#but that is a contender for worst father of the year and he is named excelsius. please Consider

[sad--tree]

bound and determined 2 finish watching season 1 of yellowstone 2nite but god help me if this isn't one of those "awful ppl being awful 2 each other" type of shows. like, im Invested now but christ is it a slog. unfortunately i started having Thoughts And Feelings about these terrible assholes several episodes ago so. :|

[ummmuhhidk]

you get it perfectly. like this is my exact take on each and every name. HEAVY on the eustace thing btw like hey dont call him useless ,, :(

everyone called Nicole being named Tabitha/Tabby Lloyd. like that one was very very obvious but that's typical Ace Attorney witness shit. that's perfectly fine. Fifi Leguarde works. i can see why you can look at Patricia and go "that's a Fifi right there". Bodhidharma Kanis is pretty cool i won't lie. Eddie Fender is another typical Ace Attorney pun name but i think me and other people were mostly upset by giving such a major character that we're mostly meant to take seriously that sort of name. it's like if Maya was named Spira Chanelur. Verity Gavélle is also pretty cool. Simeon Saint is also fine, not what i would've gone with but it's fine. i get the thought process. and Eustace Winner and Bronco Knight is truly just such a fucking disservice to both of them. have they not already suffered enough

[getvalentined]

I am so sick of people asserting that Cloud's father is some super special important person like it's some explanation for the fact that he was able to save the world. Superior bloodline stuff never sits well with me in the first place, but in this case it's just so antithetical to the actual thesis of FF7 and does such a huge disservice to multiple characters that it makes me white hot angry.

The most popular contender is President Shinra, because Cloud being a Shinra bastard would (somehow) explain why he's allowed into the company at such a young age (even though enlistment age appears to be 14 and Cloud left Nibelheim to enlist at 14) and how he wound up on so many important missions—because it can't possibly be that he's actually competent, he's so pretty, how could he possibly be competent? It's not as if we see him being staggeringly competent from jump in every title where he's featured, including those that start prior to him being forcibly mako enhanced by Hojo. Clearly this is nepotism.

After all, we know that President Shinra is always so supportive of his bastards! That's why Lazard hid his identity and worked his way up the ranks to become director of SOLDIER at the youngest possible age and then set about trying to orchestrate a hostile takeover of the company by allowing all three of his best operatives to defect in the middle of a war, a process that was only thrown off because one of them passed off every single mission where he would have had an opportunity to go AWOL.

This was clearly the result of nepotism. There's just so much nepotism going on there. Obviously.

The newest contender is Glenn Lodbrok, the lead character from the First SOLDIER section of Ever Crisis, because he's blond-haired and blue-eyed and presumably one of the first people in Project 0 to survive some level of the mako enhancement process. I guess this is supposed to mean that him being Cloud's father would be a perfect explanation for Cloud actually being capable of literally anything, since the only way for him to become the hero that was chosen by the planet to keep it alive would be if it's part of some bloodline destiny.

There are a whole host of issues with Glenn as an option here, not the least of which is the canonical lore about Cloud's father, namely that he was some nobody traveler who kinda passed through and got Claudia pregnant and then left; he may have died up in the mountains, but apparently all that was ever found was his pack, so there's no way to be sure. Further, Claudia was very young at this point—according to her original concept art declaring her to be 33 at the time of her death, she gave birth to Cloud at 16-17 years old.

Glenn is one of two possible age ranges: if he was active in the early stages of Project 0, being a character in the First SOLDIER battle royale game, then he was around 21 in 1985, meaning a 21 year old knocked up Claudia Strife when she was 15 and then walked out on her. If he's 21 during the events of Ever Crisis, which seems likely based on his character design, that would make him 14 at the oldest when Claudia got pregnant.

Okay, I know this kind of thing happens IRL, but I feel pretty confident in the statement that there is absolutely no way that that's the direction SE is taking this timeline and characterization. I'm not even sorry. That's not happening. Either he's giving "predator," or he's Deadbeat Dad: High School Freshman Edition.

But that's honestly not even the worst of it, the math not matching up is entirely irrelevant when the implications of this assertion are applied to the actual thesis of this series as a whole, to the characters we already know, to the actual lore. Claiming that Cloud is only special because of the sperm donation of a man who abandoned him literally removes any concept of his competence as a character, declaring that he's just the newest iteration in a line of "worthy" men. He can't be worth anything unless his father is worth something. He can't be good at anything unless his father is good at something.

Beyond that, it casts Claudia aside entirely, asserting that the fact that she raised Cloud doesn't matter—she may have brought him up entirely on her own, but that doesn't actually matter. She didn't instill values and morals and guidelines into him that would allow him to grow up into a man who could save the world, she was just an incubator, a nursemaid, a nanny, a cook. She was just a servant who kept him alive long enough for his father's bloodline to awaken within him and make him into the hero he was always meant to be.

Insisting that Cloud's value as a character hinges in any way on his father, a person who had no place in his life whatsoever and whom he doesn't even remember, takes away his agency and declares Claudia to be irrelevant. It says that a sperm donation matters more than an upbringing. It says that the place he started is the only thing that defines where Cloud will end up.

This is literally, 100 percent, the opposite of the thesis of this series. The entire concept of these games, of these storylines, is that the way you were made doesn't have to dictate what you can be, who you are, where you're going. Your genetics do not define you, and assumptions to the contrary are literally what make people into monsters. What matters is the people you love, the people who love you, and the person you are now as a result of those people.

And the fact of the matter is that regardless of timelines, regardless of characterizations, regardless of theories, Cloud Shinra and Cloud Lodbrok didn't save the world.

Cloud Strife did.

Claudia Strife's son did.

And I think people could stand to give both of them a hell of a lot more credit.

[mxrcusflint]

some old flintwood wip

i know where home is flintwood my beloved

Marcus had spent the better part of the past six years making up for the brunt of his father’s sins, and then the added weight of his own. It was a thankless job. It didn’t matter that he’d never cast an Unforgivable, or that he’d kept his head down — people still cut a wide berth around him, and he preferred it that way. If he barely said ten sentences a day, if he retreated back to his flat after every day, ate a dinner hastily cobbled together, and spent the night with his knuckles wrapped, then it was for the best.

He’d cut everything off with Wood a year before the brunt of the war, before the worst of his moral failings. It was hard, at the end of it all, not to look at Wood and detest his goodness, his rising star, the naive innocence of an unburdened bloodline. At twenty-one, Wood had been summoned to first string and the pitch had fallen in love. Scotland had made it a known bet that they’d be knocking on Wood’s window for the regional team once the World Cup came back around. It was on the eve of that dinner meeting that Marcus had called everything off. He’d justified it — they’d been contentious bed mates at most, sparring rivals at best, meeting with no particular cadence to fall into bed together. 

Marcus was smart enough to know that whatever similarities they had, the core shade of their beings was different. 

And so. The war. 

He had nightmares often — of blue-black woods, of snaps and running so hard his chest hurt. There was a small subset of people Marcus had ever held in high esteem, and they’d splintered, one by one. Bole, Higgs, Warrington, Derrick, Urqhart: Snatcher, casualty, marked, killed in action, marked. It had become a horribly easy list to recite. Slytherins of their age didn’t make it out often.

The Flint name had long fallen from grace, that much was clear. His father, his older brother — two marked wizards who’d died in the war. Marcus couldn’t hold space for that. He had a business to run, and that was all he could think about without losing it. 

If it weren’t for Montague, he’d have never come to a Puddlemere game. They were the last two strongholds of their old team, and he’d conceded because he’d seen the empty space over Montague’s shoulder where Cassius should’ve been, and after that he’d been unable to say no.

He hadn’t thought all of it through, to be frank. He couldn’t pay attention to anything else; not the roar of the crowd, nor the referee’s contentious calls — Wood was glowing, brilliant in front of the hoops. Marcus couldn’t tell what was worse: the deep, deep jealousy for the first stringers, or the ache of watching Oliver at his best. 

The quaffle finally flew from a Ballycastle player’s hand to get past Wood’s outstretched fingers. 

“Good contenders for the cup, yeah?”

Marcus merely nodded at Montague’s statement, too occupied with how the familiar stubborn, frustrating tilt to Wood’s mouth made him claustrophobic.

Wood had gotten better since the last time Marcus had seen him play — a scrimmage between Puddlemere and Falmouth that still surfaced in his memory no matter how much he steeled himself against it.

“They’re probably going to get beaten out by Tutshill,” Montague continued, voice filled with longing, “But their chaser line is looking strong.”

Montague could no longer play, not after war injuries and a trip down a Vanishing cabinet, but he was an avid enough watcher that they traded observations and statistics over a meal on occasion. Marcus kept an arms-distance between himself and most people who’d known him, but it was hard to say no to Graham, not when he still struggled with recalling memories, things that Marcus knew he should’ve remembered cold.

(Winning the Quidditch cup, being made Prefect, the odd crushing disappointment that plagued them all when Warrington hadn’t been selected for the Triwizard’s cup.)

Puddlemere won in a landslide, which they needed. They were trailing Tutshill and Ballycastle by 100 points and the season was drawing to a close. Marcus allowed himself a moment to appreciate the sight of Wood in the middle of a dogpile of happy Puddlemere players, before excusing himself from Montague. There was no point in lingering in the stands, and both men knew that they would see each other at some point anyways — pureblood circles ran small nowadays. No point in causing public concern over gatherings when it was easier to lay low.

The impulse to dive into the inner labyrinth of the pitch grounds was one that Marcus didn’t try hard to fight. He rarely got energy like this where he lived. The sheer amount of adrenaline was enough to make anyone dizzy. Post-matches were a gaggle of players, of staff and press junkets, and he was one of many, many bodies weaving in and out. He allowed himself to drink in the bustle, the hum of excitement from Puddlemere supporters, and it was a nice contrast to the quiet of the shop.  

It was, in hindsight, an idiotic idea, because —

“Flint?”

It was a voice that plagued him in his sleep, one he’d held onto during the deepest, darkest winter months during the war. Marcus would know it anywhere. He had never wanted to hear it again. 

