundreds of millions of yen from you…you might find yourself capable of gouging into a man’s eye, too.

The way the human brain can rationalize in moments of trauma is truly remarkable.

“You said this got you hot earlier? Are you aroused by this?” you ask, slipping back into therapy-mode.

“Nah, I mean hot as in the opposite of what we were talking about earlier, with the cold boredom. Now, if your skirt rides up any further, that might get my dick up,” Hanma leers.

Startled, you find that your skirt has risen up your thighs, so the dark band at the top of your stockings peeks through. You quickly pet it down into place, and Hanma play scowls at you.

“May I sit down?” you ask meekly.

“Sure, princess,” Hanma says, standing to offer you the seat he was occupying. “But we won’t be here much longer.”

You take it gratefully. Not until you’re seated, do you realize your legs are trembling.

Hanma returns to questioning Fujimori. You watch the back of Hanma’s head as he works, tuning out the particulars. You don’t like knowing so many details about a major upcoming yakuza alliance. It could make you a target. Even without carefully listening, you realize Fujimori has confessed and is starting to share whatever intel he can, like offerings to a malevolent god that demands human sacrifice.

Your stomach growls. Your eyelids lower. In the aftermath of a trauma, your body doesn’t know what is wrong and is cycling through possibilities to fix the problem.

There is plastic-wrapped melon pan in your bag, stashed away from a visit to the convenience store earlier that day. Would Hanma mind if you have a snack?

You are about to risk it when a pop rattles your ear drums. Ears ringing, you take several moments to process Hanma turning around and tucking away a gun. Behind him, blocked from sight by Hanma’s height, Fujimori has been shot. Somehow, you know it was aimed to kill.

Hanma approaches you, continuing to block out the dead man. He grips the chair you’re seated on and spins it around, so that you’re facing away from the body. The gesture of kindness pierces through your shock. You can’t thank him though, gaping like a fish at his blank expression. A smattering of blood and a chunk of something you won’t consider have landed on his clavicle, just above his heart.

“I’m going to take a shower and then take you out to dinner. You can sit near the entrance and wait for me. My men will be outside. Nine rows to the right and twelve up to reach the exit, okay?” Hanma intones slowly, making sure you process the directions through your shock.

You nod.

Hanma walks off in the direction of Fuji– no, in the direction of the body that was Fujimori. You ought to run. Flee the scene. While he’s in the shower, you could race out of the warehouse altogether, trick his men into letting you through, and then what? It’s a two mile walk to the station, and Hanma has a car. Unless he likes a lingering shower, he will catch you. Plus, he knows where you work. You promised him a degree of professionalism, a hardened mob-therapist who could roll with the darker sides of the job. He expects you to do just that.

But dinner?

Part of you understands. The back-and-forth before he lost interest in you had been intoxicating, and you still want to return to that. Like an abuse victim, who reminisces about the early days of love bombing and will ignore the abuse that just occurred. For a few minutes there, Hanma’s attention felt like magic.

Slowly, you limp toward the exit, following Hanma’s instructions. Plenty of time to think about whether you run screaming out the door once you’re there.

Reaching the exit, you stare at the unlocked doors that represent your chance at freedom from the day’s monstrosities. From your interviews with Kisaki and other members of the Tokyo Manji gang, you know Hanma has no history of violence towards women that fell outside the basics of his job. He doesn’t rough up the working girls or ape the girlfriends of his enemies. There is no reason to expect you are the exception. He wants to scare you, yes, but if you don’t give him cause, he won’t kill you.

You can’t forget the money on the line. The life-changing, Nenmatsu Jumbo-level miracle money to which Hanma holds the key. It is your dream, and you have come too far to abandon it now.

So, you lean against the concrete block wall and wait. You have a dinner to attend.

#hanma shuji #tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers x reader smut #hanma x reader #hanma smut #tokyo rev smut #from his mind to hers #embossross masterlist #read the warnings please #torture tw #murder tw #improper medical practice tw

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Bedside Manner.

Pairing: Yan!Doctor!Gojo x Reader x Yan!Nurse!Geto (JJK).

Word Count: 2.9k.

TW: Non/Con, AFAB!Reader, Sex Toys, Could Be Read As A Geto Stayed AU But It's Funnier If You Don't, Bondage, Improper Use of Cum, A Brief Blowjob Aside, Overstimulation, Unprotected Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Slight Dom/Sub Dynamics, and Medical Malpractice.

“The patient should be waking up any second now, doctor.”

You stirred at the sound of Geto’s voice, groaning as you blinked away harsh, colorless light. The room around you came into focus slowly; your bleary eyes scanning over four blank walls and sterile titanium cabinets, only lingering momentarily on the tool-crowded trays latched onto either side of the metallic examination table you’d been laid across before moving to the doorway. Gojo was stepping across the threshold, wearing what you could only describe as a child’s idea of how a general practitioner might’ve dressed. His blindfold was gone, replaced with a pair of thin-rimmed shades he wore low on the bridge of his nose, and his uniform had been swapped out for a fitted button-up and a long, unwrinkled lab coat. An authentic-enough stethoscope had been strung around his neck, latex gloves pulled over his hands, but he hadn’t bothered to write anything on the paper held by the clipboard tucked under his arm, and his tie was left loose and undone in his collar. If you saw him in an actual hospital, you might’ve hesitated before asking to see his medical license. Might’ve.

Geto entered behind him, hands clasped behind his back and hair pulled into a loose bun. Your gaze dipped below his collar and your brain immediately short-circuited.

You couldn’t remember ever seeing a skirt that short in a… well, you couldn’t remember ever seeing a skirt that short anywhere.

Unlike Gojo, he’d clearly gotten his costume out of the darkest corner of the sketchiest store he could find. It might’ve been able to pass for a nurse’s uniform, had it not been for the fishnets stretched over his toned legs, the skin-tight skirt that ended well below his mid-thigh, the plunging neckline framed on either side by a pressed white collar. As you gawked, he caught your eye, a pointed grin tugging at the corners of his red lips. “Doctor,”he practically purred the title, bringing his hands up to Gojo’s shoulders. “It seems the patient is in a state of shock! Oh, no, what are you going to do?”

What his costume lacked, Gojo made up for with his acting. “There’s nothing to worry about.” His voice was artificially deep, his tone low and gravelly. “You’re both in good hands. I specialize in cases like this – needy young things neglected for far too long.” He clicked his tongue, flicking his glasses on top of his head. “Why don’t you prepare the patient, nurse?”

At that, your expression dropped. “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit today, guys.” You threw your legs over the side of the table, your scowl deepening as you glanced down and found that your clothes had been replaced with a nearly transparent hospital gown. Geto appeared behind you as you moved to stand, his fist curling around your wrist, but you shook him off. “Where are we? If swear, if I find out you cleared out an actual hospital for the sake of your shitty roleplay, I’ll—"

“Doctor,” Geto crooned again, “The patient seems to be hysterical. It’s driven them to delusion!”

His hands clapped over your shoulders. With that terrible grin still plastered across his lips, he slammed you down against the metal table and ignored your attempts to thrash against his hold. Gojo gasped, throwing his blank clipboard to the ground as he rushed to slap a hand over his mouth. “Their condition must be worse than we thought. If we don’t act now, we might lose them for good.”

Geto’s hold tightened. “Do you think it’s come to that, doctor?”

There was a beat of silence. Eventually, Gojo replied, “Yes. That.”

Geto let out a deep breath, his grin faltering. “The toys, Satoru.”

Immediately, he perked up, striding confidently to the foot of your bed. “Their treatment, you mean.” He reached towards one of the trays latched to your cot and, this time, you noticed that they weren’t housing tools, but an almost impressive collection of toys; bullets and wands of as many sizes and colors as you could imagine lined up in neat rows between bottles of lube and textured silicone monstrosities. After a second of thought, he chose a ribbed, hot pink rabbit vibrator, the insert just a little too big not to send a pang of dread to the pit of your stomach.

You scratched at Geto’s wrists and, when he failed to budge, let out a long, wordless scream – punctuated by a frustrated growl as you kicked toward Gojo. “If you so much as thick about touching me with that, I’ll—”

“Hysterical, like you said. If left untreated, it’ll progress into constant agitation, or worse – sexual repulsion.” He paused, slipped two gloved fingers into his mouth. A wet, slick sound filled the cramped space. By the time he pulled away, a string of spit stretched between his fingertips and his lips; only broken as his hand fell to your cunt. “Of course, proper preparation is necessary. We wouldn’t be able to call ourselves professionals if we didn’t take care of our patients, would we, nurse?”

Geto shook his head dutifully as Gojo spread the lips of your pussy apart, his haphazardly lubricated fingers thrusting into your entrance. They must’ve already done something to you in your sleep. Your body offered no resistance as he spread his fingers apart inside of you, slight discomfort turning to reluctant pleasure too quickly to be the first time they’d stretched open your body that day. He curled his fingers and you jerked against Geto’s hold, your hips bucking upward and earning a click of his tongue, a more pitying shake of his head. “Unruly patients have to be restrained.”

You opened your mouth, bracing yourself to ask what that was supposed to mean, but anything you might’ve said was replaced with a sharp whimper as his attention moved to your wrists – catching them in one hand while the other began to fiddle with something at the head of the table. You felt it more than you saw it; thick and leathery, looped once around your wrists and pulled tight, binding your hands above your head. Now freed, his own touch drifted to the collar of your gown, then lower, cupping the curves of your chest through the papery material and squeezing harshly. His thumbs swiped over your nipples while Gojo’s fingers ground against something soft and sensitive inside of you and stuck between the two of them, you shrunk into yourself, shutting your eyes as little whines and hitched moans escaped your treacherous lips.

Your pathetic resistance was met with an airy chuckle, a mouth pressed against your collarbone as Geto bent at the waist. “What a lucky little thing you are – to have such a skilled doctor looking after you.” His breath fanned over your skin and, as if to prove his point, Gojo forced another finger into your now slick-soaked cunt, pumping all three into you at a brutal, breaking pace. Bucking against him wasn’t an act of rebellion, this time, but a necessity; a choice your body made on your behalf. You didn’t want to, but you would’ve done anything to loosen the vice-tight coil in your core, the cool the pure warmth flooding through your veins. “You’ll show him how thankful you are for such thorough treatment, won’t you?”

Willing or otherwise, you would have to. You could feel your body starting to stiffen, your pussy clenching around his fingers as something deep inside of youbegan to smolder. The heel of Gojo’s palm ground against your clit and you moaned shamelessly, struggling not to clench your thighs shut as—

—as Gojo drew back, leaving you empty and quickly coming down from your near-high. There was a twinge of disappointment, but any relief your better judgement might’ve been able to summon was quickly smothered and suffocated as Gojo, color-bleached hair falling over his eyes, thrust his chosen vibrator into your vulnerable pussy and switched it on.

It wasn’t a question of when you would break, but how quickly. It only took a few seconds under the harsh vibrations being pumped into your clit, of enduring the way the bulbed insert pumped and ground against the walls of your cunt for you to crack. “Take it out,” you begged, spreading your legs involuntarily. “Take it out, turn it off, please, I—”

“That’s just your condition talking. You’re looking better already,” Geto cooed, his arm snaking around your neck and drawing you flat against the examination table. “Good patients take their treatment with a smile.”

“Helpful as always, nurse.” Gojo flattened one hand against your lower stomach, using the other to keep his vibrator in place despite your body’s convulsions. “But you don’t need to be so harsh. Look – it’s already taking effect.”

He was right. He was right and you hated him for it. You could feel yourself clenching around the length of his insert, your back threatening to arch off the examination table as you came around his toy. Climax provided no reprieve, though. Gojo only hummed, his thumb pressing into a silver button on the vibrator’s base. In an instant, the vibrations grew stronger, the aching pleasure being forced onto your body more savage. As you fought not to come undone for the second time in seconds, Gojo’s eyes flickered to Geto. “I think it’s about time we started on the patient’s medicine.”

Geto didn’t protest. He pressed a lingering kiss into the curve of your neck before straightening his back and climbing onto the examination table with you; a knee planted snuggly on either side of your head, giving you a view under his skirt too perfectly posed not to be deliberate. The costume was worse than you could’ve possibly imagined. Black garter belts hugged his muscular thighs, a stark departure in tone and style from the silken ivory panties barely covering his thick cock. He was already painfully hard – the outline of his length showing through the thin material, the tip leaking enough arousal to render both his panties and the cheap fabric of his skirt transparent.

He bent down and Gojo rose to meet him, propping one knee on the edge of the table as Geto undid his belt and shrugged down his dress pants, freeing Gojo’s cock. He let out a raspy groan as Geto’s painted lips ghosted over his flushed tip, as he ran his broad tongue running over the underside of Gojo’s cock before taking it into his mouth. You tried to look away, to focus on something that wasn’t one of them or the vibrator pulsing in your cunt, but its mechanical pattern was just jarring enough to keep you grounded in reality and they were so fucking loud, Geto’s noisy swallows and stifled moans always met with Gojo’s praise. The bright blue of his gloves stood out against Geto’s dark hair like lightning against a storm, the shape of his cock visible against the column of Geto’s throat as he swallowed Gojo down. Drool pooled at the corners of his mouth, smearing his lipstick and dripping down to his chin as he bobbed his head in-time with Gojo’s idle thrusts. As you were nudged closer to your second climax, Geto worked Gojo towards his first; his already erratic pace growing more frenzied. His eyes fell shut, Geto’s name slipping past his lips – cut short by a hitched breath as he rutted into Geto’s mouth.

You forced yourself to look away as Geto choked him through his high, but it didn’t matter. Burning white blotted out your vision as his vibrator forced you over the ledge, sending another wave of blissful agony coursing through hyper-sensitive body. It seemed to hold you in that state of euphoric paralysis for minutes – your eyes glazed over and unfocused, your legs twitching and your cunt clenching around the bulbed insert. Gojo’s airy chuckle was the only thing that stopped you from spiraling completely. The vibrator was switched off and removed unceremoniously, Geto helped down from the examination table with a muffled whine of protest. Gojo’s hands curled around your ankles, dragging you downward until your legs hung over the table’s blunt edge and Geto could position himself between your twitching thighs. Exhausted and limp, you could only shake your head and whimper as Gojo’s hands slipped under Geto’s skirt, hiking the fabric up to his waist and tearing away his panties entirely. With his chin propped on Geto’s shoulder, his hand panted on Geto’s hip, he wrapped his fist around Geto’s cock and lined his leaking tip up with your dripping entrance. Geto, with a pursed-lipped frown and eyes blown just a little too wide to sell the doe-like innocence he was aiming for, paid Gojo a hesitant glance, but Gojo clicked his tongue, pressing his chest into Geto’s back with the practiced steadiness of a decade-long mentor. “Don’t be shy, nurse.” He slotted his lip against Geto’s ass. “Someone’s still waiting for their medicine.”

His assurance was kind, but unnecessary; Geto couldn’t play coy for very long. Wordlessly, he thrust into you, bottoming out in a single stroke.

Gojo was still there, providing a steadying hand, but what little self-restraint Geto had snapped the moment he felt your cunt clamp around him. While you recoiled, your body attempting to escape his hostile affection before your mind could realize it was futile, he groaned and lurched into you, never satisfied unless he could be buried as deeply inside of you as possible. A hand shot up – taking hold of your jaw and prying your grit teeth apart as his mouth crashed into yours. The kiss was open-mouthed and rough, his tongue lashing out to force something warm and bitter into your mouth. You begged yourself not to put a name to the substance he was practically tongue-fucking down your throat, but tears still managed to blur your hazy vision, overstimulation and humiliation turning every sensation sharp and invasive. What was left of your limited strength was poured into writhing and thrashing underneath him, but that only seemed to spur Geto on, to let him fuck into your cunt with that much more force, to make the sound of his skin slapping against yours that much more unbearable. Gojo didn’t help, but he didn’t stop him, either. He kept his hands on Geto’s waist, kept that shit-eating grin plastered across his lips as he watched Geto fuck into you like a wild animal, let out of its cage for the very first time.

Your third and last climax was almost pathetically weak; your body wrung dry and your nerves burnt to nothing. Your final moan came out hoarse and stunted, your form going limp underneath him, and yet, it was enough to tip Geto over the edge, to leave him grunting as he pressed his hips flush to yours and filled your cunt with something so, so much worse than the stale cum he made you swallow. At least that, you’d been able to ignore, to reject. The feeling of pure heat dripping down the inside of your thighs as he stilled against you wasn’t as easy to block out.