Wood had the trained reflexes of a professional Keeper, and so his hand was already on Marcus’ shoulder by the time he’d made up his mind to walk away. There was nothing else to do but turn around and face the man. 

“Good game,” Marcus said, and he shut his mouth before anything else could escape. There was likely nothing coherent he had to say, because this was the closest he’d been to Wood in three years, and he’d never been able to rid himself of this weak spot. 

“Thanks,” Wood said in a carefully neutral tone, “I never expected to see you at a Puddlemere game.” 

It wasn’t a direct attack, but Wood’s eyes were cool, appraising. Even when they weren’t strangers, Marcus made it a point not to attend, albeit for different reasons. 

“Montague wanted to,” Marcus replied. He didn’t elaborate; Wood didn’t need to know that for some odd reason, Warrington had had a soft spot for the middling team. 

“I see,” Wood said, though his tone of voice indicated that he didn’t, not really. “Well. What did you think?”

Marcus shrugged and made a non-commital noise. 

Wood stared at him for a beat, before scoffing. “Man of few words still, huh?”

“I’ll be heading out then,” Marcus said, though it came out more harshly than he’d wanted it to, on account of his words getting stuck in his throat. 

“Sure,” Wood said, and he released his hold on Marcus’ shoulder. Marcus took the opportunity to hightail out of the stadium, and though he managed to apparate back to his flat without splinching himself, he didn’t manage to shake off the phantom touch of Oliver’s hand for the rest of the night.

[wizardemotions]

some very scattered thoughts on slytherin harry (and also the platinum quartet in general), under a readmore for you and my convenience:

my personal slyth harry is still gonna grow up and take over as DADA professor, because imho taking him out of hogwarts, the first place he ever felt at home, the place he met, like, damn near everyone he cares about, is contradictory and at worst character murder.

pq harry still starts up the DA under pressure not just from ron and hermione but also draco this time (a draco who is already terrified over what side his father is going to come down on, and a draco who is deeply and increasingly aware of how he *will* have to fight) but i figure that the name is actually rather up for debate. only reason DA would win out is gryffindor influence. there's other contenders tho (including salazar's heralds, courtesy of draco, because they MILKED the "harry is the heir of slytherin!!!" thing for all it was fucking worth in second year. half the school is still convinced he *is* the heir of slytherin and just sorta beat a usurper's ass with his big fuckoff snake)

furthermore, DADA prof slyth harry also takes over from snape as head of slytherin house --

-- and on the note of good ol severus, this is a severitus household. even if he doesn't take the leo inter serpentes route and does not straight up adopt harry, seeing mini james potter with jumpscare lily eyes get sorted slytherin alongside an entire weasley and watching them both befriend draco Fucking malfoy (and furthermore watch said malfoy befriend a muggleborn gryffindor girl) is enough of a shock to sev's system he can approach harry a little less on the defensive from the jump. this is deeply hilarious to me, because i think that slyth harry would be much more like james than canon harry - as in, i think slytherin as a house is an environment that fosters a bit of ego, because it doesn't discourage pride in oneself. and by god do i think james had an ego for a bit there

and on the note of severitus! i also think that in this particular au, remus sirius and severus are all sorta parental figures, and remus seeing severus care so deeply for his dead best friend's kid is plenty for him to try and get along w sev. this just leads to remus n severus being, like, pretty cool w each other, and remus having an "okay boys. get along for harry's sake. and also mine please" moment w sev n sirius. (do i think the three of them should also bang? yeah obviously but that's not relevant to harry's story. i digress lmfao)

if i were to write this thing (and i don't know if i will but i would love to see it realized so i might have to at least try) i think that harry would need a bit of a rival slash annoyance in the vein of canon draco, and i think it'd have to be a little gryffindor who fully believed the "slytherin is Thee Evil House" bullshit, who'd end up foreshadowing the horcrux in the very first book by telling harry they thought voldy left a bit of himself behind and that's why harry is in slytherin. idk who that would be but i think id have to workshop it a little.

finally i also think i would have to write it a little grittier than canon. not like, too grimdark, but definitely just realistic - some grit, some goof, some sweetness, and some despair, much like the real world is

this was very scattered but i have a lot of thoughts and feelings about this au

[cobra-wives]

Hi, first of all, I love your blog, especially your art.

I wanted to write as I saw you reblog a gifset of Sam and Robby and put "if we got miyagi-do robby I maintain that we needed cobra sam." I totally agree! and it's something I would like to see in fic or art (I would try to write something if I could figure out the right plotting). sam is the only one who hasn't changed dojos - up until S6, tory was a cobra before switching sides; demetri seems to be miyagi-do only, but he attempted to join cobra kai first - and when she learnt eagle fang style from Johnny, it worked really well for her. I just want to put her in that scenario (cobra kai).

when I saw someone else liked the idea of cobra sam, I wanted to share my thoughts.

"well look who isn't their daddy's daughter."

"...you aren't so bad yourself, sensei lawrence."

a cobra! sam au, where she trains under sensei lawrence - some thoughts and ideas below the cut!

johnny lawrence is living in the dumps. he's got a wimpy little kid as a neighbor, a shitty old car, and an even shittier stepfather who he's kinda glad is cutting him off. samantha larusso is going into her sophomore year of high school and she's already dreading it. dreading the time she has to spend with her new "friends," missing aisha, and feeling the pressure of being her father's little larusso. surely they're not so different.

the car crash happens. in this version of the story, sam is closer to herself - it's the middle of the night, and she doesn't wanna be in the car with two other screaming teenage girls. there's some kind of energy in the old, dimly lit parking lot, pushing her to get out - or maybe it's moon kicking her out of the car to deal with the drunk old white man - but she's suddenly on the curb and staring up at this old guy with a scruffy beard, who looks... some flavor of miserable.

"i've got... money. my dad-"

"i've heard the story a billion times, kid. lived it too." he looks in the direction of yasmine's car, how it left skid marks on the asphalt and stunk up the air between them. "fuck's up with your friends?"

sam bristles. "they're not-" my friends, sam wants to say, but the words are too heavy for her to push out. johnny looks at his dented car and groans - "me and these fucking cars this week. first it's that damn ad, then it's that fuckass billboard-"

"i know what you're talking about," sam sighs. she sets her bag onto the pavement next to where he's sitting on a parking stub, sitting beside him but clutching her keys in slight caution. "my dad is... an embarrassment."

johnny's eyes widen. "shit, kid - what's your name?"

"samantha. but since we're gonna be here for a while, you can call me sam. sam la-"

"russo."

he tosses the bag of alcohol behind him, cleaning himself up with a grin aligning his face and a pathetic sniffle. here's the part where they clean themselves up, where they fear the mention of her father's last name and look at her like she's a rich encino princess.

"johnny. johnny lawrence," he says. "your dad kicked me in the face 33 years ago."

who knows how it goes from here. sam gets to hear the story from a different view, from johnny's side. johnny sees a version of himself from 33 years ago - raised a rich brat, with dismissive parents who thought oh sure, phases came and went. first it was friendship bracelets, then it was scrunchies and makeup and then it was boyfriends and oh, then it was off to college! he knows what it feels like to not want to be your father.

it's a horrible decision. it's the worst decision he'll ever make in his life - well, maybe, going to the beach on that fateful night might contend for number one - but the thought of it sparks some kind of rich flame in his muscles. this sam girl is every ounce of her father's worst traits - hot headed, entitled, and so ready to fight.

she'd make the perfect cobra.

"i scratch your back, you scratch mine," johnny proposes. "what says we forget everything that happened here, and you come to my dojo and train with me? i bet your daddy would go nuts if he saw you in a cobra kai gi."

"you're crazy," sam chuckles, but her grip loosens on her keys. "i have one rule."

"sure you do. you larussos and your rules." johnny raises his eyebrow, amenable.

"you call me sam, and only sam. no miss larusso, no little larusso, all that shit. and in your dojo, that's my name. got it?"

johnny grins. shakes her hand. "you got it. sam."

who knows where the story goes from here. we get to see a darker version of sam, caught between two versions of herself. the impulsive, violent, and hot headed part of herself that johnny feeds - the side that ends up hurting the people she loves, the side that makes her feel powerful, but wrong. the passive, fearful little girl her father wants her to be. the part that lets demetri's arm get broken, that watches all her friends get hurt and the part that loses to that nichols girl. (that nichols girl, oh she's tough. but she's not the best. she can't be the best, because she's the best and if she isn't, she's nothing to nobody and that's even worse than being a pawn.)

and no matter where she goes, she's only a pawn in a man's game; whether that man be johnny, kreese, hell, even her own father. it's a tough time for a girl to find herself in a man's world. how she does it is only up to her - and that can be the scariest decision ever.

[leebrontide]

WIP Intro: Names in Their Blood

Title: Names in Their Blood

Format: Novel

Series: Second Sentinels. This is book 2 in the series. Book 1 is currently free as an ebook, or for actual money in paper or audiobook.

Genre: Near future scifi/ low neon cyberpunk/ superheroes/ small town mystery/ little bit Midwest gothic?/ YA into NA. Trust me it all works together I swear.

Status: PUBLISHED AS OF TODAY!!!! WE MADE IT Y'ALL!!!!

Themes: Disability, bodily autonomy, identity, queerness, ethics

Tropes: Missing people, secret identities, found family, meetcute, meetugly, the monster within, dodgy government body, reunions

Synopsis Four queer teens on the fringes of the superheroing world head to a small town in Minnesota for what’s supposed to be a month off. Officially, they’re there for some stressful family reunions and to use the only full hospital for genetically altered people in the US. But, when they realize that the government beuro that gives the Sentinels their missions has been hiding the disappearances of missing alterds for years, it sets them in the path of a mission that has them questioning who they can trust.

Meet the characters under the cut, and/or leave any kind of comment to be tagged in future posts about this project!

Characters

(Age 18)

Opal hadn’t realized when she came to Chicago to join the Sentinels that she’d be joining an extremely complicated family. She certainty didn’t plan to start dating the former team leader’s fierce but fragile daughter. But how can she feel like she belongs here when she can’t pick a superhero name, every effort she makes to reform the corruption in superheroing blows up in her face, her superiors are mad at her, and her girlfreind is holding resentments Opal doesn’t understand? At least she finally gets to stay in a fancy, romantic Victorian manor house.

(Age 18)

As the non-superpowered oldest child of legendary hero LodeStar and medical technologies magnate Dr Melissa Tillman, Issac’s born the brunt of much of the worst of growing up embroiled in the world of superheroes. That’s included kidnapping, threats of torture, and losses he doesn’t know how to cope with. Now, he’s trying to set aside his resentment and focus on being a good adoptive dad to the world’s first feeling, sentient AI. But it’s hard to prove you deserve custody of such a powerful kid when you’re struggling to cope with a new disability and you technically have a felony hanging over your head for developing illegal brain-altering nanites.

(Age 17)

The middle child in Sentinel Plaza, xe may call a different superhero xyr father, but has always considered Issac and Jamie xyr siblings. Now that xe knows that some survivors of the genetic-engineering cultist that built xyr father’s first family are still alive, xe has to contend with the fears, connections, and obligations xe’s inherited. The worst injury of xyr life so far, and a growing fear that xe's a danger to the people around xyr isn’t making competing loyalties any easier to deal with.

(Age 17)

After years of very temporary fostercare placements it’s almost a relief to live full time in Coldwater Clinic Hospital, where nobody is paying that much attention to her anymore. When she met a retired superhero, and they saved each other, she counted herself lucky. But now that heroes old family are in town, with very mixed feelings about the new teenager in their lost family members life. Between the 7ft superhero trainee giving her palpitations and the potentially evil scientist suddenly hanging around her defacto home, her secrets- and her heart- might be in danger.

(Age 17)

Now that she’s no longer the youngest in the family thanks to her AI nibbling, Jamie wants to let go of her bitterness for all the ways she’s been left behind, and think about her future. It’s nobodies fault that she didn’t inherit her dad’s superpowers, even if she did get his temperament, and she knows that while Opal may appreciate her acerbic sense of humor, bitternes isn’t going to help her keep the girlfriend she doesn’t really think she deserves. When she gets an offer that would put dreams she gave up long ago within her reach, she has to choose. Will she follow in the other Sentinel's footsteps- all the way to her own self-destruction?

Comment to let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list! Also, my askbox is always open to questions!

ADDED: Playlist on Spotify

[fellcorruption]

Hair swayed as she passed through the halls of the Abyss, she knew little of it besides one of the Dragons she held dear could usually be found here. Yet curiosity had her wandering around as she spotted students clad in a uniform of different color than her's and people living their day to day below ground.

Making a turn as she finds a new corner to explore she was surprised by a familiar figure. One Fell Dragon Alear had wished to see turned out to be a Fell Dragon she wished would have stayed buried lower than the Abyssians were.

Sombron. The man she once called 'father' out of fear rather than love a thousand years ago stood before her, his presence towering, the view of him sickening. Where the ghost of a Hound long gone had haunted her here she had made peace with the sight of Griss as unpleasant as it was. But Sombron was another story, he had risen once after her own hands had defeated him—just like he did her—a second revival was as undeserved, what he had done so long ago and what he had done now...

unforgivable.

"Sombron." Where warmth would be as she spoke a name was replaced by Gradlon's cold. The man who only cared for himself and treated his children as disposable tools he could get rid of the moment they turnes useless to his goals—defective. Her stomach churned as she remembered her sister's suffering, what the Fell Dragons of another world had to suffer and the destruction it brought to said world, how scared her past self used to be until she learnt what being loved was. "..."

She did not know what to say. That she despised him? How much he had hurt them because he refused to focus on anything but his goal and connect with his children? Those words would go from one ear to the other, the feelings of the children he thought as 'defects' held no importance as to him they weren't even people. Why did he have to return of all people? Why did he gain another chance? Why?

Her mother came to mind, she was dead while he lived—an unfair result. If she could raise her sword at him and defeat him as she had done twice she would, but under these halls her hands were tied. It was a sickening reality to think her worst nightmare came true. He was back.

"...How." Brows furrowed. He was much taller than her but she didn't feel terrified, she was disgusted. A meaningless question left her lips, she did not expect an answer—in the end it was more a question to herself than the man who left her wondering. "Why are you alive?"

The Abyss suited Sombron's needs perfectly. The darkened halls were familiar and his search had begun there. Most Abyssians kept their gazes to themselves, avoiding Sombron's figure as much as they could. The sound of his name being called, full of cold hatred, slowed his pace. Sombron turned his head and let his eyes fall upon the owner of the voice. The traitor. One who would reject the blood in their veins and crawl in the dirt with the other Divine dragons. He met her cool rage with indifference. His expression remained unimpressed and unchanged.

"Why indeed." Was his only answer for her. There was no reason to spill his secrets now and she could writhe in her frustration for all he cared. He wouldn't give her the answers she was looking for. He relished in her frustration, the despair would surely set in soon. She would have to contend with the fact he was there and had returned. Sombron wondered briefly if she would run to tell his other failure of a daughter that he had returned. Would they cower together? Would they try and kill him for a third time? The thoughts passed him by quickly.

"Are you regretting your choices, child?" He asked, his third eye swiveling in his skull to point directly at her. There was nothing Alear could do and this much Sombron was aware of. He did not care what she would end up doing but she wouldn't get in his way again. A thousand more years could pass and Sombron would be just fine waiting as he amassed power.

"I had already told you I would leave never to be seen again before you and your fool sister had stopped me. This is your fault." Sombron added monotonously. To push the blame onto Alear was easy enough. "I would have never found this world had you not killed me. In the end, you have still given me what I want."

[mneiai]

The thing about Jon Snow possibly being named Daemon is that, thematically, it would have been a great name for him. Daemon Blackfyre and Daemon Targaryen were incredibly skilled and had great martial feats. Daemon Targaryen was also loyal to his older brother even though they clearly had a falling out later in life (for a value of later) and Daemon Blackfyre had been loyal to his father, if not his brother. Both fought against usurpers (if one believes the Blackfyre version of events). Etc etc.

But realistically, as a name that Rhaegar and/or Lyanna would give their child, it's a fucking horrible name for Jon (a horrible name for any natural born child actually so I'm baffled by its use in asoiaf but anyway). We're not just talking about people who did one or two bad things, Daemon Targaryen is best known for KINSLAYING, the worst thing a Westerosi can do, and Daemon Blackfyre was an attempted kinslayer who usurped his older brother and brought decades of war to Westeros. Nevermind both are also associated with some of the most tumultuous years in the history of Targaryen reign.

Names matter in Westeros. Aegon V became king because he was basically the best contender for the throne according to the Great Council, but LEGALLY and by the precedent of past Great Councils he actually usurped his nephew. Why? Partially because the kid was named Maegor. No one alive had known Maegor or been affected by him, but the name was damning enough that grasping lords who would have surely loved a long regency still passed over the kid.

During Robert's Rebellion, plenty of people alive had fought the Blackfyres--Barristan and the Blackfish pretty much got their renown doing so. The name Daemon was intrinsically linked to the Blackfyres (there had been THREE Daemon Blackfyres claiming they were the rightful king, the last one dying in battle only about 50 years before), so that name had still been affecting their lives, still leading to unnecessary death and destruction.

On top of that, of course, was that even if we allow for some convoluted plot that means Rhaegar married Lyanna or that Aerys had pre-legitimized Jon or whatever, people would still see him as a bastard and he was undeniably a younger half-brother. The optics of the name are horrible. Daemon Blackfyre is synonymous with grasping, greedy half-brothers/bastards willing to usurp their older siblings.

Even if we go with Rhaegar being incredibly foolish and running off with his OTL or obsessed with prophecy to the point he didn't care who he hurt, it's hard to imagine he'd consider Daemon a suitable name and even harder to imagine Lyanna would (it's easier to think she was half dead and couldn't think of a good Targaryen name and actually did name him Aegon as the only one she could come up with than that she named him Daemon).

Not least of all because there's so many better names: Aemon, of course, both as being many respectable historical Targs and as a relative that Rhaegar knew (and I'm not even getting into the reader-viewed aspects, like the association between the name and wolves or that was the first Targ name Jon basically claims). Jacaerys, as a Targ that had been connected to and looked favorably upon by House Stark (and possibly half First Man). Jaehaerys, Daeron or Maekar (emphasizing friendship with Dorne), basically any of the kings that history remembered fondly or at least not badly. Hell, Duncan, for the Prince and for the Knight who saved Rhaella and Rhaegar. Baelor to offset his mother not following the Seven and for Breakspear. Vaegon, if they wanted to give the impression they expected Jon to join an ordee to protect Aegon's claim. Just a straight up non-Targ/Valyrian name to help silently remove him from consideration, like Torrhen for the King who Knelt or Brandon to emphasize his Starkness. Or Bryden, if they wanted to get spicy with it.

The name Daemon basically needed to be "reclaimed" before it can be used so casually again by Targaryens. If Aegon had been named Daemon it would have basically been a perfect way to do so, as Aegon was undeniably the legal heir to Rhaegar who was undeniably the legal heir to Aerys (no matter what Aerys was up to). But JON being named Daemon? Horrible on basically all fronts, impossible to imagine a parent actually giving it to him when alternatives existed.

"But what if they predicted the future and knew what was coming??" Ummm I'd still say that Aemon was a significantly better name than Daemon and also would point out literally no one has the power to clearly predict the future to that extent, like it's one thing to dream about the eventual Doom or the Long Night, but it's another entirely to be like "ah, yeah, this specific kid of ours will be doing all these things while all this other stuff is happening and also his older brother would have been murdered so no one can say he's usurping him." Also that Rhaegar specifically had realized that he wasn't entirely accurate with his interpretations so would surely have had some measure of caution before just going all-in. (But also that's a better reasoning for the hated Aegon naming than the Daemon naming lol in fact nearly every reasoning for naming Jon Daemon is a better argument for the name Aegon)

[novelmonger]

1, 7, 13, 14

Okay, you specified FMA or LotR, but I'm gonna do both because I can and because no one else is sending asks in.