He lingered on top of you, his breath ragged and his face buried in the side of your neck. Gojo was the one to break the stillness, predictably, letting out a pitchy whine as he threw himself onto fGeto. “You looked so hot.” He drew the final word out for a second too long, his voice cracking on the final note. “You looked hot and I couldn’t say anything because I had to stay in character but all I wanted to do was put my di—"

“Later, Satoru.” With a groan, Geto straightened his back, taking Gojo with him as he pried himself away from you. The leather strap around your wrists was pulled loose, and he helped you sit up-right, your legs still dangling over the side of the examination table. His cum stained the inside of your thighs, the hospital gown they’d dressed you in hanging wrinkled and ragged from your shoulders. Geto let out a soft coo as he looked over you, his acting only slightly more believable than it’d been a few minutes ago. “I’ll get you cleaned up while Satoru takes care of mess. We’ll get you back home after that, alright?”

You let your head lull forward. It was your turn to bury your face in his chest, now, to huff as Gojo changed tactics – positioning himself behind you and nuzzling into the nape of your neck. “I hate you two.” You spared a fleeting glance to either side. “Where are we? This doesn’t look like any of Shoko’s labs.”

A beat of silence lapsed between the two of them. Finally, Gojo chimed in. “That would’ve saved us a lot of time, huh, Suguru?”

Immediately, you stiffened. “This cannot be a real—”

Geto pressed a kiss into your forehead. “It’s nothing worth worrying your pretty little head over, sweetheart.”

“There’s not even a law for—”

“Doctor,” Geto called, speaking over you. “Your patient’s getting riled up, again.”

You jolted, but didn’t have time to get away. Gojo was already pressing himself against you, his hand slipping between your thighs as his grin bit into the side of your throat.

“You can leave this one to me, nurse.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere oneshot #yandere jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk imagines #yandere jjk #jujutsu kaisen imagines #yandere gojo satoru #yandere geto suguru #gojo x reader #geto x reader #nurse geto #doctor gojo #yanderecore #yancore

[lirusstories]

Egotober: Hoodie

Tw: Improper binding, eludements to abuse, Don't trust strangers kids

Jackie starts wearing hoodies when he's 13 and... changing, he doesn't like the change, it makes him feel weird gross and wanting to crawl out of his own skin.

He keeps his hair in a ponytail and under his hood and hopes people don't notice. They notice. He cuts his hair and can't preform for a week.

Jackie grows out of his hoodie when he's 14 and has to... borrow a new one from the lost and found. His adopters scrunch their noses at it but don't say anything until it "mysteriously" disappears from one of his suitcases. 

He's heartbroken and every time he looks in the mirror he wants to peel his skin off. He sneaks into their medics tent and steals some ace bandages and wraps his chest flat. He struggles to breathe but it's more comfortable than having to feel the flaps of fat on his chest.

He takes them off for practice and pretends to not notice the bruises. 

Jackie's 15 and a half when he meets a man passing through the same town as his family. He meets him outside a convince store and the man offers to help him out upon seeing the ace bandages poorly hidden beneath his tank top. 

Jackie is 15 and a half when he gets his first binder, it's lightly used but it's the only one that fits him. He doesn't care. It's bright green, one of his favorite colors. 

The man gets him a hoodie too, a large one that he'll have to grow into but he loves it nonetheless, the red is a comforting color, it makes him feel safe and he nearly cries when he puts it on. The Man offers to get him his hair cut as well, he turns it down as he remembers the last time he cut it.

He doesn't see the way the man frowns as he sees the fear on his face and merely buys him some more clothes as well and a few pieces of candy for the road before Jackie asks him why he helped him.

His heart flutters happily when hearing that the man's husband had a rough childhood because of him being a male when people choose to view him as something he wasn't just because of "Silly little Body Parts". It's nice to know that other people like him. He suppresses a laugh at the man's phrasing though.

The man leaves him with a card with his number on it and tells him to call him if he needs anything.

Jackie is 16 when he runs away. He gives himself a near buzz cut before running after a particularly bad practice session. He toys with the thought of calling before deciding against him.

Jackie's 19 when he meets one of his brothers for the first time since they were children. He has a noticeably different accent but it's him. The only thing that could surpass the joy of his brother remembering and recognizing him as his brother is if all of his brothers suddenly showed up and did the same thing.

Jackie's 20 when he starts taking hormones, his brother doesn't ask where he gets them and he doesn't tell.

He's 24 when he starts growing facial hair, when he notices, he flaps his hands so hard he ends up smacking himself in the face. He lets Henrik laugh at him while he hands Jackie the Tylenol.

Jackie is 25 when he becomes a vigilante, Henrik finds out it's him pretty quickly and hits him over the head with a rolled up magazine for doing something so strenuous with his binder on. He promises not to do it again and keeps his hoodie on whenever he goes out to burn some people.

Jackie is 26 when he gets top surgery, he's not allowed to go out for almost three months because of Henrik's fretting. 

Jackie is finally able to start going out again just in time for June. He decides for the first day of patrol back, he'll wear his pride flag like a cape.

Standing atop the tallest sky scrapper in the city, he breathes. For the first time in years, he feels... hopeful. Good things are coming and will continue to come, he knows it. He's slowly getting better, feeling more and more like himself, every time he looks in the mirror he doesn't feel like it's a stranger looking back at them.

He's happy, he has one of his brothers here with him, and they're working on finding the others, and he knows, he just knows it, that everything will be okay.

Tags:

@malaboos-bodacious-blog @glitchyartist @immabethehero @protectjj

#jackieboyman #egotober2022 #Janus Sanders #yes that is the strange man #henrik von schneeplestein #jse headcanon #jse fanfic #jse egos fanfic #jse egos #jse henrik #jackieboy man #Trans!Jackie rights #no you can not tell me differently #our stuff

[cozy-the-overlord]

Dances and Daggers

Summary:   The Summer Festival is upon Asgard, as is the tradition of the dagger ceremony, where each unmarried gentleman chooses a lady to bestow with the honor of carrying his dagger for the night. As Prince Thor’s betrothed, Teki’s only goal is to accept his dagger with grace and hope that her violent stepfather doesn’t find fault with her in the process. But Prince Thor is unpredictable, and when he ignores his engagement on a whim Teki finds herself in a desperate situation. Luckily, Thor isn’t the only prince in Asgard…

Pairing: Loki x Original Female Character

Chapter 11: The Games

Previous Chapter  |  Next Chapter

Word Count: 2,322

Chapter Summary: The long-anticipated Summer Games have arrived.

A/N:  This is probably my favorite chapter in this story and I'm really excited to post it. I got some bad news yesterday and have kind of been in a weird headspace ever since, so this has really been giving me something positive to look forward to. Seeing your likes and comments really make my day every week :) 

I hope you enjoy it, and as always, thank you so much for reading!

TW: Violence, child abuse

Tags: @lucywrites02 @gaitwae @moumouton4 

if you want to be tagged, feel free to just send me an ask/message! :)

Read it on Ao3!

The first day of the Games arrived in all its vicious glory. Feasts, festivities, toasts, the clinking of mugs and the cheering of names—it seemed the whole of Asgard was gathered about the arena, the usual level of pandemonium descending upon the crowd as each warrior was introduced.

Teki sat stiff as a board in her seat, hands properly clasped in her lap as she stared straight ahead, unblinking. The swelling by her temple hadn’t completely gone down, but her mother had been able to manipulate a loose hairstyle that mostly hid it from view. While that worked seemingly well, Teki was afraid to move the wrong way, lest her hair shift and reveal her injuries. Even clapping seemed dangerous.

The princes were soon called forward as well, raucous applause erupting across the masses as Thor, the three-time defending champion, leapt with a bow and a winning smile. Loki’s name was somewhat lost in the ensuing chaos.

Teki was careful to keep her face neutral. She didn’t know where Osvald was seated, but wherever he was chances were high that he had a good view of her atop the royal platform next to Frigga. She knew he’d be watching her for any kind of improper reaction. She was determined not to give him one.

Besides her, the Queen clapped halfheartedly for her sons. Teki was rather surprised at her lack of enthusiasm. Shouldn’t a mother be more unhampered in her support? But Frigga’s brow was creased with worry. Teki gazed at the boys choosing their weapons alongside the other fighters—swords, knives, axes. She wondered if she’d be able to clap if Brant was in the arena.

The first day was dedicated to contests and non-confrontational competitions—archery, footraces, axe-tossing. Supposedly, this was the less violent segment of the Games, although the words “less violent” and “the Games” didn’t really match up. Inevitably, a judge made a bad call, the affronted contestant sprang up in insulted frustration, and then suddenly everyone in the arena was shouting at the top of their lungs and throwing each other to the ground. These brawls were a staple of the Games, and more often than not Thor was one of the first to start them, so King Odin usually let them go on for a bit before silencing everyone with a clang of his spear.

Teki tried to watch with the diligence expected of future royalty, but the summer heat worsened her headache and stifled her attentiveness, sending little beads of sweat dripping down her face and irritating her bruised skin. At least the royal platform was shielded from the sun—she felt bad for the people huddled around the ring with no cover whatsoever. Still, it was far too hot to properly follow anything.

The only time the competition truly held her attention was during the knife throwing, although she was ashamed to admit why. Loki dominated the event like it was his life’s calling. His movements were almost feline, cutting through the air as if he were a blade himself, carrying a kind of fluidity that even the veteran participants lacked. Teki didn’t think he missed a single throw. When the judges crowned him winner, she couldn’t resist her tiny grin.

It made her think of the gold-hilted dagger wedged beneath her mattress along with her father’s journal. She found herself fantasizing about wearing it to the Games, sitting here in her seat with Loki’s blade at her waist. Lots of women did something like that—wearing their warrior’s weapon of choice to show solidarity with him during the tournament. She imagined how Loki would react, if he looked up at the podium and saw her wearing his dagger. She wondered if his face would light up the way it did when she came to watch him practice …

The trumpets blared, announcing the next event. Teki shook herself from the daydream. What was she thinking? She was betrothed to Prince Thor, destined to be his Queen. She couldn’t allow her thoughts to wander elsewhere. The next group trooped into the arena. Teki only sunk lower in her seat.

One-on-one duels began the following day. This was what everyone had been waiting for. The crowd was absolutely feral as the order was announced. Most of the people were foreign to Teki, but her ears perked up at a few familiar names: Loki would be fighting towards the beginning, against another novice combatant. Thor was going against a hulking man from Vanaheim. Fandral was paired against another one of Thor’s friends: the slender, controlled warrior who preferred a spiked mace to a sword and whom Teki had rarely seen lose.

Good, she thought as the two shook hands, I hope he kicks your butt.

Again, she found herself struggling to stay focused throughout the duels between people she didn’t recognize. The first one ended when one of the men yielded. The second went through until the loser was knocked to the dirt, unconscious and bleeding. The third went on so long that by the time a winner was called the crowd had almost completely lost interest.

But then it was Loki’s turn. Teki perked up when he arrived in the field with a slight bow, adjusting his golden breastplate as he did. He met her gaze when he turned to the platform, his impassible expression relaxing a moment when he saw her smiling.

His opponent bowed as well. He was a crazed looking thing, wisps of his wildfire hair curling past his neck like a lion’s mane. His name was Geirr, and while the master of ceremonies said he was the same age as Loki, Teki was certain he looked a bit older.

The two boys took their stances in the arena with their staffs. Teki swallowed. She wished Loki could use his daggers. The games were set up in a series of rounds, with the winners of each duel going on to fight each other in the next. They changed the weapons each time: round one was quarterstaff, round two was sword, round three was axe, and so on until the final round, where the last two warriors used their weapon of choice. While Teki knew well that Loki was more than capable with the weighted staffs, nothing could compare to his deadliness with his daggers.

At the sound of the trumpet, Geirr was quick to jump to the offensive.  He leapt forward with several well-aimed stabbing motions that Loki deftly avoided. He blocked another swing and attempted a hit of his own, grazing Geirr’s torso before the red-haired boy pushed him back.

It was a very even match. The two chased each other into every corner of the arena, each sharp clap of their staffs meeting echoing across the thrumming crowd like thunder. Teki found herself leaning forward in her seat. At moments, Loki seemed just on the edge of victory. He got the first hit, smacking his opponent against his ribcage and causing him to double over in pain. The crowd cheered, but then Geirr was on his feet again and rushing at the prince, and once more Loki was on the defensive.

Teki’s chest hurt from holding her breath. Come on. Loki was right on top of him, landing blows on his shoulder, his hip. Geirr was struggling to stay on his feet. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands. So close. Come on—

Geirr feinted to the right. It was a sudden jerk that caught Teki off guard, and she inhaled so sharply it stung.

It seemed to catch Loki off guard too. When he moved to block, Geirr whipped the other end of the staff around from the left. It collided with the prince’s face with a sickening crack. Her hands flew to her mouth, muffling her gasp. Loki fell backwards. For a moment, the crowd was silent.

Loki didn’t move.

The master of ceremonies rushed into the arena, raising Geirr’s hand. “The winner! Geirr Alfrson!” The people erupted into cheers.

Teki barely heard them. Loki was still on the ground, flocked by individuals in the blue robes of the healing ward. Was that blood on his face? She stared at them with a knitted brow. Was he unconcious? How hard of a blow must it have been to knock him unconscious? The healers were caring him out of the fighting area on a pallet of some sort. He still hadn’t moved.

Frigga was already on her feet, rushing down the stairs to the medical tents set up just outside the crowd. For once, she didn’t think of Osvald. Teki hurried to follow her.

The Queen stopped at the entrance to the white tent, speaking in hushed tones with one of the healing women. Teki slipped past them, seemingly without notice.

Inside, Loki was awake, and Teki exhaled in relief. He was sitting up on a cot as another woman in blue held a blood-soaked cloth to his nose.

“How are you feeling now?” she was asking.

He shrugged. “Fine.”

“Any lightheadedness?”

“Not really.”

“Very well.” The woman stood, patting him gently on the knee. “It was a simple heal. You should be able to rejoin the festival without issue when you feel ready.” With that, she exited the tent, nodding slightly as she passed Teki on the way out.

Loki heaved a sigh, cradling his head in his hands. Teki approached him slowly, kneeling at his side.

“Hey,” she asked quietly. “Are you all right?”

He glanced up quickly. Once he saw that it was only her, he relaxed a bit.

“I’m fine.” He huffed bitterly. “I could’ve taken him. Easily. One quick illusion, and he never would’ve seen it coming.” She jumped when he smacked the mattress. “I thought maybe—for once in my life—”

 He was crying, Teki realized with a start. Tears pooled in the corners of his eyes, dangerously close to spilling over. She didn’t know what to say.

“You did wonderfully,” she murmured. “There’s no reason to be ashamed. He just got a lucky hit—”

“There shouldn’t have been a lucky hit!” There was something dark in his face, something Teki had never seen there before. It scared her. He scowled. “Thor wouldn’t have let him get a lucky hit.”

“But—you can do things Thor can only dream of,” Teki pointed out. Where was this coming from? “Like the liquid light, with Brant—”

Loki laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “That doesn’t matter! It’s just a trick, nothing but a trick. Tricks don’t win the day. Father wants real warriors, not childish pranks.”

“You are a real warrior!” she insisted. “You won the knife toss yesterday, and you still did really well today—”

“You don’t understand!” he cried. “It’s not enough! It’s never enough.”

He fell forward, covering his eyes with his hand. His body shook with barely restrained sobs. Teki’s heart was breaking. She reached out hesitantly, fingers brushing against his shoulder. When he didn’t flinch away, she moved closer. Loosely, giving him plenty of room to pull away if he wanted to, she eased the prince into an embrace.

At first, he stiffened, and Teki almost made to let him go, but then his arms encircled her torso, gripping her as if she were his only anchor to land. She held him tighter in return.

And with that, the dam broke. Loki sobbed into her shoulder openly, unabashedly, no longer attempting to keep up appearances. Teki didn’t say anything. She had never been very good at comforting people, never really knew how. All she could do was rub his back and let him cry.

She wasn’t sure how long it went on for. Eventually, Loki stopped, pulling away to wipe at his eyes with the heel of his hand. He kept his head down, seemingly ashamed to meet her gaze.

“Forgive me,” he murmured hoarsely.

She frowned. “For what?”

“It’s—” His voice caught in the back of his throat “Pathetic. Selfish, to complain. Forgive me.”

“No it’s not.” Teki reached out to push his chin up so he’d look at her. Still, he avoided her eyes. “How is it selfish?” Norns know how many times he’s put up with my tears.

“I just—” He shook his head. “Here I am, whining to you about my gripes with my father, when you—when you’re suffering through conditions I can’t even imagine.” His fingers brushed against her temple, just barely running across the swelling. Now it was her turn to face the floor in shame. He had noticed. Of course he had.