The character everyone gets wrong

FMA - I think Hawkeye may be the one most likely for people to get wrong. If I had a nickel for every time I started reading a fanfic where Hawkeye is a trigger-happy lunatic that everyone in the office lives in fear of, and/or is a strict taskmaster who is perpetually annoyed with everyone, I'd be rich. She's a very complex and layered character, but so many people don't seem willing to look any deeper than the surface of a sequence that was played for laughs, and they make that her entire personality. Never mind all the examples we have of her being gentle, being someone children feel safe enough around to share their hopes and fears, getting emotional, relaxing and joking with friends, teetering on the razor's edge of suicide.... There are so many sides to her, and it's difficult to get her right, but it's also astonishing to me just how badly some people characterize her.

LotR - There are a few contenders, but...maybe Merry? Most of the blame can be laid to the movies, I think, but a lot of people seem to take him as "the more boring but less stupid Pippin." That does him such a disservice, because when you really pay attention to him (especially in the book), there's so much more going on than being part of a comic relief duo who eventually manages to kill a Nazgul. In actuality, he's debatably the most capable all-around of the four main hobbits, and he deserves much more recognition than he gets.

7. What character did you begin to hate not because of canon but because of how the fandom acts around them?

FMA - Hmm...you know, I'm not sure I hate any of the characters, really. Even the villains are at least interesting and well-developed, so I don't mind them as far as that goes. They serve the purpose they were made for. The character I come the closest to hating would probably be Kimbley, but that's entirely for what an awful person he is in canon. I will say I find certain prevalent descriptions of characters to be annoying because everyone uses them and they stopped being amusing twenty years ago. Like saying that Envy's hair makes him look like a palm tree. I've never liked that. But Envy is actually my favorite Homunculus in the manga/Brotherhood version, so....

LotR - The Show That Shall Not Be Named is almost enough to make me dislike Galadriel. Almost. Not quite. (And I haven't even watched said show!) Faux-Galadriel is a hateful abomination that I want to kick off a cliff, and any time a fan tries to defend her, I hate her that little bit more. Real Galadriel is super cool, though. I'm hoping that my current re-read of The Silmarillion and LotR will cement the real Galadriel in my mind again. This is what happens when you butcher a character and flaunt it like you're better than the person who created the character in the first place.

13. Worst blorbofication

FMA - I'm not entirely sure I understand the term "blorbofication," but I must confess I've never understood the obsession with Greed in the fandom. Like...yeah, it's a pretty cool concept for a villain and an interesting departure from the rest of the Homunculi because he's a rebel. But I don't personally find him that likeable; he creeps me out as much as the other Homunculi, and he's more unpredictable too because he's got his own agenda going on. I appreciate his help in the fight against Father, but I don't understand why he gets so much focus by certain circles of the fandom.

LotR - This is actually really hard, because all of the characters are so good, it's like...yeah, of course that's someone's blorbo. But if I have to pick one, I think I'm actually going to go with Legolas. Not because he's a bad or uninteresting character - by no means! But I think - partly because of the way he was handled in the movies, where he's little more than a pretty face who's good at shooting things - when fans latch onto Legolas as their blorbo, they forget a lot of details that make him so much more than that. Like how sassy he is. Or how just kind of...weird he can be, as an Elf in a party of beings who are much more down-to-earth.

14. The one thing you see in fics all the time

FMA - Ohhhh, there are so many dumb things to pick from ʘ‿ʘ I mean, there are good things (or at least things with the potential to be good) that crop up a lot too, like turning a character (usually Ed or Mustang) into a chimera and the rest of the characters having to deal with it. Or there are the things you see in fics from most fandoms, like self-inserts and "my super special OC tags along with the protagonists for some reason and basically nothing changes in the plot except that the protagonist falls in love with them." But one that's more specific to FMA is the fic where Ed randomly starts singing (sometimes with the accompaniment of a piano or maybe a guitar), even though there isn't the slightest indication in canon that he has any musical ability or interest whatsoever. It's usually very emo and angsty, and almost always features a Vic Mignogna song.

LotR - Confession time: I hardly ever read LotR fics. Mostly that's because no one can write as well as Tolkien, and whether the writer attempts to or not, it's often quite jarring when you compare it to the books. (I say this as someone who is currently attempting to write an LotR fic with the full knowledge that I will never reach that pinnacle of excellence. Generally, stories centered around hobbits don't stick out to me as much as ones about, say, Elves.) Anyway, I don't think I have enough data to really point to any trends. But one thing I'm pretty confident I can say, even without having read that many fics: Too many fics are focused on shipping.

Send me more spicy asks!

[principiumindividuationis777]

"Toll Road Ahead" (Noir/Crime Fiction)

[If anyone likes this story and thinks maybe they could illustrate it, I would give full credit]

"Toll Road Ahead"

Chapter I

Larry Shaughnessy drove a prison van in New York City, just as the town was descending into an abyss from which it would never really recover, and Shaughnessy knew it better than anyone. Who knew better than a man who drove prisoners to the State of New York's worst prisons?

The year was 1968. It was too cold for hippies. This day, rain was falling, but many days it was snow. Heaven help the people without homes. Larry would put away some of the ones who put them there: The dealers, but he got more than his share of the addicts too, sad cases, no easy answers.

Of course, life was never easy for Shaughnessy. Born in 1929 in the rural parts of County Galway, Ireland (then a Dominion of the United Kingdom), his family had the unfortunate timing of moving to the USA, to Boston, Massachusetts, specifically, in the depths of the Great Depression, which, Larry contended, was "inflicted" by New York City on Boston.

Shaughnessy tried to remember his childhood, even as he heard the curses of the men he was driving to a bitter destination. Larry's father could never control his drinking, and his mother, angry at her husband, Larry's father, treated her son with contempt. He could never forget the day she locked him in the basement, yelling, "You should have been a girl!"

To prove himself, Larry almost ended up, in his early years, much like the men he would later send to prison, bitter at the world, fighting and drinking, though he had sworn off alcohol for good in 1953, when he married.

In Marriage, Larry hoped, he would find stability. A bit of Freud would have done him some good, though, as he married a woman not unlike his mother, a woman with deep psychological problems caused, in turn, by her father, leading her to run off with another man within a year, and the Catholic Church annulled the Marriage, as no Marriage.

It was then, in the winter of 1954, that he moved to New York City, not because he hoped for a brighter future there, but simply to escape. Was it all a mistake, he wondered? Could he go back, maybe even to Ireland?

Chapter II

Shaughnessy had no friends of the human kind, nor, in his view of mankind, did he want any. Criminals, of course, and the liberal-minded, hated him, seeing him as a tool of oppression. His boss was almost as bad as the criminals, forever berating him for minor matters, simultaneously telling him to make deadlines and to drive more slowly and cautiously, mutually exclusive goals.

What few friends he had were in Boston, but they had moved on by now. Most of the time, his unwanted company was the criminal population, in the current instance, two addicts who had resorted to armed robbery: One, named Carl, was cursing with rage at Shaughnessy, trying to spit at him, and doing likewise towards the other convict, called Mike, but Mike was weeping and trembling, evidently suffering withdrawal symptoms.

For all the trouble that such men gave him, Shaughnessy understood their desire to escape. Out of the wagon and into the rain they went, shackled and guarded, before an ominous structure of tons of metal and concrete, their home for some years.

At the end of a long shift, he shuffled slowly into his overpriced apartment, high above the zoo of a city. Another thorn in Larry's side was the landlord, Billy Macklin, who treated his tenants, Larry thought, with rather less respect than Larry treated his pet parrot, whom he considered his only friend: "Mirror", Larry called him.

It would be easier to sleep with his old boozing ways, he thought, but then, he did not want to end up like his dad, so fifteen years on, he kept his pledge.

"Evicted! Out on the street!" said Mirror the parrot, repeating something he heard from Macklin to one of Larry's unfortunate neighbors. Under Macklin's terms, Shaughnessy had to pay extra rent to have his parrot, which, of course, meant more hours of work.

Chapter III

Morning: The time Larry Shaughnessy loathed the most. Every morning, Shaughnessy wondered why he bothered. He was still with the Church, but part of him did not believe, or had trouble believing, that human beings were somehow special beings. Better to be a simple creature like Mirror, he often thought.

Today was an eventful one at work: Jerry "Wolfman" Steppe, snarling and biting, was thrown with great difficulty, requiring seven or eight burly guards for the task, into the van. Shaughnessy did not read the papers, believing them full of lies, but even he knew who Steppe was: A burglar by trade, his savage, animalistic attacks on residents made him the talk of New York, no easy matter considering the mayhem and greed that were the norm.

The van started towards its destination, but somehow, Steppe had gotten loose, and, with a razor blade, offed two of the guards on the spot, knocked out a third with a well-placed right hand, and the fourth found a way to hurl himself from a moving vehicle, sustaining injuries but more fearful of Wolfman than of the rough landing.

Shaughnessy could have stopped the vehicle, but instead, to try to prevent Steppe from escaping, he drove faster and weaved side to side. Jerry Steppe, however, changed his demeanor entirely, suddenly becoming quite rational.

"I'm not mad, you know," said Steppe.

Shaughnessy gave no answer.

"We, my friends and I, are building up a little gang in Boston, and you would be a fine addition. We could get you a position like this in Massachusetts, and you could let one of us 'accidentally' escape now and then, for generous consideration in your pocket."

Chapter IV

Jerry Steppe was retried on a procedural technicality, and in the retrial, acquitted, but before this, after a day even more hectic than usual, Shaughnessy, having gotten Steppe to his appointed destination, trudged up the stairs to his apartment, utterly exhausted.

The next day was Saturday, but Larry had no plans. He spoke to his parrot, having no other company: For over a decade, every telephone call he had made had been part of his work.

"Some gang wants me in Boston. I want to go to Boston, maybe, but not as a criminal."

"Boston…" was Mirror's only reply.

"I won't take the offer, but maybe this is a sign, if there even are signs, to go back."