“It’s so selfish…” he repeated, his voice so soft it seemed to be coming from somewhere else.

“No,” she whispered. She turned back to him, hoping the determined sincerity came across in her expression. “You always can complain. Anytime. I’ll always listen. You’re not selfish.”

He stared at her, his eyes tired and swollen. His hand traced her profile, down from her temple to cup her cheek. She shivered.

“But I am,” he said finally, almost too quiet to hear. “Because I don’t want you to marry my brother. And the reason is entirely selfish.”

Teki’s heart stuttered to a halt. What? Her mouth fell open, but no words came out. What should she say to that? What could she say to that?

Just then, the tent flap pushed open. Loki stiffened, pulling away from her immediately. Twisting around, Teki found herself melting under the iron gaze of Odin AllFather. Frigga stood not far behind. She felt the color drain from her face.

For a moment, they just stared at her. Teki quickly scrambled to her feet, burning (she had been kneeling, how must that have looked?).

“Your Majesties,” she faltered, somehow managing to sink into a clumsy curtsey. “If—if you’ll excuse me.” And with that, without waiting for a response, she fled from the tent.

#dances and daggers #loki marvel #loki fanfic #loki x ofc #dances and daggers chapter 11 #the games #cozy writes

[disgraceddogstar]

Sirius Orion Black III

birthday: november 3rd house: gryffindor blood status: pureblood loyalty: order of the phoenix clubs: astronomy, astronomy homework, dueling zodiac: scorpio mbti: enfp-t (campaigner) alignment: chaotic good

✓ Humor ——- “Did you like question ten, Moony?”

He is barking laughter and poorly timed jokes, puns upon puns - seriously. A grin as wide as the day is long, carefree and easy. Light in the black of war; white sheep in the Black family. His good humor has covered him and carried him through all that he’s seen. It’s as much a shield for himself as it is those with whom he surrounds himself.

✓ Loyal  ——- “Died rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you!”

He is fierce, heart full for those he holds dear. Not many are kept that close, but there is no hesitation when asked to give his life. Warmth and comfort, in the crook of his smile and the corners of his eyes. Brilliance and steadfast companionship: a dog is man’s best friend.

✓/✕  Strong-Minded | Judgemental ——- “Besides, the world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters. We’ve all got both light and dark inside us.”

He is a tree rooted to the earth, tall and proud. Unmoving and firm against the hailing storm. Beliefs, unwavering, unwilling to hear. Opposition is wrong, and he knows it as well as he knows the stories written in the night sky. He is strong-willed and stubborn; a brick wall would be more receptive. He thinks himself open-minded, but it is only another belief.

✕ Impulsive ——- “What is life without a little risk?”

He is snap decisions made in the heat of the moment. Turbulent and emotional, judgement shifts as easily as debris caught in the tide. Words, biting, leaving scars as easily as laughter erases them from his mind. Passing thoughts in an endless stream of chaos - why waste time paying mind to outcomes when you can just act?

✕ Rebellious ——- “There are things worth dying for!”

He is 2 am, leather, and a mess of discarded liquor bottles scattered about the floor. Blood-kissed knuckles and knuckle-kissed jaw. Smirks and sighs toppling from carved lips. Caught in a tempest, winds whipping his hair about his face, unable to see, blindly stumbling along, deafening roars threaten to consume him - one foot in front of the other. Raw magic crackling in the air, electricity against your skin; a beautiful sight when it implodes.

headcanons: (tw: mania, depression, alcohol, slurs, mentions of dysphoria, mentions of abuse)

Patronus: It’s commonplace that a Patronus will match a witch or wizard’s Animagus form, if they happen to be such, and Sirius is no exception. His Patronus takes the form of a dog, matching that of his Animagus counterpart: a bear-like German Shepherd. German Shepherds are known for being intelligent, loyal, and fiercely over-protective. Any close friend of his would attest to the fact that Sirius exemplifies those qualities. He is a bright wizard, and he would do anything for those he cares about.

Wand: As badly as Sirius sometimes wishes his wand was made from Dogwood (think of the irony! the puns! the beauty of the universe!), he was chosen by a Cypress wood wand with a Dragon Heartstring core, 15 inches, rigid.

“Cypress wands are associated with nobility. The great medieval wandmaker, Geraint Ollivander, wrote that he was always honoured to match a cypress wand, for he knew he was meeting a witch or wizard who would die a heroic death. Fortunately, in these less blood-thirsty times, the possessors of cypress wands are rarely called upon to lay down their lives, though doubtless many of them would do so if required. Wands of cypress find their soul mates among the brave, the bold and the self-sacrificing: those who are unafraid to confront the shadows in their own and others’ natures.”

Sirius won’t think about the wandlore behind cypress wands and their masters dying a heroic death until the fleeting, infinite moment in which he begins to fall in the Department of Mysteries. He will think it ironic, then, that his death is hardly heroic at all; that, naturally, James and Lily had far more heroic deaths than him. (He will also think about finally, finally reuniting with them again, and he will think of how sorry he is for leaving Remus and Harry behind, but James, here I come.)

“As a rule, dragon heartstrings produce wands with the most power, and which are capable of the most flamboyant spells. Dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. While they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner. The dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental.”

It is of interest to note that dragon wands tend to be easily swayed towards the Dark Arts. Sirius thinks it should be noted, and then he will tell it to fuck right off, thank you very much. He knows that, had things gone just a little differently, he wouldn’t have had any difficulty using Dark Magic; in fact, he’d have been rather adept at it. Sirius laughs at the notion - and would like to tell the Dark Lord that he can fuck right off, too.

Sirius is a very quick learner. He is intelligent and, when he puts his mind to a task, he is able to stay determined and focused. Magic runs strong in his veins, so it’s only natural he be paired with a wand that is able to keep up with him and his raw power. That being said, however, Sirius’ magic is - too often - unpredictable. It has been since he was a child, and he still experiences outbursts of unintentional magic when his emotions get the better of him; the dragon wand nurtures his accidental magic, at times.

    &--------Little Lion Man

He is named for the Dog Star, the most brilliant star in the sky, visible from anywhere on Earth - an actuality he embraces and carries with him from the moment he is able to understand its meaning. Ancient namings signify he is scorching, sparkling, bringing destruction and rebirth. He is important, and his name informs everyone of such.

But he is the point of Canis Major, a hunting dog, ever looking towards his master, Orion. Later, he would think it ironic that he was intended to obediently follow the hunter across the sky. When he was young, though, he did follow his father, his master, with wide eyes and a thirst to learn, to emulate. He did, after all, carry his father’s name as one of his own. He thought it only right that he be his hunter. He learned quickly enough to leave Orion Black be.

His name embraces the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black - a reality he despises when he is older. He is taught to believe that to be a Black, to be a Pureblood is to be royalty. He believes it.

He spends the majority of his childhood being trained to be the perfect Pureblood heir, to be the perfect Black. He attends many Pureblood-only balls and events, and is taught the proper way to mingle with other Purebloods. He learns manners and etiquette, and he is expected to be a proper child. There are never many other children at the balls, but he is reminded that it is improper to run about and make a fool of oneself like ordinary children; he is, after all, anything but ordinary.

How could he be? His name attests to his brilliance.

    &--------My Manic & I

Sirius is living with undiagnosed Bipolar 1 Disorder. It won’t ever be diagnosed or named in-game since they’re living in the 70s (it’s still fairly misunderstood now), but it definitely affects him. I feel like his upswings are pretty intense, and it usually results in him wanting to be out all the time and doing things, and he feels infallible and invincible, and he’s a lot more likely to be reckless (even more so than what is typical for him) and make snap decisions. He definitely has a tendency towards dangerous ideas that he thinks are absolutely brilliant (see: the Prank with Snape). On the other end of it, though, Sirius’ lows are very low, and he self-medicates with alcohol when he’s suffering from the worst of his depression (see: pretty much all of Order of the Phoenix). But I don’t think that Sirius recognizes the depression as such. It’s a lot easier for him to acknowledge when he’s feeling great and on top of the world as opposed to when he’s feeling like shit and struggles with getting out of bed in the morning. He’s a lot more likely to hide that side of himself, too, and play it off with a smirk and light-hearted joke at someone else’s expense. He became an expert at hiding his emotions at a young age, after all.

     &--------I Want to Break Free

If someone were to ask Sirius his gender and sexuality, he would quirk a brow and scoff and let out a bark of laughter because what sort of daft question is that? But, secretly. he enjoys the company of both men and women.

Sirius doesn’t remember the exact moment when he realized that he was attracted to men. Maybe it was sometime in his third year, when he had accompanied James to watch the Quidditch team practice. Maybe he had caught himself staring at one of the seventh years - a boy with shaggy brown hair and a strong jaw - as he flew around the Pitch. Maybe he had felt the distinct swoop in his stomach as he had watched, and maybe he had imagined what it would be like to kiss the older boy.

But Sirius only really remembers being too afraid to say anything to James, Remus, and Peter, being afraid that it would change everything and they would think him a freak that they didn’t want to be friends with, anymore. Especially after his “prank” on Snape in 5th year, Sirius doesn’t want to do anything that could again alienate him from his friends. They’re all he really has.

Something else he would never admit to is the many times he has passed frilly shop windows and imagined being able to wear whatever clothes he wants that he sees, or wished he could be as comfortable in his own skin as David Bowie, or Freddie Mercury. Sirius doesn’t always feel exactly right in the body he has, and he doesn’t understand it even a little bit. After all, it’s hard enough to deal with the war; he doesn’t want to even begin to focus on the whole gender bit.

In modern terminology, he would identify as gender-fluid demiromantic pansexual, but that’s too fancy and way ahead of his time, so all he knows is that he’s queer - just another way in which he would have disappointed his family.

     &--------The best thing that has ever happened:

“I know that you will make us proud, Sirius.”

No one ever expected Sirius to be a Gryffindor; he certainly hadn’t when he had stepped up to the stool to be sorted his first year at Hogwarts. His entire family had come from Slytherin. He even knew that, somewhere in his lineage, he was related to Salazar Slytherin himself. But as Sirius’ attention had drifted to the far table of green and silver, he had felt a tug in his stomach that he hadn’t really understood.

….“GRYFFINDOR!”

He ignored the shouts and jests coming from the Slytherin table to rightfully take his place amongst the lions of Hogwarts. He was joined, thankfully, by James and the redhead he had met with the greasy boy (he was grateful - and always would be - that the greasy one ended up in Slytherin).

It wasn’t before he was whisked away to his dorm and he got to know his fellow dormmates: one sickly-looking boy named Remus and a short, ordinary boy named Peter. Sirius thought he could do without Remus and Peter. Who needed them when he had James, his best friend? But Remus and Peter did prove themselves when they turned the greasy boy’s hair a bright shade of pink for a week. That, Sirius decided, was enough to earn his respect.

The four of them quickly became inseparable, and Sirius decided that being a Lion was worth the consequent Howlers he received, even if meant returning from the Christmas hols with bruises hidden beneath scratchy sweaters.

    &--------And the worst:  "Blood traitor! Filth! Scum!“

He tried not to cry out as his mother punished him one final time for being an insolent disgrace; he wouldn’t give her the pleasure. He was worse for the wear, however, when she finished with him and sent him off to think about his disobedience. Again. Sirius sat, on the edge of his bed, trembling; it was out of his control. He thought, but it didn’t take long for him to realize what he must do.

He needed to leave.

He hastily threw what belongings he could into his school trunk, gathering up anything he deemed important. He was able to perform a simple expansion and levitation charm - he decided he could deal with the Ministry later - and led his trunk out of his room. But he knew he needed to stop at his brother’s room before he left.

Sirius loved his brother and he has always loved his brother, but Regulus was not like him. He was weak-minded and bent to the wishes of their parents. Sirius always wanted to keep Regulus safe from them, from Mother, but he went to school and was sorted into Gryffindor and it changed. He became the disgrace, and it had been up to Regulus to be the perfect son. Sirius never wanted that for him, and he didn’t want that for him now. So he tried to bring Regulus with him. He wanted to ask, wanted him to leave and escape the hell they had grown up in.

But Regulus didn’t leave with him. He wasn’t like Sirius. He was an idiot, and he didn’t leave. So Sirius goes. But not before he watched as his mother blasted his name from the family tree.

(Sirius will always regret not making Regulus leave with him.)

#abintro #bio #hc&.{the boy with the broken halo} #writing&.{my manic and i} #aesthetic&.{killer queen} #abuse cw

[crimsonrevolt]

Congratulations Dani you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Sirius Black!

↳ please refer to our character checklist

Dani you’re back! And we’re so excited to have you back! Sirius is so important to this group, especially with the most recent plot drop and we’re so excited to see you play him out and cause a little trouble. As usual, your writing is wonderful and your characterization is lovely.

application beneath the cut (tw: slurs, mentions of body dysphoria)

INTRODUCTION

Dani here (again, finally!) and I’m 25 now. My preferred pronouns are she/her and I am from Michigan in the US, so EST timezone.

ACTIVITY

I’m going to low-ball and say like 5-6/10 ???  I have a few weeknights free, and then more time on the weekends.

HOW DID YOU FIND US?

Old member, but initially it was through the marauder’s rp tag, I believe.

WHAT HARRY POTTER CHARACTER DO YOU IDENTIFY WITH MOST?

Funnily enough, I’ve always hardcore connected with Sirius. Our personality types are very similar, and I’ve always been the ‘Padfoot’ in groups of friends. And growing older I’ve identified similarities between his upbringing and home life and my own, so yeah. But I also identified with Harry, Hermione, and Luna when I was younger. I don’t exactly remember why, but I did ?  Maybe it was the outcast factor or whatever, but those are all tied for second after Sirius, I think

ANYTHING ELSE?

This group is legit the best group ever.

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER

Sirius Orion Black III ——– He is named for the Dog Star, the most brilliant star in the sky, visible from anywhere on Earth - an actuality he embraces and carries with him from the moment he is able to understand its meaning. Ancient namings signify he is scorching, sparkling, bringing destruction and rebirth. He is important, and his name informs everyone of such.

But he is the point of Canis Major, a hunting dog, ever looking towards his master, Orion. Later, he would think it ironic that he was intended to obediently follow the hunter across the sky. When he was young, though, he did follow his father, his master, with wide eyes and a thirst to learn, to emulate. He did, after all, carry his father’s name as one of his own. He thought it only right that he be his hunter. He learned quickly enough to leave Orion Black be.

His name embraces the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black - a reality he despises when he is older. He is taught to believe that to be a Black, to be a Pureblood is to be royalty. He believes it.

He spends the majority of his childhood being trained to be the perfect Pureblood heir, to be the perfect Black. He attends many Pureblood-only balls and events, and is taught the proper way to mingle with other Purebloods. He learns manners and etiquette, and he is expected to be a proper child. There are never many other children at the balls, but he is reminded that it is improper to run about and make a fool of oneself like ordinary children; he is, after all, anything but ordinary.

How could he be? His name attests to his brilliance.

FACE CLAIM

Miles McMillan is my boi, okay

REASON FOR CHOSEN CHARACTER (tw: mania, depression, alcohol)

This is long, I’m so sorry but not really. But Sirius Black has been one of my favorite literary characters since I was in 3rd grade and first read Prisoner of Azkaban. There was just always something about him, and I don’t even know how to put into words how much I love Sirius Black. I remember the moment I fell in love with him, though, was when I was reading PoA and this man who had just spent the last twelve years wrongly imprisoned for an horrific crime he didn’t commit, and who had just spent the last year on the run with his godson thinking him responsible for betraying James and Lily, offers for Harry to leave the Dursley’s and move in with him. Even after everything he had been through, he was still willing to immediately take in Harry and take his place as his rightful guardian. It breaks my heart that they were never able to be a proper family, but that’s discourse for another time!

Sirius was really the first character I ever really roleplayed, and he’s been living and growing in my head for six or seven years now, as silly as that sounds. My Sirius muse is always active and talkative and ready for action, and I love being able to put him out there and develop him further and still learn new things about him even after all this time (reference, yus!). I’ve always just felt a real connection with him. Maybe it’s because I see parts of myself in him, or maybe it’s because it’s just always been really natural and easy for me to get into his head and way of thinking. He’s always been more than just a character to me.

His personality, for me, has developed a lot since the early days. I think it’s easy to get sucked into fanon interpretation early on, especially with characters that have a really strong fandom presence. But I’m really proud of the character he’s become, and I think he strays from a lot of typical fanon stereotypes. One of the biggest stereotypes - and one that really bothers me - is that Sirius is some kind of Don Juan-Lothario-playboy-heartbreaker-type.

“With another shock of excitement, Harry saw Sirius give James the thumbs-up….a girl sitting behind him was eyeing him hopefully, though he didn’t seem to have noticed.”