Larry thought about pretending to take the offer, as a way of securing the arrest of these Boston gangsters, but then, Shaughnessy did not trust Hoover or the FBI either, and their cooperation would be essential, of course, in any such scheme.

Just then, a newspaper was thrust under Larry's door. Though he had ordered nothing of the kind, his eye caught the headline, and he read of a corruption scandal, the taking of bribes among some fellow prison van drivers in New York, much like the arrangement suggested by Steppe, evidently part of a network all over the Northeast.

"Oh, that's just great… now these press vultures will make us all out to be crooked, and my boss will fire some innocent drivers just for window dressing."

"Window…" mimicked Mirror.

Chapter V

Larry Shaughnessy spent most of the weekend sleeping, tired from the week and having nothing better to do. The next weekend, though, after another week of much the same mayhem, he approached Kevin Welden, a private detective who wanted, for his own purposes, to gain information on the Irish mob in the Northeast. Together, Shaughnessy and Welden hatched a plan to infiltrate the Irish mob in Boston.

By the end of 1968, Shaughnessy very cheerfully quit his New York job, instead accepting the Massachusetts position arranged for him by the Irish gangsters forming a presence in Boston. The only trace of his New York life Shaughnessy took with him was Mirror the parrot.

John "Shemp" Doolin, so nicknamed for his resemblance to the comedian, was Shaughnessy's contact with the rising Irish mob. The first escape from a prison van was to be arranged in two weeks, Doolin explained, and Shaughnessy was to receive $10,000 for every member of the outfit whose freedom he arranged.

Contacting Welden, he soon discovered, however, that it was never Welden's intention to report the matter to the police, but rather, Kevin Welden was playing the oh-so-dangerous game of blackmailing a criminal syndicate.

Shaughnessy's already weak faith in humanity declined yet more when he discovered that Marky Morris, a friend of his from childhood, now sold narcotics in Boston, but was being shaken down for a percentage of his money by Shemp Doolin.

Larry had burned his bridges in New York, and now, he had either to go through with helping criminals escape or leave Boston. That left only one idea in Shaughnessy's mind: Return to Ireland.

Chapter VI

By February of 1969, Larry was back in County Galway for the first time since he was four. He vaguely remembered the beautiful scenery, and let Mirror, his parrot, fly around in his new country.

After a few months, Shaughnessy managed to convince the Republic of Ireland's government to let him drive a prison vehicle, just as he had in New York City and in Boston.

Late in 1969, however, the Ulster Volunteer Force, loyalists amidst Northern Ireland's Troubles, set off explosives in several locations in Dublin. Shaughnessy would, from one of these explosions, spend the rest of his life with a wooden peg for a left leg.

As he lay in hospital, Larry, wishing Mirror were allowed in the hospital, was approached by the Irish Republican Army, who, because he was the victim of a UVF attack, assumed that Shaughnessy would join their cause, and visited the hospital, pretending to staff to be relatives, to make him an offer not unlike that made by Wolfman Steppe, this time suggesting that he move to Northern Ireland, drive prison vans there, then release IRA.

People were no better in Ireland, thought Larry. Everywhere, people were bad.

Chapter VII

In early 1970, Shaughnessy, noting that the criminals in Ireland were rather tame compared to those in New York, was approached at his home by three men, with distinctly Cockney accents.

"We got work for you, Shaughnessy. We 'ave our own ways of knowing about the underworld, you understand, and 'ow you kept Wolfman in the lorry with your driving was impressive. If you could do that, you could drive for us."

"Drive for you where?"

"We have something planned. Let's say all the best art in London, best by price I mean, is going missing soon. Make the Great Train Robbery look like beggary. We three, me and Dicey and Moore, we 'ave all it planned out 'cept for the driver. That's where you fit in. I know, Irishman, you don't want to give up a respectable reputation, so instead of 25 percent, 'ow about 40, then it's 20 three ways for the rest of us? We couldn't do without the driver, after all."

Shaughnessy looked hard at them, and his peculiar response was, "Give my regards to the Queen."

Having closed the door in the men's faces, Larry, drifting off to sleep, mumbled to Mirror that he thought these men were "British agents or police" suspicious of him because the IRA approached him.

"Why would they know so much about a one-legged man's luck in New York? They're James Bond faking that Mary Poppins talk."

"Poppins…" picked up Mirror.

Chapter VIII

For the next few months, even as he drove prison transport, Shaughnessy believed he was being followed. By which side, he wondered? If those supposed thieves were British agents, the IRA might suspect him of being a traitor to their cause, as they would see it, while the British might be still after him. Then again, maybe someone was trying to help a prisoner escape for some other reason.

Though his boss, Ehan Barsky, told Shaughnessy that he was paranoid and offered to refer him to a psychologist, Shaughnessy knew better. He had, by now, even the license number of the same vehicle he had seen three times in a week, going the same route as he was. Barsky said it was probably just someone who took the same route.

"They were three different routes to three different prisons, Mr. Barsky."

After a day of hauling in some rather violent men, Shaughnessy once again found a newspaper had been slipped under his door, just as in New York, without him asking for it. He laughed ruefully at the lead article.

If the paper was right, a massive London art robbery had occurred. Not only that, but it was thought that it was tied to the IRA and some "ordinary thieves from Boston in the States". The only part Larry had right was that the men were pretending to be British.

That evening, the ever reclusive Shaughnessy, now having a fair idea who was following him, read Schopenhauer while listening to an old record of Joe Meek's "Telstar".

Chapter IX

A rare day off, though stuck in Dublin, not in Galway, thought Shaughnessy. With just the one leg, he felt that his good leg, the right one, needed the circulation of walks, but his mind wandered and he wandered into a side of Dublin he had not seen, which reminded him almost of New York.

Shaughnessy thought his eyes deceived him, but no, there was a man of six foot two on the corner of the street, in a woman's dress, accosting motorists. Reminded too much of New York, he turned back on the same street, only to encounter a middle-aged woman screaming at him.

"You're trying to steal my girls. Nobody takes 'em on this street but me, Joe!"

This woman, dressed rather like an unkempt harlequin, and with pupils looking all wrong, kicked Larry in the leg, but in the wooden one, which was concealed. The thud of the fake leg evidently frightened her, because off she ran, perhaps still looking for "Joe".

That one ugly street brought Shaughnessy up to date: Dublin was becoming like every other city. Providence, Shaughnessy thought, had forsaken Dublin as New York was forsaken long ago. He wanted to live in rural Ireland, the better part, he thought, not in this. If he was to be followed about and encounter these types even on leave, he might as well move back to America, then retire to County Galway.

Thus, by 1971, Larry Shaughnessy was back in Boston, but with the strong sense, once again, that his travels from Dublin to New York Boston had been monitored each step of the way.

"I know too much about some secret doings. It all started with Wolfman," Larry said to Mirror, before mumbling and falling asleep.

"Wolfman…" the parrot replied, before mimicking Larry's snoring.

Chapter X

By this time, Shemp Doolin had taken over the Boston outfit that had once approached Larry Shaughnessy, and tired of being followed, Shaughnessy, with no family and nothing to lose, decided to risk it all and confront Doolin.

He had several rough encounters with Doolin's underlings, one of which required Larry to bring back his considerable boxing skills, learned, not in rings, but in the forties on these same streets. An uppercut, and down went some nameless muscle, but this seemed to impress the Irish mob in a positive way. Now, contrary to what Shaughnessy expected, Doolin wanted to welcome back Larry to their old city.

"You're been doing well for yourself, Mr. Doolin."

"Please, call me Shemp," replied Doolin, leaning back in a plush office.

"I know you arranged the heist in London. I'll bet it was you who put those papers under the door, first to convince me to join you, tell me the prison van business had no future, then to show me I was wrong about those guys working for Britain, right?"

"Smart as well as tough. You're our kind of man, Larry. Look, I know that Wolfman put a lot of people off. We needed him to make a name for ourselves, but then, well, he got too… gruesome for us."

"Took him out, eh?" asked Shaughnessy.

"As he would have done to us."

"I suppose you gave most of that art money to the IRA, right?"

"Better than 80 percent," replied Shemp.

"Then I want 10 percent of it, since you still have that much."

Doolin thought over the matter, rubbing his hand against his not quite shaven face.

"I like you, Larry, and you're Irish, but you gotta do one job for us, and on my word, the boys will stop following you."

"I won't do the dirty stuff. You know that."

"Yeah. Of course not," Shemp continued, "But you wouldn't mind ridding a neighborhood of a guy that deals to kids, would you?"

"I won't go as far as murder, if that's what you mean," replied Shaughnessy.

"No need to… two in the legs and he'll leave Boston."

"And go to New York, I suppose?"

"The big rotten apple, yeah," Shemp agreed.

Larry Shaughnessy asked around, and yes, the man whose photograph Doolin gave him, one Harvey Beckham, did indeed deal to kids, among his other hateful deeds. Shaughnessy did not like working with criminals, but then, he was doing Boston a favor, and once the deed was done, Beckham, having recovered physically, went to New York, as the Irish predicted.

One obstacle faced Shaughnessy is his escape, however: A toll booth. He had been so focused on the unusual assignment that he had forgotten his wallet, and in the circumstances, did not want authorities to take too much interest in him. Taking a deep breath, Larry thought it over, and realized that he had a car on loan from gangsters. Maybe they stashed money in the car, and sure enough, there was a $100 bill under the back seat.

Looked at rather strangely by the woman at the booth, she nevertheless found change for the hundred. The next day, being no thief, Larry gave $100, this time in tens, to Shemp Doolin, recounting his close call on the toll road.

Epilogue: Larry Shaughnessy, now affluent, moved to a cottage in rural County Galway, in early retirement, taking Mirror the parrot with him, of course. Hoping Mirror would outlive him, Larry found a worthy neighbor, he considered, who would take care of Mirror, according to the terms of Larry Shaughnessy's will and testament, if the bird did outlive him.

[kakfightingring]

Championship Preview

Coach Imran Haque entered the WHL in 2003 as an idealistic sophomore EECS major at UC Berkeley. 20 long years later, a lot has changed, including his team name about 500 times. Coach Haque now finds himself a grizzled father of two living deep in Mormon country.