Sirius’ main concern has always been, and will always be, his friends. He cares far more for his Marauders and their pranks than he does for birds and sleeping around. He’s a flirt, yes, but only because he’s charming and needs to grace everyone with that charm. It’s harmless flirting, and it’s not his fault if anyone takes it as anything other than that.

I also love dabbling in the Black side of Sirius. While Sirius is a very good person, I think a lot of that is due to him being sorted in Gryffindor and befriending James Potter. Without his influence, I think Sirius would be a very different person. Not all of that is inherent, but Sirius definitely has a cruel, cunning streak in him (i.e. that time he almost killed Snape). A lot of it is in his nature, and some remains from his upbringing; our early years and development have a huge impact on the people we become. So, I think it’s interesting, especially in the state of the world as it currently is, to play with just what parts of Sirius’ personality become more dominant. Add to that Sirius being part of the Aversio, and I think it’s a really great combination of ruthless, cunning cruelty and the person the Marauders helped him become to create something new all together. I’d be really interested to see how that changes him and, maybe, influences a shift to the Sirius he could have been had he not met James and the Marauders.

In my headcanon, as well, Sirius is living with undiagnosed Bipolar Disorder. It won’t ever be diagnosed or named in-game since they’re living in 1979 (it’s still fairly misunderstood now), but it definitely affects him. I feel like his upswings are pretty intense, and it usually results in him wanting to be out all the time and doing things, and he feels infallible and invincible, and he’s a lot more likely to be reckless and make snap decisions. He definitely has a tendency towards dangerous ideas that he thinks are absolutely brilliant (see: the Prank with Snape). On the other end of it, though, Sirius’ lows are very low, and he self-medicates with alcohol when he ’s suffering from the worst of his depression (see: pretty much all of Order of the Phoenix). But I don’t think that Sirius recognizes the depression as such. It’s a lot easier for him to acknowledge when he’s feeling great and on top of the world as opposed to when he’s feeling like shit and struggles with getting out of bed in the morning. He’s a lot more likely to hide that side of himself, too, and play it off with a smirk and light-hearted joke at someone else’s expense.

PREFERRED SHIPS // CHARACTER SEXUALITY // GENDER & PRONOUNS   (tw: slurs, mentions of body dysphoria)

If someone were to ask Sirius his gender and sexuality, though, he would quirk a brow and scoff and let out a bark of laughter because, obviously, he’s got a cock and he’s not a queer, what sort of daft question is that? But his closest friends know that he enjoys the company of both men and women, although lately he’s sought out men more often than not.

Sirius doesn’t remember the exact moment when he realized that he was attracted to men. Maybe it was sometime in his third year, when he had accompanied James to watch the Quidditch team practice. Maybe he had caught himself staring at one of the seventh years - a boy with shaggy brown hair and a strong jaw - as he flew around the Pitch. Maybe he had felt the distinct swoop in his stomach as he had watched, and maybe he had imagined what it would be like to kiss the older boy.

But Sirius only really remembers being too afraid to say anything to James, Remus, and Peter, being afraid that it would change everything and they would think him a freak, a faggot they didn’t want to be friends with, anymore. James found out, though, and nothing changed between them, and soon after so did Remus and Peter. It became much easier after that to accept that part of himself. He doesn’t hide that amongst his friends or the Order; although the muggle world is less accepting of his sexuality, he doesn’t pay much attention to anyone who gives him shit. He flips them the bird and continues on his way.

What he would never admit to, however, is the many times he has passed frilly shop windows and imagined being able to wear whatever clothes he wants that he sees, or wished he could be as comfortable in his own skin as David Bowie, or Freddie Mercury. Sirius doesn’t always feel exactly right in the body he has, and he doesn’t understand it even a little bit. After all, it’s hard enough to deal with the war; he doesn’t want to even begin to focus on the whole gender bit.

The other thing he would never, ever admit to is the feelings he has harbored for Remus since they were realized in roughly fifth year. He remembers it was an ordinary moment; Remus had been working on an essay and nibbling on the end of his quill, and Sirius had been watching him, entirely too distracted, and it had just…hit him. But, of course, he wasn’t deserving of Remus. He would never be deserving of Remus. Sirius wrestled with the feelings for a good year or so, but he has long since accepted them without hope for it ever changing.

In modern terminology, he would identify as a gender-fluid demiromantic pansexual, but that’s too fancy and way ahead of his time, so all he knows is that he’s queer - just another way in which he would have disappointed his family.

As far as ships go, I’m def wolfstar trash. They were my first real ship and I love them to pieces. That being said, Sirius/Chemistry is my #1 jam. The only thing is that he isn’t always into serious relationships unless he’s good friends with the person first. In my headcanon, he’s never had a real, serious relationship (although every relationship is most certainly a Sirius one, lmao), but he doesn’t feel wanting, necessarily. Relationships aren’t exactly a priority right now when there are bigger things to worry about.

EXTRAS

&;;—— PERSONALITY TRAITS (tw: alcohol, mentioned violence/blood)

✓ Funny ——- “Did you like question ten, Moony?”

He is barking laughter and poorly timed jokes, puns upon puns - seriously. A grin as wide as the day is long, carefree and easy. Light in the black of war; white sheep in the Black family. His good humor has covered him and carried him through all that he’s seen. It’s as much a shield for himself as it is those with whom he surrounds himself.

✓ Loyal | Loving ——- “Died rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you!”

He is fierce, heart full for those he holds dear. Not many are kept that close, but there is no hesitation when asked to give his life. Warmth and comfort, in the crook of his smile and the corners of his eyes. Brilliance and steadfast companionship: a dog is man’s best friend.

✓/✕ Strong-minded | Judgemental ——- “Besides, the world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters. We’ve all got both light and dark inside us.”

He is a tree rooted to the earth, tall and proud. Unmoving and firm against the hailing storm. Beliefs, unwavering, unwilling to hear. Opposition is wrong, and he knows it as well as he knows the stories written in the night sky. He is strong-willed and stubborn; a brick wall would be more receptive. He thinks himself open-minded, but it is only another belief.

✕ Doesn’t think through consequences ——- “What is life without a little risk?”

He is snap decisions made in the heat of the moment. Turbulent and emotional, judgement shifts as easily as debris caught in the tide. Words, biting, leaving scars as easily as laughter erases them from his mind. Passing thoughts in an endless stream of chaos - why waste time paying mind to outcomes when you can just act?

✕ Hellacious attitude ——- “There are things worth dying for!”

He is 2 am, leather, and a mess of discarded liquor bottles scattered about the floor. Blood-kissed knuckles and knuckle-kissed jaw. Smirks and sighs toppling from carved lips. Caught in a tempest, winds whipping his hair about his face, unable to see, blindly stumbling along, deafening roars threaten to consume him - one foot in front of the other. Raw magic crackling in the air, electricity against your skin; a beautiful sight when it implodes.

&;;—— WAND: As badly as Sirius sometimes wishes his wand was made from Dogwood (think of the irony! the puns! the beauty of the universe!), he was chosen by a Cypress wood wand with a Dragon Heartstring core, 15 inches, rigid.

“Cypress wands are associated with nobility. The great medieval wandmaker, Geraint Ollivander, wrote that he was always honoured to match a cypress wand, for he knew he was meeting a witch or wizard who would die a heroic death. Fortunately, in these less blood-thirsty times, the possessors of cypress wands are rarely called upon to lay down their lives, though doubtless many of them would do so if required. Wands of cypress find their soul mates among the brave, the bold and the self-sacrificing: those who are unafraid to confront the shadows in their own and others’ natures.”

Sirius won’t think about the wandlore behind cypress wands and their masters dying a heroic death until the fleeting, infinite moment in which he begins to fall in the Department of Mysteries. He will think it ironic, then, that his death is hardly heroic at all; that, naturally, James and Lily had far more heroic deaths than him. (He will also think about finally, finally reuniting with them again, and he will think of how sorry he is for leaving Remus and Harry behind, but James, here I come.)

“As a rule, dragon heartstrings produce wands with the most power, and which are capable of the most flamboyant spells. Dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. While they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner. The dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental.”

It is of interest to note that dragon wands tend to be easily swayed towards the Dark Arts. Sirius thinks it should be noted, and then he will tell it to fuck right off, thank you very much. He knows that, had things gone just a little differently, he wouldn’t have had any difficulty using Dark Magic; in fact, he’d have been rather adept at it. Sirius laughs at the notion - and would like to tell the Dark Lord that he can fuck right off, too.

Sirius is a very quick learner. He is intelligent and, when he puts his mind to a task, he is able to stay determined and focused. Magic runs strong in his veins, so it’s only natural he be paired with a wand that is able to keep up with him and his raw power. That being said, however, Sirius’ magic is - too often - unpredictable. It has been since he was a child, and he still experiences outbursts of unintentional magic when his emotions get the better of him; the dragon wand nurtures his accidental magic, at times.

&;;—— PATRONUS: It’s commonplace that a Patronus will match a witch or wizard’s Animagus form, if they happen to be such, and Sirius is no exception. His Patronus takes the form of a dog, matching that of his Animagus counterpart: a bear-like German Shepherd. German Shepherds are known for being intelligent, loyal, and fiercely over-protective. Any close friend of his would attest to the fact that Sirius exemplifies those qualities. He is a bright wizard, and he would do anything for those he cares about.

&;;—— The best thing that has ever happened: ”I know that you will make us proud, Sirius.”

No one ever expected Sirius to be a Gryffindor; he certainly hadn’t when he had stepped up to the stool to be sorted his first year at Hogwarts. His entire family had come from Slytherin. He even knew that, somewhere in his lineage, he was related to Salazar Slytherin himself. But as Sirius’ attention had drifted to the far table of green and silver, he had felt a tug in his stomach that he hadn’t really understood.

….“GRYFFINDOR!”

He ignored the shouts and jests coming from the Slytherin table to rightfully take his place amongst the lions of Hogwarts. He was joined, thankfully, by James and the redhead he had met with the greasy boy (he was grateful - and always would be - that the greasy one ended up in Slytherin).

It wasn’t before he was whisked away to his dorm and he got to know his fellow dormmates: one sickly-looking boy named Remus and a short, ordinary boy named Peter. Sirius thought he could do without Remus and Peter. Who needed them when he had James, his best friend? But Remus and Peter did prove themselves when they turned the greasy boy’s hair a bright shade of pink for a week. That, Sirius decided, was enough to earn his respect.

The four of them quickly became inseparable, and Sirius decided that being a Lion was worth the consequent Howlers he received, even if meant returning from the Christmas hols with bruises hidden beneath scratchy sweaters.

&;;—— And the worst: “Blood traitor! Filth! Scum!“

He tried not to cry out as he was punished him one final time for being an insolent disgrace; he wouldn’t give them the pleasure. He was worse for the wear, however, when they finished with him and sent him off to think about his disobedience. Again. Sirius sat, on the edge of his bed, trembling; it was out of his control. He thought, but it didn’t take long for him to realize what he must do.

He needed to leave.

He hastily threw what belongings he could into his school trunk, gathering up anything he deemed important. He was able to perform a simple expansion and levitation charm - he decided he could deal with the Ministry later - and led his trunk out of his room. But he knew he needed to stop at his brother’s room before he left.

Sirius loved his brother and he has always loved his brother, but Regulus was not like him. He was weak-minded and bent to the wishes of their parents. Sirius always wanted to keep Regulus safe from them, from Mother, but he went to school and was sorted into Gryffindor and it changed. He became the disgrace, and it had been up to Regulus to be the perfect son. Sirius never wanted that for him, and he didn’t want that for him now. So he tried to bring Regulus with him. He wanted to ask, wanted him to leave and escape the hell they had grown up in.

But Regulus didn’t leave with him. He wasn’t like Sirius. He was an idiot, and he didn’t leave. So Sirius goes. But not before he watched as his mother blasted his name from the family tree.

(Sirius still regrets not making Regulus leave with him.)

&;;—— AESTHETICS here [x] and here [x]

&;;—— PLOT POINTS    ~ I really want to explore the conflict that Sirius is facing between his loyalty to his friends and his allegiance to Aversio. He very, very strongly believes that the Order isn’t doing enough, but he knows that a lot of Aversio’s tactics and such clash with the Order. He knows that there are many friends and allies that would look down on his involvement in the group, and he loathes to disappoint them. But Sirius is firm in his convictions. He isn’t one to waver in his decisions, and he truly believes that Aversio is the action the world needs. Again, however, that contradicts his closest friends, and I want to explore how Sirius reacts in such a situation. I want to push his loyalty to the limits and see what he does when it really comes down to it.

~  On the same note, I would love to have some of his closer friends find out about his involvement in the rogue organization. I feel like I know Sirius fairly well, but I honestly don’t know how he would react in such a situation that calls to question where his loyalties truly lie. I think it would be an interesting bit of character development to really put the pressure on him like that.

~  Sirius has a dark side, whether he would like to admit to it or not. It’s part of who he is, so deeply ingrained in his being that he doesn’t recognize it in the slightest. But it’s there. War tends to bring out the worst in people, and I want it to do so to Sirius. I want to mess him up, to play with his mind and pit him against himself until he no longer knows what he is or where he stands. I want to dive into the more psychological aspects of the affect of the war, especially since this is full AU now. If he doesn’t end up getting messed up in Azkaban, I have to mess him up somehow  =)

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

♔ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it: “S’pose I’d make one that’d be able to track the greater London area,” Sirius answers with a smirk, wand twirling between slender fingers. He shifts, eyebrows flashing. “Y’know, something along the lines of magical cartography, but…big. Large scale. Easy spell, I’d imagine, if you could figure out the scale.” If they put their minds to it, Sirius is sure he, James, Remus, and Peter could come up with something. “Be able to locate anyone anywhere in all of London just by looking at a map. Imagine how bloody brilliant it’d be!”

♔ You have to venture deep into the Forbidden Forest one night. Pick one other character and one object (muggle or magical), besides your wand, that you’d want with you: “James, Remus, and Peter. Package deal, yeah?” He quirks a brow. “Probably bring James’ cloak - usually do. It’s a bloody miracle, that thing. Gotten us outta loads of trouble over the years.”

♔ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make? Sirius grins, back straightening - pride rolling off square shoulders. “Well thought out ones. That’s what I’m told, anyhow. I’m better at the quick ones, the real difficult ones.”

♔ What is one thing you would never want said about you? He hesitates, smile faltering - though he catches it, corrects it before it can be noticed (he hopes). “I dunno,” he says, gaze averted, a shoulder shrugging. A pause. A flash of an image behind his eyes - his friends, hollow-eyed, telling him that he’s a Black, through and through, just like them, can never escape it, terrible awful cruel heartless Black. “That I’m like them. Because I’m not. I’m so much better than they are.”

REACTION TO LAST EVENT DROP

Okay so, I really love that the last plot drop has some conflict between Sirius and those he’s closest to. It’s about time for things to come to a head with him and his juxtaposed involvement in the two groups, and I think he’s about ready to begin the process of separating himself from the Order and their non-action. It will also be really interesting to throw him into another party that resonates so closely to him, but under the guise of not himself. I think, with how things have been playing out in his mind in regards to the war, that it could be very interesting to see how well he’s able to keep himself under control and not make rash decisions when it comes to being in the middle of the Death Eaters and their little party.

WRITING SAMPLE

(this is from an old post on here, i hope that’s okay! i’m just hella fond of this one, tbh)

In his youth, when the sky had appeared infinitely brighter and the days seemingly endless, when everywhere could bring forth a new adventure with little to no warning, when the silken tendrils of optimism wound around his body, weaving between pale fingers, toes - gently cradling and protecting; then, Knockturn Alley had not frightened him. But he had been young, naive. He hadn’t known the manner of the witches and wizards who frequented the cobbled street and dark, slanted buildings. They had towered over him, then, and he had stared back, challenging whatever authority they wordlessly claimed. He had challenged the world.

But, as it so often is, childhood naivety gave way to harsh truths, and accompanying his father to Knockturn Alley no longer offered boundless adventure. Instead, he saw the buildings for what they were, the witches and wizards as the cruel people they had always been. He saw the shadowed sky, tucked away behind pointed rooftops, and just how unlike its neighbor, Diagon Alley, it was. The Alley was no place for decent witches or wizards, which was why he supposed the Blacks held such fondness for it.

Now, Sirius had no need to traverse the uneven, dismal avenue, and yet… here he was. Hands stuffed into pockets, fist firm around his wand, Sirius averted his eyes, silently cursing the bloody wanker who had volunteered him for this bloody “mission,” although he was loath to describe it as such. Inquire about such and such item at some shoddy shite-hole shop, speaking only to Git McWanker blah, blah, blah. It was a fucking waste of time, was what it was.