One thing that hadn't changed, his Ricky Bowl appearances, which continued to stubbornly stay at 0… until this week. Entering this season, coach Haque's best finish was 3rd, way back in 2008. Knowing that he may not get another shot at hoisting the Ricky until he's nearing retirement, coach Haque knows he needs to seize this opportunity.

On the opposite sideline, stands coach Zand, in the Ricky Bowl for the second time after a close loss to the Kak Fighting Ring in 2015. Zand has used his hand to set stellar lineups throughout the year, but with the Ricky so tantalizingly close, coach Zand has been plagued by indecision.

He has yet to announce a starter between Jared Goff and Derek Carr, and is also considering making a change on defense to the scorching hot Raiders.

QB Patrick Mahomes has been one of the few constants for the Tricks&Hoes, but maybe that shouldn't be the case? Over the last 4 weeks, Mahomes ranks 19th(!) among all QBs in points per game, well below both of coach Zand's potential starters. Though he's still projected for 19 points this week, Mahomes hasn't even reached his projection since week 7. And while Goff has been inconsistent for Use Your Hand, the potential benefits of a stack with St. Brown make him the logical starter for coach Zand. EDGE: Use Your Hand

RB

Both RB rooms have been plagued by injuries, but Use Your Hand's early season acquisition of Kyren Williams has been a godsend, as he has turned into a bonafide fantasy star. Coach Haque meanwhile overcame season-ending injuries to Nick Chubb and J.K. Dobbins with incredible late-round draft picks of Chuba Hubbard and De'Von Achane in the 11th and 12th rounds. And flipping Achane for Christian McCaffrey stands as the move of the season, propelling his team from a borderline playoff team into a title contender. McCaffrey has been far and away the best RB in the league, outpacing #2 Raheem Mostert by over 90 points. EDGE: One Old Trick & One Young Hoe

WR

Cooper Kupp's preseason injury nearly derailed Use Your Hand's season, but since returning he has continued to produce at a high level. 7th round keeper Amon-Ra St. Brown meanwhile has carried the team all season, with only 1 single-digit fantasy game all year. For the Tricks&Hoes it's been a revolving door at WR. This week it looks like they will not be starting a single WR they drafted, and only one (Jordan Addison) is even on the roster anymore. EDGE: Use Your Hand

TE While George Kittle has had his usual up-and-down season, his boom games have been big enough to rank him as the #4 TE on the season. Meanwhile, Gerald Everett has been passed around the WHL more than a freshly-packed bowl, having been on 4 teams this season, and back for his second go-round with Use Your Hand. EDGE: One Old Trick & One Young Hoe

K Jake Moody and Younghoe Koo have both been middling kickers on the season, but the ineptness of the Falcons offense has managed to raise the ceiling for Koo who has two 19-point games this season. EDGE: One Old Trick & One Young Hoe

DEF Coach Zand has a decision to make at defense. He's currently starting Seattle, but they're up against the suddenly potent Steelers. Meanwhile the Raiders D has put up 20+ points each of the last two weeks, pushing them up to #5 among all defenses on the season. For the Tricks&Hoes, The Niners defense has been solid, but they're coming off of one of their worst performances of the season. Coach Haque could consider making a late change that would really cause coach Zand to spiral: starting the Dallas defense as they take on the Lions, featuring two of coach Zand's starters. EDGE: One Old Trick & One Young Hoe

THE PICK No matter who wins, the WHL will be crowning a first-time champion. It's hard to say if coach Zand's previous Ricky Bowl experience will give him an edge, as the last two teams making their Ricky Bowl debut (Stanky Pieces of SHH in 2017 and bluemonkeyballs in 2020), both won the title.

I can say, if there's one situation that Use Your Hand knows how to address, it's..

But really, you've got to look at the guy next to you, look into his eyes. And when former Stanfurd RB Christian McCaffrey looks at former Stanfurd grad student Imran Haque..

One Old Trick & One Young Hoe - 106 Use Your Hand - 102

[lalunanymph]

BACK TO US — h. shuji

𖨆♡𖨆 hanma shuji x fem!reader, chifuyu x fem!reader

╰┈➤ thrown into an arranged marriage with toman’s second man, you slowly come to find that not even your lost memories will stop him from getting what he wants. and what he wants is not you.

cw. HEAVY ANGST, illnesses, past mentions of child abuse towards the reader, mentions of pregnancy, mentions of abortion, explicit smut, mentions of food, mentions of alcohol, adultery, heartbreak, mentions of death, murder by strangulation, MINORS/AGELESS/BLANK BLOGS DNI

╳  playlist                                      ╳ masterlist

#6: you love me but you’re hollow (part 2)

Despite everything that had happened in a span of a few hours, the human heart is truly an amazing thing.

It’s resilience was second to a rubber band, twisting and flexible. But, like a band, once it broke, nothing could ever fix it again.

Your husband had left a string of missed calls since the news broke of your father’s state.

It was Chifuyu who returned, mistaking your reddened eyes for grief towards a man who did not care if you lived or died. Who was a father in just his name. 

The dark-haired man held you close to his side in a stiff hug, murmuring, “Shuji-san is caught in between tasks. He’s making arrangements to return home soon.”

How much could a heart take before it permanently fell into pieces?

Home. Did that even exist now that you knew the whole truth? 

You turned your listless eyes to him, nodding. “Of course.”

No words were exchanged between you and Chifuyu for the rest of the ride to the hideout where your father would be treated for his sudden illness.

Is this really happening to me? 

In what world could life be so cruel to you that you had to endure horrible news after horrible news? This is insane. Your phone rang again, and you darted your gaze to the screen.

The word husband flashed across the screen a few times. You remained frozen in your seat. 

The screen went dark and Chifuyu cleared his throat. “Are you alright, Y/N?” Perhaps it was in the manner in which he posed that innocent question that made the tears bloom in your eyes, your lower lip wobbling slightly. “I believe this news must have come as a shock to you.”

Chifuyu did not know how wrong he was. 

But, of course, he didn’t. How would he know that you were undoubtedly reeling from the double whammy of having your heart broken by your husband’s infidelity? That it overwhelmed the fear lacerating across your soul from your father’s wellbeing? 

No one could blame you for closing your eyes for a second, beyond dizzy from the sudden whiplash of emotions. Anger, betrayal, fear, heartbreak. Everything hit you all at once with no room for an escape. You were forced to stare down the terrifying eyes of your emotions, to contend with the harsh reality of your memories returning, your worst fears coming to light, and waking up into this nightmare that seemed to have no end.

Why me? Your mind rang out in cadences of self-loathing. What did I do to deserve this?

The baby in your belly, faultless and pure, was the one you leaned upon to give you strength to propel forward. You swiped at your eyes and assumed the stony mask which had served you well for many, many years in a household filled with nothing but conflict and terror.

“Let us focus on my father’s wellbeing and not on other things that do not deserve attention.”

From the corner of your eye, Chifuyu’s lips pulled down into a frown. Your friend reached out to you, grazing your shoulder, and in this minute silence, you were glad you weren’t alone. Heavens knows what would’ve transpired if you were left to your own devices. The harm you would put yourself in. Your palm turned into a fist above your belly. The horrors you would’ve done out of pain to a poor soul that would not deserve it. 

Briefly, you did ruminate on it—what it would feel like to have uncapped the bottle of bleach sitting innocently on your shelf and gulped down its contents. Threw yourself down the stairs and let your bones break. Stabbed your own heart with the knife Shuji loved cutting apples for you, placing the plate of fruit of your lap with a soft smile and a whisper for you to eat better.

The ghost of the blade lodged somewhere between your ribs, just below your heart. You expelled a shaky sob. Chifuyu didn’t have to ask twice—his arms were already around you, holding you fast to his chest, letting your tears seep into his dress shirt. From somewhere in your purse, your phone continued ringing, unanswered. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Chifuyu murmured into your hair. “Everything will be fine.”

How you wished his words were true. It was not enough that you had to flay your memories open every single time now that they were back. Nothing you thought, felt or reasoned would be enough to mitigate the immense injustice you were faced with. That was committed onto you. 

What did I do to deserve this?

Your head spun, and you were faint with nerves. Chifuyu held you close to him, a pillar of warmth and support, the crook of his neck an oasis where you hid your tear-stained face. Thank you, was your fervent prayer to the universe. Thank you for putting a friend here for me.

Without Chifuyu’s hand on your shoulder, you were sure you could not get out of the car. His touch on your back as he steered you down the winding halls of this quiet mansion that turned into a makeshift hospital was the sole thing keeping you from sliding down the walls and melting in a puddle of your own tears. 

It felt like Novocain was melting on your tongue, numbing your voice and actions when men bowed in your direction the moment you passed them. Oh—right. With your father indisposed, you were the acting head of the Blood Phoenixes. A title you took little pleasure in. Especially when the door fell open to reveal your father’s fragile body lying on the bed.

In his frail state, you weren’t sure what you were terrified of in the first place. He was no longer the horrifying monolith who dictated your life, whose fists landing on your flesh you were intimately acquainted with. 

It would be sickeningly easy to lift the pillow by the side of his salt-pepper streaked hair and smother the last of his breath as a repercussion for the cruelty he showed you throughout your whole life. The glint in your eyes spoke of such malicious intentions.

“Please, leave us for a moment.”

The men had no choice but to melt out of the room, their heads bowed forward. Chifuyu squeezed your shoulder, departing a bit of his strength while he followed the rest of them. Your father’s eyes flickered open, and he grunted at the sight of you. 

One half of his face was completely sagging, as if the muscles had given out, leaving his right eye drooping, his mouth perpetually fashioned in a half-frown. Ghastly. He looked like a creature of the night, so unsightly, that if you were made of crueler stuff, you would’ve laughed in his face. 

Your heels clacked on the ground, and his working eye followed you, a sheen of fear in it.

“Tou-san.” 