Yet, here he was, pointedly staring at books on a shelf in some corner of Knockturn Alley - many of which he recognized as titles from the walls of the Black family library. They dredge up images of the study and lessons and evenings spent pouring over texts he had no care for, all in the name of properly educating the heir, or some bollocks. He almost scoffed at the thought, adjusting his jacket as he eyed the shopkeeper. Feign interest, then approach him for information; it was a decent enough plan, but Sirius was stopped in his tracks by the woman that rounded the corner.

Eyes locked, drinking up the vision before him - something out of a dream, a nightmare - and he was suddenly eight beneath her gaze, frightened and angry and improper, insolent, yet again. Hands balled at his sides, shoulders tense, and he resisted the visceral pull to back away, run away, get away from her. Instead, his jaw set and he held her gaze - challenging her command over him, because she now had none.

“It’s comforting to know that some things never change,” he remarked brazenly, determination settling squarely atop his shoulders. “Seeing you here, I mean. Of all places. Picking up a new addition to the library, hmm? Perhaps a copy of Magick Moste Pure: Grimoire of Pureblood Fuckery? I hear that’s been selling quite nicely with your crowd.” He sneered, arms crossing over his chest - tight. “Oughta be careful who sees you walking around with that shite. Hear the Ministry’s got eyes and ears everywhere these days. You’d hate to be caught up in all that, now, wouldn’t you, Mother?” The word was spat, harsh and mocking; she was nothing to him now.

#Accepted App

[sirivsblvckiii-blog]

OUT OF CHARACTER:

– Name: Dani

– Pronouns: She/Her

– Age: 25

– Timezone/Country: EST in the USA

– Triggers: Self-Harm, Suicide, Suicide Ideation, Eating Disorders, Panic Attacks, Domestic Abuse, images of spiders

– Activity Level: Through the holidays it’ll probably be like a 5/10, tbh. I’m working a lot and I’ll have family coming into town at the end of the month for a couple weeks. But once it hits like the middle of January, I’ll probably be a solid 7 or 8/10

– Anything Else?: I LIVE for AU’s. Any and all AU’s. They give me life, and I’ve been wanting to join a really great AU Harry Potter RP. I love building worlds and characters, and I love throwing characters into new situations and seeing how they react. I really love getting into a character’s head and pushing them to their limits, into really dark places. The concept of the First War and the plethora of secrets and mistrust among friends, the never knowing who you can trust, how that changes people and relationships amidst the already paranoia-driven atmosphere of war; nothing gives me more muse than the First War.

DESIRED CHARACTER:

– Desired Character: Sirius Orion Black III

– Why This Character?: OKAY SO, this is going to be long-winded, and I apologize for that! Sirius Black has been one of my favorite literary characters since I was in 3rd grade and first read Prisoner of Azkaban. There was just always something about him, and I don’t even know how to put into words how much I love Sirius Black. I remember the moment I fell in love with him, though, was when I was reading PoA and this man who had just spent the last twelve years wrongly imprisoned for an horrific crime he didn’t commit, and who had just spent the last year on the run with his godson thinking him responsible for betraying James and Lily, offers for Harry to leave the Dursley’s and move in with him. Even after everything he had been through, he was still willing to immediately take in Harry and take his place as his rightful guardian. It breaks my heart that they were never able to be a proper family, but that’s discourse for another time! Sirius was really the first character I ever really roleplayed, and he’s been living and growing in my head for like seven years now, as silly as that sounds. His personality has developed a lot since the early days. I think it’s easy to get sucked into fanon interpretation early on, especially with characters that have a really strong fandom presence. But I’m really proud of the character he’s become, and I think he strays from a lot of typical fanon stereotypes. One of the biggest stereotypes - and one that really bothers - is that Sirius is some kind of Don Juan-Lothario-playboy-heartbreaker-type. “With another shock of excitement, Harry saw Sirius give James the thumbs-up….a girl sitting behind him was eyeing him hopefully, though he didn’t seem to have noticed.” Sirius’ main concern has always been, and will always be, his friends. He cares far more for his Marauders and their pranks than he does for ladies and sleeping around. He’s a flirt, yes, but only because he’s charming and needs to grace everyone with that charm. It’s harmless flirting, and it’s not his fault if anyone takes it as anything other than that. I also love dabbling in the Black side of Sirius. While Sirius is a very good person, I think a lot of that is due to him being sorted in Gryffindor and befriending James Potter. Without his influence, I think Sirius would be a very different person. Not all of that is inherent, but Sirius definitely has a cruel, cunning streak in him (i.e. that time he almost killed Snape). A lot of it is in his nature, and some remains from his upbringing; our early years and development have a huge impact on the people we become. So, I think it’s interesting, especially in the state of the world as it currently is, to play with just what parts of Sirius’ personality become more dominant. Especially in regards to the war’s influence and the harsher actions that are sometimes required, I think it’s a really great opportunity to combine together his ruthless, cunning cruelty and the person the Marauders helped him become to create something totally new.

My Sirius muse is always active and talkative and ready for action, and I love being able to put him out there and develop him further and still learn new things about him even after all this time (reference, yuss!). I’ve always just felt a real connection with him. Maybe it’s because I see parts of myself in him, or maybe it’s because it’s just always been really natural and easy for me to get into his head and way of thinking. He’s always been more than just a character to me.

Ships/Anti-ships: I am complete trash for Sirius/Remus tbh, but Sirius/Chemistry is the most important thing ever. The only thing is that he isn’t always into serious relationships unless he’s good friends with the person first. In my headcanon, he’s never had a real, serious relationship (although every relationship is most certainly a Sirius one, badum-tss!), but he doesn’t feel wanting, necessarily. Relationships aren’t exactly a priority right now when there are bigger things to worry about. // Sirius/No Chemistry, Sirius/Snape

Headcanons: (tw: mania, depression, alcohol, slurs, mentions of dysphoria, mentions of abuse)

    &——–Little Lion Man He is named for the Dog Star, the most brilliant star in the sky, visible from anywhere on Earth - an actuality he embraces and carries with him from the moment he is able to understand its meaning. Ancient namings signify he is scorching, sparkling, bringing destruction and rebirth. He is important, and his name informs everyone of such. But he is the point of Canis Major, a hunting dog, ever looking towards his master, Orion. Later, he would think it ironic that he was intended to obediently follow the hunter across the sky. When he was young, though, he did follow his father, his master, with wide eyes and a thirst to learn, to emulate. He did, after all, carry his father’s name as one of his own. He thought it only right that he be his hunter. He learned quickly enough to leave Orion Black be. His name embraces the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black - a reality he despises when he is older. He is taught to believe that to be a Black, to be a Pureblood is to be royalty. He believes it. He spends the majority of his childhood being trained to be the perfect Pureblood heir, to be the perfect Black. He attends many Pureblood-only balls and events, and is taught the proper way to mingle with other Purebloods. He learns manners and etiquette, and he is expected to be a proper child. There are never many other children at the balls, but he is reminded that it is improper to run about and make a fool of oneself like ordinary children; he is, after all, anything but ordinary. How could he be? His name attests to his brilliance.     &——–My Manic & I Sirius is living with undiagnosed Bipolar Disorder. It won’t ever be diagnosed or named in-game since they’re living in the 70s (it’s still fairly misunderstood now), but it definitely affects him. I feel like his upswings are pretty intense, and it usually results in him wanting to be out all the time and doing things, and he feels infallible and invincible, and he’s a lot more likely to be reckless (even more so than what is typical for him) and make snap decisions. He definitely has a tendency towards dangerous ideas that he thinks are absolutely brilliant (see: the Prank with Snape). On the other end of it, though, Sirius’ lows are very low, and he self-medicates with alcohol when he’s suffering from the worst of his depression (see: pretty much all of Order of the Phoenix). But I don’t think that Sirius recognizes the depression as such. It’s a lot easier for him to acknowledge when he’s feeling great and on top of the world as opposed to when he’s feeling like shit and struggles with getting out of bed in the morning. He’s a lot more likely to hide that side of himself, too, and play it off with a smirk and light-hearted joke at someone else’s expense. He became an expert at hiding his emotions at a young age, after all.

    &——–I Want to Break Free If someone were to ask Sirius his gender and sexuality, though, he would quirk a brow and scoff and let out a bark of laughter because, obviously, he has a cock and he’s not a queer, what sort of daft question is that? But his closest friends know that he enjoys the company of both men and women, although lately he’s sought out men more often than not. Sirius doesn’t remember the exact moment when he realized that he was attracted to men. Maybe it was sometime in his third year, when he had accompanied James to watch the Quidditch team practice. Maybe he had caught himself staring at one of the seventh years - a boy with shaggy brown hair and a strong jaw - as he flew around the Pitch. Maybe he had felt the distinct swoop in his stomach as he had watched, and maybe he had imagined what it would be like to kiss the older boy. But Sirius only really remembers being too afraid to say anything to James, Remus, and Peter, being afraid that it would change everything and they would think him a freak, a faggot they didn’t want to be friends with, anymore. James found out, though, and nothing changed between them, and soon after so did Remus and Peter. It became much easier after that to accept that part of himself. He doesn’t hide that amongst his friends or the Order; although the muggle world is less accepting of his sexuality, he doesn’t pay much attention to anyone who gives him shit. He flips them the bird and continues on his way. What he would never admit to, however, is the many times he has passed frilly shop windows and imagined being able to wear whatever clothes he wants that he sees, or wished he could be as comfortable in his own skin as David Bowie, or Freddie Mercury. Sirius doesn’t always feel exactly right in the body he has, and he doesn’t understand it even a little bit. After all, it’s hard enough to deal with the war; he doesn’t want to even begin to focus on the whole gender bit. The other thing he would never, ever admit to is the feelings he has harbored for Remus since they were realized in roughly fifth year. He remembers it was an ordinary moment; Remus had been working on an essay and nibbling on the end of his quill, and Sirius had been watching him, entirely too distracted, and it had just…hit him. But, of course, he wasn’t deserving of Remus. He would never be deserving of Remus. Sirius wrestled with the feelings for a good year or so, but he has long since accepted them without hope for it ever changing. In modern terminology, he would identify as a gender-fluid demiromantic pansexual, but that’s too fancy and way ahead of his time, so all he knows is that he’s queer - just another way in which he would have disappointed his family.     &——–The best thing that has ever happened:   “I know that you will make us proud, Sirius.”

No one ever expected Sirius to be a Gryffindor; he certainly hadn’t when he had stepped up to the stool to be sorted his first year at Hogwarts. His entire family had come from Slytherin. He even knew that, somewhere in his lineage, he was related to Salazar Slytherin himself. But as Sirius’ attention had drifted to the far table of green and silver, he had felt a tug in his stomach that he hadn’t really understood. ….“GRYFFINDOR!” He ignored the shouts and jests coming from the Slytherin table to rightfully take his place amongst the lions of Hogwarts. He was joined, thankfully, by James and the redhead he had met with the greasy boy (he was grateful - and always would be - that the greasy one ended up in Slytherin). It wasn’t before he was whisked away to his dorm and he got to know his fellow dormmates: one sickly-looking boy named Remus and a short, ordinary boy named Peter. Sirius thought he could do without Remus and Peter. Who needed them when he had James, his best friend? But Remus and Peter did prove themselves when they turned the greasy boy’s hair a bright shade of pink for a week. That, Sirius decided, was enough to earn his respect. The four of them quickly became inseparable, and Sirius decided that being a Lion was worth the consequent Howlers he received, even if meant returning from the Christmas hols with bruises hidden beneath scratchy sweaters.     &——–And the worst:  “Blood traitor! Filth! Scum!“ He tried not to cry out as his mother punished him one final time for being an insolent disgrace; he wouldn’t give her the pleasure. He was worse for the wear, however, when she finished with him and sent him off to think about his disobedience. Again. Sirius sat, on the edge of his bed, trembling; it was out of his control. He thought, but it didn’t take long for him to realize what he must do. He needed to leave. He hastily threw what belongings he could into his school trunk, gathering up anything he deemed important. He was able to perform a simple expansion and levitation charm - he decided he could deal with the Ministry later - and led his trunk out of his room. But he knew he needed to stop at his brother’s room before he left. Sirius loved his brother and he has always loved his brother, but Regulus was not like him. He was weak-minded and bent to the wishes of their parents. Sirius always wanted to keep Regulus safe from them, from Mother, but he went to school and was sorted into Gryffindor and it changed. He became the disgrace, and it had been up to Regulus to be the perfect son. Sirius never wanted that for him, and he didn’t want that for him now. So he tried to bring Regulus with him. He wanted to ask, wanted him to leave and escape the hell they had grown up in. But Regulus didn’t leave with him. He wasn’t like Sirius. He was an idiot, and he didn’t leave. So Sirius goes. But not before he watched as his mother blasted his name from the family tree. (Sirius will always regret not making Regulus leave with him.)

Please Provide At Least One:

✓ Humor ——- “Did you like question ten, Moony?”

He is barking laughter and poorly timed jokes, puns upon puns - seriously. A grin as wide as the day is long, carefree and easy. Light in the black of war; white sheep in the Black family. His good humor has covered him and carried him through all that he’s seen. It’s as much a shield for himself as it is those with whom he surrounds himself. ✓ Loyal ——- “Died rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you!”

He is fierce, heart full for those he holds dear. Not many are kept that close, but there is no hesitation when asked to give his life. Warmth and comfort, in the crook of his smile and the corners of his eyes. Brilliance and steadfast companionship: a dog is man’s best friend. ✓/✕  Strong | Judgemental ——- “Besides, the world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters. We’ve all got both light and dark inside us.”

He is a tree rooted to the earth, tall and proud. Unmoving and firm against the hailing storm. Beliefs, unwavering, unwilling to hear. Opposition is wrong, and he knows it as well as he knows the stories written in the night sky. He is strong-willed and stubborn; a brick wall would be more receptive. He thinks himself open-minded, but it is only another belief. ✕ Impulsive ——- “What is life without a little risk?”

He is snap decisions made in the heat of the moment. Turbulent and emotional, judgement shifts as easily as debris caught in the tide. Words, biting, leaving scars as easily as laughter erases them from his mind. Passing thoughts in an endless stream of chaos - why waste time paying mind to outcomes when you can just act? ✕ Rebellious ——- “There are things worth dying for!”

He is 2 am, leather, and a mess of discarded liquor bottles scattered about the floor. Blood-kissed knuckles and knuckle-kissed jaw. Smirks and sighs toppling from carved lips. Caught in a tempest, winds whipping his hair about his face, unable to see, blindly stumbling along, deafening roars threaten to consume him - one foot in front of the other. Raw magic crackling in the air, electricity against your skin; a beautiful sight when it implodes. Mock Blog & inspiration can be found here

Aesthetics: [x] [x] [x]

Playlist:      -Some Nights (Intro) - fun.     - Rebel, Rebel - David Bowie     - Little Lion Man - Mumford & Sons     - Killer Queen - Queen     - Don’t Threaten Me With A Good Time - Panic! At The Disco     - Bad Kids - Black Lips     - The World Is Black - Good Charlotte     - Sinister Kid - The Black Keys     - Green Light - Lorde     - Young And Menace - Fall Out Boy     - My Shot - The Roots, Busta Rhymes     - Death And All His Friends - Coldplay     - This Is Gospel - Panic! At The Disco

CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE :

Patronus: It’s commonplace that a Patronus will match a witch or wizard’s Animagus form, if they happen to be such, and Sirius is no exception. His Patronus takes the form of a dog, matching that of his Animagus counterpart: a bear-like German Shepherd. German Shepherds are known for being intelligent, loyal, and fiercely over-protective. Any close friend of his would attest to the fact that Sirius exemplifies those qualities. He is a bright wizard, and he would do anything for those he cares about. Wand: As badly as Sirius sometimes wishes his wand was made from Dogwood (think of the irony! the puns! the beauty of the universe!), he was chosen by a Cypress wood wand with a Dragon Heartstring core, 15 inches, rigid. “Cypress wands are associated with nobility. The great medieval wandmaker, Geraint Ollivander, wrote that he was always honoured to match a cypress wand, for he knew he was meeting a witch or wizard who would die a heroic death. Fortunately, in these less blood-thirsty times, the possessors of cypress wands are rarely called upon to lay down their lives, though doubtless many of them would do so if required. Wands of cypress find their soul mates among the brave, the bold and the self-sacrificing: those who are unafraid to confront the shadows in their own and others’ natures.” Sirius won’t think about the wandlore behind cypress wands and their masters dying a heroic death until the fleeting, infinite moment in which he begins to fall in the Department of Mysteries. He will think it ironic, then, that his death is hardly heroic at all; that, naturally, James and Lily had far more heroic deaths than him. (He will also think about finally, finally reuniting with them again, and he will think of how sorry he is for leaving Remus and Harry behind, but James, here I come.) “As a rule, dragon heartstrings produce wands with the most power, and which are capable of the most flamboyant spells. Dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. While they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner. The dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental.” It is of interest to note that dragon wands tend to be easily swayed towards the Dark Arts. Sirius thinks it should be noted, and then he will tell it to fuck right off, thank you very much. He knows that, had things gone just a little differently, he wouldn’t have had any difficulty using Dark Magic; in fact, he’d have been rather adept at it. Sirius laughs at the notion - and would like to tell the Dark Lord that he can fuck right off, too. Sirius is a very quick learner. He is intelligent and, when he puts his mind to a task, he is able to stay determined and focused. Magic runs strong in his veins, so it’s only natural he be paired with a wand that is able to keep up with him and his raw power. That being said, however, Sirius’ magic is - too often - unpredictable. It has been since he was a child, and he still experiences outbursts of unintentional magic when his emotions get the better of him; the dragon wand nurtures his accidental magic, at times.

#&&.application #&&.biography

[embossross]

From His Mind to Yours

Chapter 1 >> Chapter 2

✣ Pairing: Hanma x AFAB fem!Reader

✣ Warning: 18+, minors DNI; unhealthy relationships & dark content

✣ Chapter CW: very very bad therapeutic practice; sexual harassment; references to masturbation; references to murder/drugs/violence

✣ Story CWs: patient/doctor relationships; sex (oral, ptv, pta, etc.), degradation, torture (not of y/n), and many more that I don't know yet

✣ Synopsis: Forced into therapy, Hanma expects to waste his time and yours, but you’re not about to let the chance of a high-profile and higher paying patient slip through your grasp. The fact that you’re both attracted to each other doesn’t hurt either.

✣ Word Count: ~5k

A row of crude teeth marks mangles the shape of your pen. Do you nibble when you’re distracted? Agitated? Hanma waits for you to reveal the particulars of this tell. It’s Chekhov’s gun. Yet in the fifteen minutes since he first catalogued this weakness of yours, your pen has never strayed towards your menacingly, orthodontically straight teeth. It’s Chekhov’s gun but filled with blanks.

Hanma credits himself with a particular skill in reading people. He doesn’t worm his way into their head like Kisaki might or intuit how to inspire blind loyalty like Mikey. No, Hanma’s superpower is picking apart a person’s weaknesses. One. By. One.

You, however, are constructed so carefully, the gummy rim of pen is the only sign you have a beating pulse.

When Kisaki ordered him to see a shrink, Hanma obliged because obeying Kisaki is second nature after a decade as his number two. Time and again, Hanma has followed Kisaki blindly into battle or business. Nearly every time – especially in those early years – he was rewarded for it. So here he is.

Maybe filling the hours with the sound of his own voice in a sterile office is not going to relieve his demons, but orders are orders. Today’s order is to attend therapy.

While you explain to Hanma the particulars of your credentials – blah blah, top university, blah – he sizes you, his shiny new therapist, up and finds you lacking. You are young, probably overeager to prove you can rehabilitate one of Tokyo’s most wanted. An impersonal office to match your bland, impersonal clothing; conservative, probably to appease the sex freaks that frequent your office. Over-groomed with bobby pins digging into your scalp and threatening a migraine, nylons that would never dare tear, manicured nails with clear polish. You are pretty despite your best efforts to hide it. Still, there is something about the way you move, performative in your restraint.

You are either the most confident person Hanma has ever encountered or the most wildly insecure.

If you would just nibble on the damned pen, he would have his answer.

“I prefer to speak with the friends and family of my patients before sitting down with them for the first time,” you say – maybe the fourth time you’ve impressed this fact upon him in his brief time in your office. “And Kisaki-san told me that you haven’t been sleeping well. Have you ever visited a doctor for insomnia?”

“No.”

One-word answers. Just enough that Kisaki can’t accuse him of refusing to cooperate.

“Do you take anything prescribed for insomnia?”

“No.”

“What about self-medicating? Or…does your trouble sleeping correspond to the use of any stimulants? Maybe Methamphetamines?”

Hanma refuses to give you credit for a lucky guess. The meth could be classified as a pleasant mistake. The temporary brain bliss is almost as pleasurable as feeling his fist collide with skin, or the rush when a person’s skull turns concave under the force of his knuckles. It’s why he started using.

It also happens to make him trigger happy, neurotic and perpetually late to meetings. Hanma suspects the latter was the last straw for Kisaki. Overkill is one thing but tardiness? Kisaki is running a business after all.

“Mostly meth but also cocaine, Diazepam, weed, LSD. I could go on. I sell it by the kilo, might as well dip a finger in on occasion,” Hanma says.

You raise an eyebrow at his use of the word ‘occasion.’ The vast undersell of his drug use is visible in the effects from just last night’s bender. A suit and coiffed hair may fool the average person, but the telltale signs are there. Even now, he feels a stab of alertness from a popped Ritalin downed with vodka to dull out the edges.

“What about appetite? I heard mixed opinions from your colleagues. Some swear you should be dead from starvation at this point, others that you eat like a horse,” you say.

“You’re an educated woman, so you know the proverb: ‘eighth-tenths full keeps the doctor away,” Hanma says, only realizing afterward that he’d intended not to respond to your questioning.

“And methamphetamines suppress the appetite,” you say dryly. “How often do you drink?”

Hanma notes that you haven’t written anything he says down in the notebook resting on your knee. The pen is not just unchewed but unused. Paranoid, he does a quick scan for any bugs that might be recording this session instead. That would be a fatal mistake on your part.

“I drink as much and often as you think,” Hanma says.

You don’t comment at Hanma’s lack of answer or at his strange behavior as he pats beneath his chair to confirm a bug isn’t glued to the bottom. Satisfied that there’s no other place to hide in your practically empty office, he relaxes back in his seat.

“How would you describe your sex drive?”

The barrage of questions bring to mind a flood memories. Remembers his cheek bruising against a police desk and wrists chafed raw from handcuffs as his freedom is dangled like a toy. Hanma despises the arrogance and ritual of interrogations; the interrogator asking the wrong questions, smug on a god-complex that promises Hanma will break and spill his guts under glaring lamplight. Shut up and lawyer up is what Toman advises. Except, Hanma always leans into his interrogations, snapping and seething at the police and prosecutor until their questions trip frightened off their tongue and the power is thoroughly reversed in his direction. Therapy, it seems, will be no different.

Hanma adjusts his long legs wider, a manspread that immediately drew the eye straight to his groin and grins.

“Looking for a first-hand demonstration, doc?”

Your eyes flicker briefly to his crotch, and Hanma’s cock answers with a twitch. The victory arouses every part of him. It does not hurt that you are a meal for the eyes either. If he saw you at one of Toman’s many clubs, Hanma would not hesitate to press you to your knees for him. Cold as your eyes are now, Hanma suspects they would liven up when pooling with tears and panic.

“It’s a basic diagnostic question,” you respond coolly.

“See, but I don’t appreciate you wasting my time on questions when you know the answers. You spoke to Kisaki before, yeah? Which means you know full well that I fuck and kill and shoot up and all the rest,” Hanma drones, unfeeling even on the verge of speechifying. “You have a rulebook you’re following. I get it. You’re young. Maybe Kisaki should have found someone more experienced because I have better things to do than cry to you about how hard my childhood was. I was a bad boy, and now, I’m a bad man.”

“My age bothers you?” you say, glomming onto the question of your competency and leaving the rest behind as if it means nothing. Typical. “I’m only one year younger than you are. Do you believe you need another dozen years’ of experience to excel at your job?”

“I’ve left a trail of cold cases to prove just how good I am at my job, sweetheart.”

“And I’ve left a trail of happy patients to show how good I am at mine. Hanma-san, tell me, why do you think we’re here today?”

The clock above your desk shows another fifteen minutes in the day’s session, and Kisaki will be up his ass if he leaves early. None of the staples of a therapist’s office – bonsai tree, swinging balls, abstract art – are present to distract him. For the next quarter hour, Hanma will be trapped in a room as bland as a prison cell with a hot but painfully boring therapist.

And Hanma hates to be bored.

There’s nothing better to do than lean into the cat-and-mouse game, see if he can lure his sweet therapist into a trap.

“A trick question? The mind games are beginning already, huh, doc?” Hanma sneers. “I suppose I’m here so that you can finally put a diagnosis on what everyone already knows. Name what makes me such a monster to polite, tax-paying citizens like you.”

“Except, you’ve been working for more than a decade with Kisaki-san and never once has he suggested you see a therapist before, correct? I’ve heard in depth from your colleagues about your behavior. They call you belligerent, impulsive, manipulative, cold. Basically, they sing your praises. Say you’re a natural at your job, one of the best in Tokyo. Why would your boss decide those traits are a problem now?” you counter.

“I’m blushing,” Hanma says, mostly to save time as he thinks through your analysis. There is a reason he saw such immediate success when he joined the delinquent world, and even as Kisaki led Toman into the realm of organized crime, the skillset remained the same. “If you have all the answers, then share them with the class. What is wrong with me?”

“Wrong with you? Well, I suppose that’s a matter of perspective. It’s too early to diagnose you with anything, but informally, I’d say you’re a closed and shut case of Anti-Social Personality Disorder.”

“You’re diagnosing me with psychopath?”

“I’m leaning sociopath based on the interviews I conducted with your colleagues. But the distinction isn’t as relevant as the TV shows pretend. I’d say you meet the criteria if ASPD, just about a text-book case,” you say, matter of fact in a way that other patients might appreciate hearing bad news.

The label followed Hanma throughout the years. A rotating retinue of losers have called him a psychopath and then met the unlucky side of his gun or the punishment of his knuckles. The appellation doesn’t offend him, but neither does it resonate with him. Hanma never did care for TV or movies, but the serial killers and stalkers that haunted the public’s collective imagination are familiar to him, and he can’t relate. He has never once considered dismembering a civilian just for the sake of it or stalking a co-ed for the thrill of her screams. What he loves most is a fight against an opponent worthy of him, the risk to his own life that gets his blood rushing.

Still, Hanma knows that he sees the world differently than other people. It is almost like he walks through life wearing sunglasses. He and the average person see the same shapes, same sizes, but there is a distortion to the color, something only Hanma can see, and others miss. In his darkest hours, he admits it could be the reverse. Maybe he is missing what others find so obvious.

“The clinical definition of someone with ASPD has changed significantly over the years. How I like to think of it is sociopaths have a muted ability to empathize with other people. Not necessarily a complete inability – and in fact, your colleagues seem to believe you do hold care for a select few – but you don’t feel it as intensely or in the same way as most people. As a result, you engage in behaviors that make you struggle to fit into society. That’s actually a part of the diagnostic criteria. Criminality, manipulation, risk-taking or other behaviors that make you struggle to become say an office worker but make you excellent at…whatever you’d call your job. The destructive becomes constructive. We could spend weeks in this office trying to lessen your violent impulses, but for what? So you can be slower to kill for the Tokyo Manji gang? I don’t think Kisaki-san would thank me for that.”

Broadcast news and preschool teachers delude the masses with the promise that violence and criminality are the playground of a small, chronically ostracized group of poors and crookeds. The button-ups that go to the office every day, the housewives, and store clerks, they all trade in empathy and love and rainbow kisses or some shit. Hanma knows this is a lie. He has seen time and again the sadism of the everyman.

So, your mercenary assessment of sociopathy does not surprise Hanma, but it does intrigue him. He wonders how you would score on a psychopath test. Whether there is any feeling harbored behind your icy veneer.

If he slid his hand beneath your blouse and kneaded his finger over your breast, would you have a heart?

“So, I’m a high-functioning sociopath, and you wouldn’t change a thing about me. I’m flattered. That still leaves us with the mystery of why I’m here.”

“Is it really a mystery? You seem to have an idea.”

“Well, there was an…incident four months ago. I don’t want to sully your pure ears with the details,” Hanma purrs. He hopes your imagination fills in the blanks with the most savage scene imaginable. Even then it probably wouldn’t be as gruesome as the damage he left behind. It was sloppy and cost Toman a fortune to bribe the right officials to ignore.

“Anything you say to me here is covered by doctor-patient confidentiality. I am mandated to report if you present an immediate danger to yourself or others, so I would prefer you not tell me if you intend to leave her and commit a murder presently. That said, these walls don’t talk and neither do I, regardless. It’s just a preference,” you say, pointlessly.

Hanma knows full well you won’t talk. He will personally make sure of it.

“I’ve heard of mob lawyers, now get ready for mob therapists! How very new millennia of you,” Hanma guffaws. “Without going into the details, I saw an opportunity to win a negotiation with a powerful business partner. They had offered a deal that Kisaki accepted. The terms were set. I saw an opportunity with a little candid discussion to further sweeten the terms. I was right, of course. Our deal today is far more generous in our favor. But the aftermath of the conversation was a bitch to clean up and attracted some unwarranted attention from our friends at the Tokyo police department.”

To your discredit, you don’t react with a hint of fear to this confession. So far, his only success provoking you was when he questioned your credentials. He won’t forget that useful information.

“Impulsivity and risk-taking are typical in people diagnosed with ASPD. The research is actually interesting on the subject. It suggests that you could feel regret for the choice, especially if you face negative consequences, but you likely couldn’t use that regret to prevent yourself from making the same mistake again.”

“Like a toddler that burns his hand on the stove Monday and is dumb enough to do it again on Tuesday?” Hanma demands.

You don’t realize how closely you’ve danced to the edge with him. He meets people like you every day. You aren’t half so interesting as to excuse an insult, and he would have you crying for your life before you insulted him again.

“In over-simplified terms? Sure. There are two primary theories to explain the impulsivity and risk-taking behaviors of someone diagnosed with ASPD. The first is that your brain is just wired differently. The same brain rewiring that damages your empathy is also dampening your self-control.”

Hanma scoffs.

“I see you don’t care for that theory. My feelings exactly,” you agree. “I think there’s a simple explanation, and it’s why we’re here today. I think people diagnosed with ASPD – I think you, Hanma-san – are bored.”

Eagerly, you lean forward. Here, at the big reveal, you tip your hand and show your excitement. Your eyes are brighter than he’s ever seen them. Professional victory has thawed you and revealed the young woman, the human.

“Bored…is that a professional diagnosis?” Hanma asks.

“Funny,” you say, and it sounds like you mean it. “The other side of the boredom coin is depression. We’d need to run through the diagnostic criteria before I can diagnose you officially, but I bet you qualify. In fact, I bet that when you wake up on a lazy day, one where you have no morning appointments, nothing to organize your morning, you lay in bed for minutes at a time, unsure what to do. Should you take a shower? Watch porn? Make breakfast? Shoot up? Call someone? Who? How do you decide what to do with your day, when every option promises the same yawning boredom as the next? How am I doing so far?”

Yes! Yes! Yes!

Follow me, Kisaki had promised. Follow me and I’ll make your life exciting. At fifteen years old, Hanma had almost given up on life. A high school dropout, he watched boys his age jerking off to cartoons and crowing over the trials and tribulations of their school club, and wondered what universe they were living in. Hardly anyone could reach him. Even the other delinquents offered only the occasional challenge.

Kisaki entered his life and presented something valuable: stimulation. He taught Hanma to slow down and appreciate the build up to the big moment. The calculated staging of a plot to destroy someone else, culminating in the delicious high of battle, the last-minute pivot as your enemy reacted in ways you couldn’t predict. It kept him alive and entertained for years. But now…

…Now, Toman sits atop the criminal world as the uncontested conqueror of Tokyo. All of their enemies have long since been crushed. The occasional upstart contender is defeated within a month of entering the ring. Their work is focused on fine-tuning an already smooth criminal operation, optimizing profits.

What is the point?

There are so many hours in a week, in a day! And there are so few activities that bring the rush he needs.

Hanma doesn’t care for money. Stealing something feels better anyway. He doesn’t stake his pride on the success of Toman. Time has made him fond of a number of the top executives – Kisaki and Hakki particularly – but their company only interests him for a few hours a week.

Sex helps. Drugs help. Underground boxing rings help. But none of these things inspire him to get out of bed every morning.

He is unanchored. He is an addict whose supply is dwindling. Or, more accurately, who has adjusted to the product and can no longer achieve the same highs as before.

Sitting across from your pretty, blank face, and confronting the truth, Hanma feels split in half. He wants to slap you for seeing him so clearly when no one else has ever dared look.