You loomed over him, a woman with such an impassive face and shaking hands, it would be little wonder why he flinched when you raised your palms. In his eyes and mind, every single sin he committed against you flashed by rapidly; each horrible, ego-breaking word he hurled into your face, the faint scars on your arms, the slaps he dealt onto your susceptible cheek when you did not answer him from the fear. One time, he had hauled you by your hair towards the balcony, shaking you hard enough for your teeth to rattle, screaming how he was going to throw you over the railings if you dared defy him again.  

Unbidden, the tears chased down your face.

You lifted the pillow, fingers trembling. He gave a low moan, begging you with his one shining eye to not hurt him.

Your gut tightened. Your fingertips tingled with nerves when you reached out to him. 

Soft as down, you brushed the hair from his temple back, and gently lifted his head, placing the pillow underneath his tender skull.

Tomio exhaled noisily. You turned your face away. 

“Can you speak?”

He grunted in response.

“Your men filled me in,” you spoke with little inflection in your voice. “They tell me you have little chance of survival without a hospital’s aid.” Outside, lightning flashed. You swore you felt your phone vibrating again in your purse. “Perhaps that is for the best.”

The lack of light in your eyes when you turned your head to him was pronounced, especially when you touched your belly. His one eye flickered towards the soft of your stomach. “You know, I lied to you that day in your mansion to save Shuji. I said I was pregnant—” 

A loud grunt that sounded like a reprimand. 

“—but, I didn’t know. I actually was pregnant.”

Your expression was a blank slate, one your father could not read. His wrinkles became more pronounced in a deep frown. “It looks like I have to disappoint you again, tou-san. It is a girl.”

The lie you told weighed heavily on your tongue. Not a lie, you amended. A speculation you wanted to come true. You wished with your entire soul that Shusei would be a baby girl so you would never have to contend with the idea of your father’s men hounding him. Trying to appoint him as their next leader.

You would rather cut your own finger off than see your baby boy transform into a cruel man like his grandfather.

Like his father.

It had to end with you. 

A tear slipped down your cheek from his closed off expression. Your father breathed heavily, like he was growing to anger, but the frustration of his uncooperating body held him back from fully reaching the peak of his rage. My fault. Everything is my fault.

“But, what do you care? You’ve only ever seen me as a pawn, right? An extension of you to order around. To beat when you needed a way to release your frustrations. You have never seen me as your daughter.”

Straightening your spine, every crevice in your heart ached, bleeding a mile wide to run red rivulets down puffy cheeks. You were so very, very tired.

“I confess I once thought it was my fault that okasan passed away. You made sure to remind me of that.”

Foolish. You were crying like a fool. Openly sobbing, you pressed a palm to your heaving mouth, your hands shaking. Every fibre of your soul ripping cleanly in two. Focus… I need to focus. 

Your watery eyes landed on the soft duvet, fisting the white sheet. This was your last goodbye to your father, after all. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, you decided it was the right time to spill your soul. The pain you suffered, the numerous times you held your tongue to keep the peace, the blows you took without a single complaint. The half-life you were forced to live that you could never go back to. Not when your freedom was so close. It’s time to say goodbye. 

“I was a child, tou-chan.” Daddy. This was the first time in your life you have ever called him that. The term was clunky and hollow in your mouth—completely foreign. “And all a young girl wants is her father’s love. All I ever wanted was your love.”

The great L/N Tomio, whose name had the power to shake a man’s core, who had killed and maimed thousands of people in his colourful career as a yakuza head, was nothing but a limp vegetable with tears beading in his lashline. 

Those beady dark eyes were hopeless pits of agony, fixated on your face. 

“I’m leaving. Running away,” you pushed forward with this bitter truth. Even if Tomio was never the shining paradigm of a father, he deserved to know the implications his harsh control had over your miserable life.

“Did you know Shuji has been cheating on me all this while? He has a mistress and he loves her. More than me. Not even my own husband can find it in his soul to love me, but what did I expect?” A mirthless laugh left your aching lips. “That I was loveable? That I was special? I understand now. I understand my place in this world.” 

Lifting your wet eyes, you pinned him to the spot. A bit of drool was tricking down his parted mouth and you wiped it away with your sleeve. 

“If you recover, don’t search for me. I’m not your daughter anymore. I’m divorcing Shuji and leaving him behind. My baby girl will not carry Shuji’s name or yours.” Closing your eyes briefly, you gathered your strength and stood up on shaky legs. Tomio grunted frantically, trying to get you to stop. But, you did not hear him, covering your ears with cotton; coating your soul with antipathy. 

You spared the broken man drowning in his sheets one last look, his watery eyes dominating your vision. Trying hard to memorise the curve of the nose you inherited from him, the slight jut of the chin that was unmistakably an L/N family trait. You burned them down one memory at a time, leaving only a ringing white canvas behind. 

Tomio made a sound in the back of his throat that sounded awfully like your name.

You regarded him with a smile that did not touch your red-rimmed eyes. “Goodbye, tou-chan. I wish you well.”

His frantic grunts and muffled sobs resounded around the room, but you did not turn back. Did not want to take any pleasure in his suffering because at the end of the day, you were not cruel like your father. Your mother’s famed patience and her resilience flowed in your veins, canceling out that monster’s misdeeds. You were never L/N Tomio’s daughter.

Chifuyu greeted you with a frown when he noticed your red-rimmed eyes and defeated air.

“Y/N—”

“Take me home, please.” You rested a hand on your belly and every man intrinsically knew. The last thing they wanted was for Tomio’s grandchild to suffer under the immense stress its mother was facing.

“Shuji-san gave me a call,” Chifuyu murmured, impervious to you stiffening at the sound of his name. “He wanted to know if you were alright because you were not answering your phone.” The BMW’s door was pried open, and you got into the back seat, waiting for the dark-haired man to follow you. An underling drove you and Chifuyu back to the penthouse in Akasaka, and you remained like stone under his flitting worry.

“Y/N—”

Sensing he wanted to unearth the deeper reason as to why you were completely silent, you shook your head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Ever a sweet man, Chifuyu tried to comfort you. “He will be fine. Tomio will recover well.”

It was to his surprise when you leaned forward, clicking the button to activate the car’s divider, leaving the both of you in a sound-proof bubble of tension.

“Y/N—”

“Tell me the truth, Chifuyu,” you began, the knot in your stomach tight. You massaged your abdomen, and he flickered his ocean eyes to that minute movement. “Shuji is cheating on me, is he not?”

How it burned to have those words pass your lips. You were not the only one feeling its callous effects. Chifuyu winced, and he turned his gaze towards the outside world, buying time to reply.

“You don’t have to lie to me,” your voice was feeble even to your own ears. “I know the truth. It’s that secretary, isn’t it? Ichika?” 

Her name was the catalyst for Chifuyu to defrost. He peeled his eyes from the blurry scenery, the rain pelting down in streaks that filled the car with white noise. The driver in the front cleared his throat out of habit, remaining oblivious to the solemn conversation. 

“Yes.”

You closed your eyes, turning your face away.

“I did not tell you because—”

“Does everyone know?” A listless quality befell your tone. You felt like you were about to break apart. “Am I the last to know that my own husband has been unfaithful to me?”

Chifuyu exhaled. “Kisaki does not know. Shuji would not tell him because—”

“It would jeapordise the deal. I see.” Your frosty exterior fractured and you hiccuped a sob. It was your hormones flaring, the stress and heartbreak catching up fast. You had to get home quick.

“What will you do?”

The dark-haired man cautiously murmured. You did not know what to say to him. “Will you leave? Are you planning to divorce him?”

You blanched. Were your intentions that obvious?

As if hearing your thoughts, Chifuyu exhaled. “I know it must be a blow to you and you want to leave this place as soon as you can. I understand.”

Shaking your head, you murmured, “I do not know.” As anticlimactic as it was, this was the truth. “I do not know what I should do next.”

Whatever you expected Chifuyu to say, it was not this: “Let me help you.”

You assessed him carefully. Matsuno Chifuyu was by no means a man whose trust was given freely. He demanded loyalty from his men—a measure of character that made his division stand out from the rest of the greasy thugs in Toman. Any man who is worth their salt would have Chifuyu’s trust and fealty. You were surprised you had his.

“What about Shuji?” you cautiously murmured. “What if he finds out you helped me?”

“He would not.” 

You were quietly reeling from the unflinching reassurance in his tone. “Shuji deserves to never have you in his life, ever again. Y/N, I’ve always wanted to help you ever since the moment I found out about what that bastard did to you. I just couldn’t open my mouth because I did not want to strain your healing process.”

Something in your chest twinged. “Is that the truth?”

Chifuyu nodded, a fire you had never seen before in his brilliant, azure eyes. It half-scared you. “I wouldn't lie to you, Y/N.”

The car rolled to a stop, but you barely noticed. You were locked in a battle of trust and surrender. To give Chifuyu a chance to help was to rely on yet another person in your life whose true intentions were dubious at best. But on the flip side, the ache in your chest, the wounded little girl who only ever wanted someone to hold her hand, could’ve wept with relief.

Finally, she screamed, happiness streaking down her face. Someone loves me enough to care.

The unseen, but ever present burden you carried obstinately to shoulder that little girl’s heavy sadness and dejection was lifted. 

“Okay.”

Chifuyu let you hold onto his arm when you stepped out, and for once, you did not fear the rain. Not when he was by your side.

He helped you up the penthouse elevator, careful to never let go of your elbow. He was soaked from the tip of his head down to his toes, but that bright fire never dissipated from his gaze. 

It carried a flicker of hope in you, a little flame that licked and danced underneath your heart. Igniting it to hold fast to your resolve to let your walls falter and put your trust in him.

“Take what you need.”

You did as he said, moving your limbs mechanically. Inside your purse, your phone vibrated. You fished for it, removing the damning device and seething in rage at the name flashing on the screen.

Shuji was stubbornly trying to reach you. 15 missed calls and a few more texts. You didn’t bother to read them. Chifuyu watched as you rushed towards the balcony, sliding open the door and tossing your phone right into the sea of lights where it nosedived down fifty stories. Sure to shatter into a million pieces upon impact on the granite pavement.