Yet another part roars in celebration. He feels hyper-present. The fog of boredom is in retreat.

“Well, I’m certainly not bored now,” Hanma drawls with a smile. “You know, I’ve read in the papers tragic stories of some poor sap falling out of bed, bumping his head, and waking up a full-blown psychopath. Is that true? Do you think that’s what happened to me?”

You shrug. “Have you ever suffered a traumatic brain injury?”

“Sure, dozens,” Hanma smiles. His fighting style is all offense. Getting concussed is a non-event to him.

“Has there ever been a significant change in your behavior, personality, or perspective following one of these brain events?” you clarify.

“No.”

“Well, then, I’m inclined to put this more on your childhood,” you say.

“Spoken like a true shrink, though you might be onto something. Mommy was an alcoholic, Daddy was a diddler, and all the neighborhood kids picked on me. It was real said,” Hanma intones in a tragic whisper.

“We can save your childhood confessions for when we’ve built up more of a rapport,” you say, leaving the bait untouched.

“Boo! Who’s boring now? Actually, going back to that brain injury thing. I think that would be pretty entertaining. Could I take a decent citizen, no a step beyond, a monk, bonk them on the head and turn them into a violent psychopath? That would be pretty fun to watch. I may just have to try it out.”

Hakkai’s sister owns a spa outside Tokyo, in the mountains not far from a shrine. There ought to be one or two stray monks he could abduct for an experiment. All in the name of science, of course.

Again, you prove unbaitable. You don’t chastise him for his evil ways or wiggle in your seat. Instead, you ponder the logistics of the scenario every bit as seriously.

“Hmm…let me think about that for a moment. The challenge is it’s common for people to change dramatically after a traumatic experience, not from brain injury but from the adrenaline and the psychological impact. So, if you attacked a temple of monks, you would expect drastic behavioral changes, even if their brains weren’t rewired to psychopathy. You’d have to know about their daily patterns beforehand as well for comparison, so you’d have to surveil the place for weeks if not months. And even then, it’s more of a one in one thousand chance.”

“That’s not a problem. One thousand monks it is!”

“I’ll be on the lookout for that headline. One thousand monks mysteriously bashed on the head,” you banter.

Hanma isn’t joking. In fact, he’s trying to unbalance you, but you laugh like what he’s said is genuinely hilarious. In that brief moment, everything about you relaxes. Your posture slackens, ankles crossing to reveal a scandalous sliver of ankle. Modestly, your hand flutters to cover your mouth, but he can still see the stretch of your lips. Best of all, you tap your pen briefly to your lips, a second short of a little nibble.

Hanma sees the real you in a burst of unrestrained honesty. The same way you saw him earlier.

There is a temptation to let the moment linger with this foreign version of you, but your momentary flash of vulnerability is too valuable to pass up. Hanma leans forward to mirror your posture.

“Let’s say I agree with your hypothesis, and say yes, I’m bored. What then? Do you teach me how to appreciate the little things in life?”

You sober, resuming the professional veil.

“No. There may be some medications – a mood stabilizer or anti-depressant – that help. And, we could certainly work on developing some tools for when you are bored, so that you don’t do something destructive to break the monotony, but the main priority would be to help you find things that stimulate and entertain your need for an adrenaline high. That way, you don’t wake up wishing yourself or others dead. Instead, you would go out and stimulate yourself. Something like…car racing maybe? I will have to think on it a bit.”

How…droll. Disappointment crashes into Hanma like said racing car – of which he already owns two. After teasing him with your uncanny insight into his brain, you followed up with mundanity.

He despises you. Yes, he hates people like you. You could offer him no more than a monkey dancing on a string. Well…you were pretty. You could have one additional use.

Vindictive at having his hopes dashed, Hanma snaps back, “Car racing? Your cure for me is car racing? You know there are plenty of other ways I could start getting my kicks. What do other sociopaths do to get off? I could start stalking women, maybe start with a pretty, little therapist? That could keep me plenty entertained. I wonder how you’d scream when I’m breaking through your window.”

“Loudly. I live on the eighth floor. Regardless, you already get the thrill of holding power over others as part of your job, and you have plenty of sexual stimulation. I don’t think terrorizing me would offer you much novelty. My scream would sound no different than anyone else’s,” you say, brutally dispassionate.

“Spoil sport,” Hanma mutters.

There are a handful of people in the world who could rebut him so casually. He senses no fear in you, and against his better judgment, his interest piques once again.

“You wanted to scare me, and you didn’t. How does it make you feel when you don’t get the reaction you want?” you ask.

“Hard.”

For good measure, Hanma thrusts his hips up. Your eyes dart down before you remember yourself and redirect your gaze to your notepad. You scribble something down. Maybe too ashamed to meet his gaze?

“Our time is up,” you say. “I think this was a strong start. We’re agreed on the problem, which is always the first challenge. Now, it’s just a matter of coming up with a therapeutic solution. Can I show you out?”

Something hisses through Hanma’s brain, not quite angry but close. With the session over, he realizes how effortlessly you controlled the tone and topic even as he tried to disrupt or stonewall you at every turn. He had been reduced to a naughty schoolboy throwing paper airplanes at the teacher’s back.

Hanma can’t let you end this session on your terms as well.

“You’re just going to throw me out into the cold after making my cock hard like this? You’re in the services industry. My service should end with a happy ending,” Hanma mocks.

He palms his own thigh, drawing attention to the magnitude of his person. The threat is ninety percent air, but Hanma thinks he might cum immediately if you watch him touch himself. Or better yet, if you jerk him off with your delicate, moisturized hands. He loves putting a woman’s manicure to good use.

“I need to speak to Kisaki-san for a few minutes about your therapy anyway. Feel free to sit here as long as you like,” you say dismissively.

“You tease.”

As your heels click out the door, Hanma sinks further back into the plush of the armchair and thinks. He has always been excellent at picking out others’ weaknesses. So, while it could be his imagination, he believes his gut when it tells him your parting expression at his antics…it was fond.

When you close the door behind your office and Hanma, it’s not like you breath some great sigh of relief, but you can’t deny your breathing comes easier. The air in the room had been oppressive, like Hanma took three great gulps of oxygen for every one you managed to steal.

There is no time to celebrate, however, because in the waiting area awaits yet another predator.

“Kisaki-san! I apologize for keeping you waiting. Can I offer you anything to drink?” you say in your softest voice. You pegged Kisaki as a man with limited expectations of women and no appetite to expand his worldview.

Possibly the most dangerous man in Tokyo sits in a narrow, plastic chair in your waiting room. It feels wrong to greet him from a position of height, and you wait for him to stand before drawing closer. Like Hanma, he is dressed well, though with less flare than your potential patient.

“No, your receptionist handled that,” Kisaki waves away your drink offer. “You’ve had the opportunity to meet him now. Will you take on his case?”

Unbeknownst to Hanma, that had been less therapy session than interview. Work like this pays well but presents particular risks, and you never rush into a potential mistake. You would rather gather information until you saw every angle, and then act accordingly. Today’s meeting with Hanma is the final step in your risk assessment.

“I think I understand him and how to help him. That said, he showed more aggression towards me as a person than I expected,” you said, taking special care in your choice of the word ‘aggression.’

“He can be intimidating,” Kisaki says on a ghost of a smile.

“If I’m going to take on his treatment, I’ll need double.”

There. The final piece in your negotiation. Naturally, you intended to raise your prices at the last moment, but double is a legitimate reaction to Hanma.

You hadn’t expected him to be so…charismatic. His voice did half the work, deep in a way that made your gut clench and teasing in a way that made your pussy clench with it. He showed less of the superficial charm you expected from sociopaths, likely because he didn’t seek your validation. He toyed with you, yes, but like you were still on the shelf, a toy he hadn’t committed to buying. In his disinterest, he held nothing back, bantering so fast you struggled to keep up the entire session. Clinging to your professional script, you could barely keep up with his questions.

It excites you.

Then, there is the threat from the end of the session. Even now, he remains in your office. Is he actually jerking off? Or was that a taunt to strike fear into you? Probably the latter. If the former, you ought to hire a locksmith to add a third set of locks to your door.

Transference is always something you guard against and shut down at the earliest signals. You are not a friend, lover, or mother to your patients, and you can be callous in knocking that reminder into the deluded.

Yet with Hanma, how are you supposed to make any progress if you can’t engage his attention? He repeatedly tried to introduce a tit-for-tat into the conversation, showing the most interest when the conversation turned back on you. A little transference, just a little, might make him more susceptible to therapy.

All of this plays out in your head as you negotiate terms with Kisaki. Finally, he concedes to your price.

“I expect results,” Kisaki says. Unlike Hanma, he doesn’t need theatrics to make the threat heard loud and clear.

You hold his murderous gaze unflinchingly and reply, “My professional career would be destroyed if word ever reached the psychiatric board that I took this case. So, you have collateral in the event you’re unhappy with my work. But you won’t need it. You’ll see results.”

“I better.”

When you fall asleep rereading your case files that night, Kisaki’s words echo in your ear and invade your sweetest dreams. Failure is not an option.

#tokyo revengers smut #tokyo revengers x reader smut #hanma smut #hanma x reader #tokyo rev smut #from his mind to hers #embossross masterlist #read the warnings please #harassment tw #improper medical practice tw

[crimsonrevolt]

Congratulations Dani you’ve been accepted to Crimson Revolt as Sirius Black!

↳ please refer to our character checklist

Sirius shares the spot for my favorite character in the series and your app captures him brilliantly, Dani.  It’s hard to pick just one thing we loved but we especially appreciated how you talked about the nature vs nurture aspect of Sirius’ life and how he would have been a very different person had certain turning-points never happened.  It’s easy to see how various influences have shaped him yet no one thing defines him.  Sirius remains, as ever, his own person.  It’s wonderful to have you back, Dani! *your faceclaim change to Miles McMillan has been approved.

application beneath the cut

OUT OF CHARACTER

INTRODUCTION

Surprise! It’s me, ya boi! Dani here and I’m 25 now. My preferred pronouns are she/her and I am from Michigan in the US, so EST timezone.

ACTIVITY

I’m going to low-ball and say like 5-6/10 ???  I’ve been working a lot lately, but things are calming down. So definitely at the very least I’ll have a few weeknights free, and then time on the weekends.

HOW DID YOU FIND US?

Old member here! Initially, though, it was through the marauder’s rp tag, I believe.

WHAT HARRY POTTER CHARACTER DO YOU IDENTIFY WITH MOST?

Funnily enough, I’ve always hardcore connected with Sirius. Our personality types are very similar, and I’ve always been the ‘Padfoot’ in groups of friends. And growing older I’ve identified similarities between his upbringing and home life and my own, so yeah. But I also identified with Harry, Hermione, and Luna when I was younger. I don’t exactly remember why, but I did ?  Maybe it was the outcast factor or whatever, but those are all tied for second after Sirius, I think.

ANYTHING ELSE?

I’ve missed you guys, ok.

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER

Sirius Orion Black III ——– He is named for the Dog Star, the most brilliant star in the sky, visible from anywhere on Earth - an actuality he embraces and carries with him from the moment he is able to understand its meaning. Ancient namings signify he is scorching, sparkling, bringing destruction and rebirth. He is important, and his name informs everyone of such.

But he is the point of Canis Major, a hunting dog, ever looking towards his master, Orion. Later, he would think it ironic that he was intended to obediently follow the hunter across the sky. When he was young, though, he did follow his father, his master, with wide eyes and a thirst to learn, to emulate. He did, after all, carry his father’s name as one of his own. He thought it only right that he be his hunter. He learned quickly enough to leave Orion Black be.

His name embraces the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black - a reality he despises when he is older. He is taught to believe that to be a Black, to be a Pureblood is to be royalty. He believes it.

He spends the majority of his childhood being trained to be the perfect Pureblood heir, to be the perfect Black. He attends many Pureblood-only balls and events, and is taught the proper way to mingle with other Purebloods. He learns manners and etiquette, and he is expected to be a proper child. There are never many other children at the balls, but he is reminded that it is improper to run about and make a fool of oneself like ordinary children; he is, after all, anything but ordinary.

How could he be? His name attests to his brilliance.

FACE CLAIM

Would Miles McMillan be okay?? He’s my ultimate #1 top fave Sirius face.

REASON FOR CHOSEN CHARACTER (tw: mania, depression, alcohol)

This is long, I’m so sorry but not really. But Sirius Black has been one of my favorite literary characters since I was in 3rd grade and first read Prisoner of Azkaban. There was just always something about him, and I don’t even know how to put into words how much I love Sirius Black. I remember the moment I fell in love with him, though, was when I was reading PoA and this man who had just spent the last twelve years wrongly imprisoned for an horrific crime he didn’t commit, and who had just spent the last year on the run with his godson thinking him responsible for betraying James and Lily, offers for Harry to leave the Dursley’s and move in with him. Even after everything he had been through, he was still willing to immediately take in Harry and take his place as his rightful guardian. It breaks my heart that they were never able to be a proper family, but that’s discourse for another time!

Sirius was really the first character I ever really roleplayed, and he’s been living and growing in my head for six or seven years now, as silly as that sounds. My Sirius muse is always active and talkative and ready for action, and I love being able to put him out there and develop him further and still learn new things about him even after all this time (reference, yus!). I’ve always just felt a real connection with him. Maybe it’s because I see parts of myself in him, or maybe it’s because it’s just always been really natural and easy for me to get into his head and way of thinking. He’s always been more than just a character to me.

His personality, for me, has developed a lot since the early days. I think it’s easy to get sucked into fanon interpretation early on, especially with characters that have a really strong fandom presence. But I’m really proud of the character he’s become, and I think he strays from a lot of typical fanon stereotypes. One of the biggest stereotypes - and one that really bothers me - is that Sirius is some kind of Don Juan-Lothario-playboy-heartbreaker-type.

“With another shock of excitement, Harry saw Sirius give James the thumbs-up….a girl sitting behind him was eyeing him hopefully, though he didn’t seem to have noticed.”

Sirius’ main concern has always been, and will always be, his friends. He cares far more for his Marauders and their pranks than he does for birds and sleeping around. He’s a flirt, yes, but only because he’s charming and needs to grace everyone with that charm. It’s harmless flirting, and it’s not his fault if anyone takes it as anything other than that.

I also love dabbling in the Black side of Sirius. While Sirius is a very good person, I think a lot of that is due to him being sorted in Gryffindor and befriending James Potter. Without his influence, I think Sirius would be a very different person. Not all of that is inherent, but Sirius definitely has a cruel, cunning streak in him (i.e. that time he almost killed Snape). A lot of it is in his nature, and some remains from his upbringing; our early years and development have a huge impact on the people we become. So, I think it’s interesting, especially in the state of the world as it currently is, to play with just what parts of Sirius’ personality become more dominant. Add to that Sirius being part of the Aversio, and I think it’s a really great combination of ruthless, cunning cruelty and the person the Marauders helped him become to create something new all together. I’d be really interested to see how that changes him and, maybe, influences a shift to the Sirius he could have been had he not met James and the Marauders.

In my headcanon, as well, Sirius is living with undiagnosed Bipolar Disorder. It won’t ever be diagnosed or named in-game since they’re living in 1979 (it’s still fairly misunderstood now), but it definitely affects him. I feel like his upswings are pretty intense, and it usually results in him wanting to be out all the time and doing things, and he feels infallible and invincible, and he’s a lot more likely to be reckless and make snap decisions. He definitely has a tendency towards dangerous ideas that he thinks are absolutely brilliant (see: the Prank with Snape). On the other end of it, though, Sirius’ lows are very low, and he self-medicates with alcohol when he ’s suffering from the worst of his depression (see: pretty much all of Order of the Phoenix). But I don’t think that Sirius recognizes the depression as such. It’s a lot easier for him to acknowledge when he’s feeling great and on top of the world as opposed to when he’s feeling like shit and struggles with getting out of bed in the morning. He’s a lot more likely to hide that side of himself, too, and play it off with a smirk and light-hearted joke at someone else’s expense.

PREFERRED SHIPS // CHARACTER SEXUALITY // GENDER & PRONOUNS   (tw: slurs, mentions of body dysphoria)

If someone were to ask Sirius his gender and sexuality, though, he would quirk a brow and scoff and let out a bark of laughter because, obviously, he’s got a cock and he’s not a queer, what sort of daft question is that? But his closest friends know that he enjoys the company of both men and women, although lately he’s sought out men more often than not.

Sirius doesn’t remember the exact moment when he realized that he was attracted to men. Maybe it was sometime in his third year, when he had accompanied James to watch the Quidditch team practice. Maybe he had caught himself staring at one of the seventh years - a boy with shaggy brown hair and a strong jaw - as he flew around the Pitch. Maybe he had felt the distinct swoop in his stomach as he had watched, and maybe he had imagined what it would be like to kiss the older boy.

But Sirius only really remembers being too afraid to say anything to James, Remus, and Peter, being afraid that it would change everything and they would think him a freak, a faggot they didn’t want to be friends with, anymore. James found out, though, and nothing changed between them, and soon after so did Remus and Peter. It became much easier after that to accept that part of himself. He doesn’t hide that amongst his friends or the Order; although the muggle world is less accepting of his sexuality, he doesn’t pay much attention to anyone who gives him shit. He flips them the bird and continues on his way.

What he would never admit to, however, is the many times he has passed frilly shop windows and imagined being able to wear whatever clothes he wants that he sees, or wished he could be as comfortable in his own skin as David Bowie, or Freddie Mercury. Sirius doesn’t always feel exactly right in the body he has, and he doesn’t understand it even a little bit. After all, it’s hard enough to deal with the war; he doesn’t want to even begin to focus on the whole gender bit.

The other thing he would never, ever admit to is the feelings he has harbored for Remus since they were realized in roughly fifth year. He remembers it was an ordinary moment; Remus had been working on an essay and nibbling on the end of his quill, and Sirius had been watching him, entirely too distracted, and it had just…hit him. But, of course, he wasn’t deserving of Remus. He would never be deserving of Remus. Sirius wrestled with the feelings for a good year or so, but he has long since accepted them without hope for it ever changing.

In modern terminology, he would identify as a gender-fluid demiromantic pansexual, but that’s too fancy and way ahead of his time, so all he knows is that he’s queer - just another way in which he would have disappointed his family.

As far as ships go, I’m def wolfstar trash. They were my first real ship and I love them to pieces. That being said, Sirius/Chemistry is my #1 jam. The only thing is that he isn’t always into serious relationships unless he’s good friends with the person first. In my headcanon, he’s never had a real, serious relationship (although every relationship is most certainly a Sirius one, lmao), but he doesn’t feel wanting, necessarily. Relationships aren’t exactly a priority right now when there are bigger things to worry about.

EXTRAS

&;;—— PERSONALITY TRAITS (tw: alcohol, mentioned violence/blood)

✓ Funny ——- “Did you like question ten, Moony?”

He is barking laughter and poorly timed jokes, puns upon puns - seriously. A grin as wide as the day is long, carefree and easy. Light in the black of war; white sheep in the Black family. His good humor has covered him and carried him through all that he’s seen. It’s as much a shield for himself as it is those with whom he surrounds himself.

✓ Loyal | Loving ——- “Died rather than betray your friends, as we would have done for you!”

He is fierce, heart full for those he holds dear. Not many are kept that close, but there is no hesitation when asked to give his life. Warmth and comfort, in the crook of his smile and the corners of his eyes. Brilliance and steadfast companionship: a dog is man’s best friend.

✓/✕ Strong-minded | Judgemental ——- “Besides, the world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters. We’ve all got both light and dark inside us.”

He is a tree rooted to the earth, tall and proud. Unmoving and firm against the hailing storm. Beliefs, unwavering, unwilling to hear. Opposition is wrong, and he knows it as well as he knows the stories written in the night sky. He is strong-willed and stubborn; a brick wall would be more receptive. He thinks himself open-minded, but it is only another belief.

✕ Doesn’t think through consequences ——- “What is life without a little risk?”

He is snap decisions made in the heat of the moment. Turbulent and emotional, judgement shifts as easily as debris caught in the tide. Words, biting, leaving scars as easily as laughter erases them from his mind. Passing thoughts in an endless stream of chaos - why waste time paying mind to outcomes when you can just act?

✕ Hellacious attitude ——- “There are things worth dying for!”

He is 2 am, leather, and a mess of discarded liquor bottles scattered about the floor. Blood-kissed knuckles and knuckle-kissed jaw. Smirks and sighs toppling from carved lips. Caught in a tempest, winds whipping his hair about his face, unable to see, blindly stumbling along, deafening roars threaten to consume him - one foot in front of the other. Raw magic crackling in the air, electricity against your skin; a beautiful sight when it implodes.

&;;—— WAND: As badly as Sirius sometimes wishes his wand was made from Dogwood (think of the irony! the puns! the beauty of the universe!), he was chosen by a Cypress wood wand with a Dragon Heartstring core, 15 inches, rigid.

“Cypress wands are associated with nobility. The great medieval wandmaker, Geraint Ollivander, wrote that he was always honoured to match a cypress wand, for he knew he was meeting a witch or wizard who would die a heroic death. Fortunately, in these less blood-thirsty times, the possessors of cypress wands are rarely called upon to lay down their lives, though doubtless many of them would do so if required. Wands of cypress find their soul mates among the brave, the bold and the self-sacrificing: those who are unafraid to confront the shadows in their own and others’ natures.”

Sirius won’t think about the wandlore behind cypress wands and their masters dying a heroic death until the fleeting, infinite moment in which he begins to fall in the Department of Mysteries. He will think it ironic, then, that his death is hardly heroic at all; that, naturally, James and Lily had far more heroic deaths than him. (He will also think about finally, finally reuniting with them again, and he will think of how sorry he is for leaving Remus and Harry behind, but James, here I come.)

“As a rule, dragon heartstrings produce wands with the most power, and which are capable of the most flamboyant spells. Dragon wands tend to learn more quickly than other types. While they can change allegiance if won from their original master, they always bond strongly with the current owner. The dragon wand tends to be easiest to turn to the Dark Arts, though it will not incline that way of its own accord. It is also the most prone of the three cores to accidents, being somewhat temperamental.”

It is of interest to note that dragon wands tend to be easily swayed towards the Dark Arts. Sirius thinks it should be noted, and then he will tell it to fuck right off, thank you very much. He knows that, had things gone just a little differently, he wouldn’t have had any difficulty using Dark Magic; in fact, he’d have been rather adept at it. Sirius laughs at the notion - and would like to tell the Dark Lord that he can fuck right off, too.

Sirius is a very quick learner. He is intelligent and, when he puts his mind to a task, he is able to stay determined and focused. Magic runs strong in his veins, so it’s only natural he be paired with a wand that is able to keep up with him and his raw power. That being said, however, Sirius’ magic is - too often - unpredictable. It has been since he was a child, and he still experiences outbursts of unintentional magic when his emotions get the better of him; the dragon wand nurtures his accidental magic, at times.

&;;—— PATRONUS: It’s commonplace that a Patronus will match a witch or wizard’s Animagus form, if they happen to be such, and Sirius is no exception. His Patronus takes the form of a dog, matching that of his Animagus counterpart: a bear-like German Shepherd. German Shepherds are known for being intelligent, loyal, and fiercely over-protective. Any close friend of his would attest to the fact that Sirius exemplifies those qualities. He is a bright wizard, and he would do anything for those he cares about.

&;;—— The best thing that has ever happened: ”I know that you will make us proud, Sirius.”

No one ever expected Sirius to be a Gryffindor; he certainly hadn’t when he had stepped up to the stool to be sorted his first year at Hogwarts. His entire family had come from Slytherin. He even knew that, somewhere in his lineage, he was related to Salazar Slytherin himself. But as Sirius’ attention had drifted to the far table of green and silver, he had felt a tug in his stomach that he hadn’t really understood.

….“GRYFFINDOR!”

He ignored the shouts and jests coming from the Slytherin table to rightfully take his place amongst the lions of Hogwarts. He was joined, thankfully, by James and the redhead he had met with the greasy boy (he was grateful - and always would be - that the greasy one ended up in Slytherin).

It wasn’t before he was whisked away to his dorm and he got to know his fellow dormmates: one sickly-looking boy named Remus and a short, ordinary boy named Peter. Sirius thought he could do without Remus and Peter. Who needed them when he had James, his best friend? But Remus and Peter did prove themselves when they turned the greasy boy’s hair a bright shade of pink for a week. That, Sirius decided, was enough to earn his respect.

The four of them quickly became inseparable, and Sirius decided that being a Lion was worth the consequent Howlers he received, even if meant returning from the Christmas hols with bruises hidden beneath scratchy sweaters.

&;;—— And the worst:“Blood traitor! Filth! Scum!“

He tried not to cry out as his mother punished him one final time for being an insolent disgrace; he wouldn’t give her the pleasure. He was worse for the wear, however, when she finished with him and sent him off to think about his disobedience. Again. Sirius sat, on the edge of his bed, trembling; it was out of his control. He thought, but it didn’t take long for him to realize what he must do.

He needed to leave.

He hastily threw what belongings he could into his school trunk, gathering up anything he deemed important. He was able to perform a simple expansion and levitation charm - he decided he could deal with the Ministry later - and led his trunk out of his room. But he knew he needed to stop at his brother’s room before he left.

Sirius loved his brother and he has always loved his brother, but Regulus was not like him. He was weak-minded and bent to the wishes of their parents. Sirius always wanted to keep Regulus safe from them, from Mother, but he went to school and was sorted into Gryffindor and it changed. He became the disgrace, and it had been up to Regulus to be the perfect son. Sirius never wanted that for him, and he didn’t want that for him now. So he tried to bring Regulus with him. He wanted to ask, wanted him to leave and escape the hell they had grown up in.

But Regulus didn’t leave with him. He wasn’t like Sirius. He was an idiot, and he didn’t leave. So Sirius goes. But not before he watched as his mother blasted his name from the family tree.

(Sirius still regrets not making Regulus leave with him.)

&;;—— AESTHETICS here [x] and here [x]

&;;—— PLOT POINTS    ~ I really want to explore the conflict that Sirius is facing between his loyalty to his friends and his allegiance to Aversio. He very, very strongly believes that the Order isn’t doing enough, but he knows that a lot of Aversio’s tactics and such clash with the Order. He knows that there are many friends and allies that would look down on his involvement in the group, and he loathes to disappoint them. But Sirius is firm in his convictions. He isn’t one to waver in his decisions, and he truly believes that Aversio is the action the world needs. Again, however, that contradicts his closest friends, and I want to explore how Sirius reacts in such a situation. I want to push his loyalty to the limits and see what he does when it really comes down to it.

~  On the same note, I would love to have some of his closer friends find out about his involvement in the rogue organization. I feel like I know Sirius fairly well, but I honestly don’t know how he would react in such a situation that calls to question where his loyalties truly lie. I think it would be an interesting bit of character development to really put the pressure on him like that.

~  Sirius has a dark side, whether he would like to admit to it or not. It’s part of who he is, so deeply ingrained in his being that he doesn’t recognize it in the slightest. But it’s there. War tends to bring out the worst in people, and I want it to do so to Sirius. I want to mess him up, to play with his mind and pit him against himself until he no longer knows what he is or where he stands. I want to dive into the more psychological aspects of the affect of the war, especially since this is full AU now. If he doesn’t end up getting messed up in Azkaban, I have to mess him up somehow  =)

IN CHARACTER QUESTIONNAIRE

♔ If you were able to invent one spell, potion, or charm, what would it do, what would you use it for or how would you use it? Feel free to name it: “S’pose I’d make one that’d be able to track the greater London area,” Sirius answers with a smirk, wand twirling between slender fingers. He shifts, eyebrows flashing. “Y’know, something along the lines of magical cartography, but…big. Large scale. Easy spell, I’d imagine, if you could figure out the scale.” If they put their minds to it, Sirius is sure he, James, Remus, and Peter could come up with something. “Be able to locate anyone anywhere in all of London just by looking at a map. Imagine how bloody brilliant it’d be!”

♔ You have to venture deep into the Forbidden Forest one night. Pick one other character and one object (muggle or magical), besides your wand, that you’d want with you: “James, Remus, and Peter. Package deal, yeah?” He quirks a brow. “Probably bring James’ cloak - usually do. It’s a bloody miracle, that thing. Gotten us outta loads of trouble over the years.”

♔ What kinds of decisions are the most difficult for you to make? Sirius grins, back straightening - pride rolling off square shoulders. “Well thought out ones. That’s what I’m told, anyhow. I’m better at the quick ones, the real difficult ones.”

♔ What is one thing you would never want said about you? He hesitates, smile faltering - though he catches it, corrects it before it can be noticed (he hopes). “I dunno,” he says, gaze averted, a shoulder shrugging. A pause. A flash of an image behind his eyes - his friends, hollow-eyed, telling him that he’s a Black, through and through, just like them, can never escape it, terrible awful cruel heartless Black. “That I’m like them. Because I’m not. I’m so much better than they are.”

REACTION TO LAST EVENT DROP

One of Sirius’ biggest fears - a pardoned Orion - had been just on the horizon - a horrible truth born of the wavering fealty of the Ministry to the people it should serve. The Ministry had not proven useful in any form when it had come to dismantling the threat of the Death Eaters, nor action been its strong suit. So, it was with gusto that Sirius had volunteered to finally -finally - do something about the useless Ministry. It was with little regret, no mercy that Sirius would have raided the Ministry, striking down anyone in his way, fear and rage and a childhood that haunted his every memory of Orion Black fueling his actions. Until–

It was too late. The Death Eaters had taken the Ministry, and Sirius couldn’t help but blame his hatred for his father for blinding him to what had happened that night. So, he fled, with those closest to him, to a safe house far from London’s ground zero, shame and disgust at his own actions grasping hold of him, crippling any sense of logic that may have remained. Sirius fell back - too quiet, maybe, not as bright as he was supposed to shine.

Still, as they settled in Scotland, worked towards a new goal, a new plan of action, Sirius found himself not quite wavering from the ideals that drew him to Aversio; again, they were waiting, holding back while the Death Eaters took hold of London. Again, inaction, when there should be something, some retaliation to show that they were still there, still fighting, and wouldn’t Lord Voldemort win. But - nothing. And Sirius wondered how differently the war might be if Aversio had full control over the decisions, over the course of action.

WRITING SAMPLE

(this is from an old post on here, i hope that’s okay! i’m just hella fond of this one, tbh)

In his youth, when the sky had appeared infinitely brighter and the days seemingly endless, when everywhere could bring forth a new adventure with little to no warning, when the silken tendrils of optimism wound around his body, weaving between pale fingers, toes - gently cradling and protecting; then, Knockturn Alley had not frightened him. But he had been young, naive. He hadn’t known the manner of the witches and wizards who frequented the cobbled street and dark, slanted buildings. They had towered over him, then, and he had stared back, challenging whatever authority they wordlessly claimed. He had challenged the world.

But, as it so often is, childhood naivety gave way to harsh truths, and accompanying his father to Knockturn Alley no longer offered boundless adventure. Instead, he saw the buildings for what they were, the witches and wizards as the cruel people they had always been. He saw the shadowed sky, tucked away behind pointed rooftops, and just how unlike its neighbor, Diagon Alley, it was. The Alley was no place for decent witches or wizards, which was why he supposed the Blacks held such fondness for it.

Now, Sirius had no need to traverse the uneven, dismal avenue, and yet… here he was. Hands stuffed into pockets, fist firm around his wand, Sirius averted his eyes, silently cursing the bloody wanker who had volunteered him for this bloody “mission,” although he was loath to describe it as such. Inquire about such and such item at some shoddy shite-hole shop, speaking only to Git McWanker blah, blah, blah. It was a fucking waste of time, was what it was.

Yet, here he was, pointedly staring at books on a shelf in some corner of Knockturn Alley - many of which he recognized as titles from the walls of the Black family library. They dredge up images of the study and lessons and evenings spent pouring over texts he had no care for, all in the name of properly educating the heir, or some bollocks. He almost scoffed at the thought, adjusting his jacket as he eyed the shopkeeper. Feign interest, then approach him for information; it was a decent enough plan, but Sirius was stopped in his tracks by the woman that rounded the corner.

Eyes locked, drinking up the vision before him - something out of a dream, a nightmare - and he was suddenly eight beneath her gaze, frightened and angry and improper, insolent, yet again. Hands balled at his sides, shoulders tense, and he resisted the visceral pull to back away, run away, get away from her. Instead, his jaw set and he held her gaze - challenging her command over him, because she now had none.

“It’s comforting to know that some things never change,” he remarked brazenly, determination settling squarely atop his shoulders. “Seeing you here, I mean. Of all places. Picking up a new addition to the library, hmm? Perhaps a copy of Magick Moste Pure: Grimoire of Pureblood Fuckery? I hear that’s been selling quite nicely with your crowd.” He sneered, arms crossing over his chest - tight. “Oughta be careful who sees you walking around with that shite. Hear the Ministry’s got eyes and ears everywhere these days. You’d hate to be caught up in all that, now, wouldn’t you, Mother?” The word was spat, harsh and mocking; she was nothing to him now.

#Accepted App