By a tiny margin, you felt lighter. Chifuyu did not comment on the stormy anger swirling in your countenance, standing a little to the side as you raged, bubbled and seethed, your true emotions allowed to prowl like a tiger finally set free into the wild. You were ruthless, stuffing your clothes in your tote bag, taking cash, burner cards and phones. Stocking up as if an apocalypse was soon to happen.

Through it all, he never broke the silence, watching you work until eventually, you ran out of steam. He saw it in the slump of your shoulders, the teeming anger you held fastidiously to propel you slowly ebbing away til you were left with teary eyes and an air of grief.

He approached you slowly, getting down on one knee, watching while you sobbed into your palms, tears like the fattest diamonds trickling down your face.

You could not look at him—at this yakuza underboss who was as much part of your father’s world as you once was. Could not bear for him to see you this heartbroken.

“Y/N—”

“You must think I-I’m weak.” 

Surprise coloured your features when he gripped your hand, squeezing it. Cajoling you to look into his eyes. “Look at me—hey, c’mon—look at me.”

You slowly lifted your eyes to find his azure ones boring into yours. It made you want to flinch, cry and curl into a ball at the same time.

“Y/N, you’re so fucking strong. Don’t you see? Anyone who is in your position would’ve broken apart into pieces. I wouldn’t even be able to lift my head,” he emphasised. “Don’t make yourself small. You’re so much bigger than you think you are.”

Chifuyu, stop. Your expression crumpled and you were unable to stomach the hurt any longer. It exploded in a loud cry, one that took him aback.

“I don’t want to be strong!” you shrieked, blubbering almost violently. Mama, help me. You held onto your belly, sobbing ardently. “Don’t you see? I want to be loved.” 

Five words. A whole world of pain that opened right before your eyes. 

The insurmountable ache came to its fever pitch. 

“No one loves me!” your words fragmented across the empty room, backed up by your unceasing sobs. 

Chifuyu’s wide eyes dominated your vision; the silence stretching on. “My father hates me… he’s made it very clear he never wanted me in his life,” you blubbered, holding onto your midsection. God, it hurts… it hurts so fucking much. Every fibre of your being was falling apart, the sobs you held at bay overpowering you, drowning you in its endless waves of pain that found no shore.

Like a flimsy boat wrecked in the middle of the storm, there was nothing you could hold onto—nothing that you would anchor the pain.

Snot and tears coagulated down your face, and you turned your body away, unable to handle the mere thought of someone seeing you this vulnerable. Your voice shook, brittle as broken glass. “My husband betrayed me. He doesn’t love me… he made me feel so ugly and pathetic. So, don’t lie to me, Fuyu. Don’t you dare fucking lie to me and tell me I mean something. I’m worthless. I’m nothing. No one loves me.” A loud sob tore through you, ripping apart the seams of your restraint. 

It was true, wasn’t it?

You never had anyone in your life. Unloved since day one, no one had ever shown you a shred of kindness. The universe aligned against you—born into a family rich with everything but love. Beaten, ignored. Neglected. Then, you were thrusted into a marriage where you were played like a pawn till the very bitter end. And now, you were pregnant with the baby of a man who would kill you in a heartbeat if it wasn’t for his deal with Toman. 

Why am I still alive?  God, you squeezed hard around your belly, holding onto the last vestiges of your sanity. Make it end; kill me, please. 

Chifuyu pressed his shaky palms around yours. Those molten crystal eyes misted over with tears, and his jaw ticked from the restrained anger and devastation on your behalf. He tried to get you to look at him, but everytime his cool fingers prised your face up to meet him, your eyes would dart away, swollen and brimming with perpetual misery.

It pained him to see you like this; so broken and beaten from the unjustness of your situation. 

“Hey—hey… look at me. Look at me, Y/N. Your baby does—your baby loves you.” Chifuyu’s firm but fragile voice cut through the shattering glass of your fragile thoughts. “Y/N, your baby adores you. You mean the world to him or her. And I… I love you.” 

You shook your head, dislodging more tears that seeped into your white blouse. “You’re lying to me. Stop lying.”

His calloused hands tighten around yours. “You want me to prove it? Fuck, fine, I-I’ll proof it.” The sound of his sharp inhale rattled in his chest. 

“The first time you ever smiled at me felt like the fucking sun opening my damn eyes to the world. I’ve loved you since then—since you got into my car, scolded me to respect your boundaries, and drank with me until you stumbled in those fucking ridiculous heels. I love you. And I’m sorry that bastard made you doubt yourself, but you are not your thoughts, Y/N. You are more than that. You mean so much more.”

Hiccupping back your sobs, you finally found the strength to lift your head, falling into those sincere, crystal blue currents. Your body moved before your brain could catch up; Chifuyu did not impede your touch. 

You twined your fingers in his hair, dragging them down his face, and cupping his cheek. The dark-haired man dared not move or speak, letting you trace the rough skin of his chin with the pad of your index finger. No words were spouted between you, and there didn’t need to be any.

Your lips did the talking—rasping warmly against his. His arms came to wrap around you, holding your trembling body fast to his chest. Chifuyu tasted like mint and sunshine, the warmth of his broad muscles underneath your palms bleeding into your skin.

On instinct, you parted your mouth and he took the chance to slip his tongue inside your warm cavern, tasting your honeyed moans and breathy little gasps. 

Fuck. Matsuno Chifuyu could see why Hanma Shuji had fallen for you. It was incredibly easy to do so; every soft curve of your body from your gravid breasts to your arching back dripped with feminine submission. How easily you lost yourself in a man’s touch, how you bloomed open like a peony in the summer under heated palms. 

He roamed his hands down your sides, over your belly and right in between your legs. You mewled into his mouth when he started to trace the swell of your clit through your panties, finding a wet spot slowly forming on the modest cotton, driving him insane. Chifuyu groaned, and you eagerly lapped up his hunger, taking it down your throat with a whisper of his name.

Something about your breathy tone forming the cadence of him, was enough to make Chifuyu see stars.

One second you were perched on the loveseat, tears down your face, and the next, you were in his arms, straddling his lap. 

“‘Fuyu—”

“I know,” he mumbled against the flush of your throat. “I’ll make it so good for you, baby.”

Shuji used to call you ‘baby’. Your heart squeezed and tears shone in your eyes. There was no way you could go through with this, not when Chifuyu was earnestly suckling on your pulse point, his hands kneading your swollen tits. 

“Chifuyu, I can’t.” A catch in your voice spoke volumes of your pain. He stilled his descent down the graceful column of your neck, his hands falling to his side. 

“You love him,” his breath played with the loose strands of your hair. This close, he smelled like cigarettes and oranges. “I understand. It’s all still fresh for you.”

You nodded, hiding your face behind a curtain of your hair, you eased off his lap, wrapping your arms around your knees. Unable to look at him, you were quietly stunned when Chifuyu lifted your face to meet his own. The same fire as before burned in those brilliant eyes, and you were close to immolating yourself in the temptation of his embrace.

Chifuyu’s kiss-swollen lips quirked into a smile, the pink dusting on his cheeks endearing. “But, I will wait for you, Y/N. I promise you this. You’re worth the wait.”

The poignancy roaring in your chest, the blood flooding your brain; none of them were quite as potent as Chifuyu’s small admission. It was to your own detriment that you swallowed your tears and straddled his lap again, those large, warm palms holding you steady. Giving you the push you needed to take the final step of crossing a line you could never come back from.

But, hadn’t Shuji also crossed that same line?

As if sensing your thoughts heavy with him, Chifuyu mustered a lustreless chuckle. “If you want to use me to take revenge on him, be my guest, Y/N. I will happily offer myself up for your service.”

Your swollen eyes, the downturn lines of your mouth, even the baby burgeoning in your belly that belonged to another man could not deter the flame he held for you. For Chifuyu saw beyond your exterior, beyond the princess taught to put everyone’s happiness above her own. He saw a strong woman, right at the precipice of her life. A flower blooming from a crack in the asphalt. 

He saw a strength he had never encountered before in a woman, and it tiltillated him to no end; earning his respect and admiration. 

You closed your eyes, indecision rippling across your features. In a split second, it solidified into a grimace, and the glint of determination you held sparked like a livewire. Chifuyu held his breath. Allowed himself to be carried away when you tugged him down for a bruising kiss and reached for his belt, unzipping his pants. 

His cock breached your tight hole, and he exhaled a low moan, settling onto the hardwood floor (the same ones your husband walked day and night), as you swirled your hips, taking him in deeper. He tongued your pert and swollen nipples, suckling on them as you rode him with such frenzy it made him dizzy. 

You choked out his name and he bucked his hips upward, grazing your sweet spot. Your eyes rolled back in your head, your mouth falling slack and you breathed hard, whispering for him to cum. 

Your thighs would tense around him, and you held onto his shoulders with such determination, it would make him proud if you were truly his woman. His seed coated your walls, his kisses smothering your mouth and you let him. Let him plunder and use you; let him press his lips to your hair and fall into a quick doze.

Later, when he would open his eyes in a daze, he would find the penthouse empty. 

Your bags, your sweet smile, the lust ingrained in your features… had all dissipated like a dream.

He pulled his shirt back on, dressing stiffly, searching for you in every room, but ultimately got distracted by his buzzing phone.

Hanma’s name flashing on the screen inspired little fear in him, not when he knew off the full truth of the other man’s folly. 

“Matsuno?” Clipped and low, it was not hard to tell that his superior was stressed. “My wife. Is she alright? She has not answered any of my calls.” 

Chifuyu toyed with the idea of telling him the truth, but one look around the frozen, empty penthouse gave him pause, and he decided that Shuji needed to see for himself. See his marriage dissolve with his own two eyes. So, he lied through his teeth.

“Let me reach her. I’m still on the road back from the warehouse.” Not entirely a duplicity. The half-truth hummed in the back of his throat like the pleasant buzz of an alcoholic drink.

“Oh.” Shuji exhaled. “Let me know when you do.” The line clicked shut.

Good luck on that, buddy. With your phone smashed into smithereens and your whereabouts unknown, Chifuyu could only presume you had escaped while he was in the fugue of his post-orgasmic haze. Smart girl.

You were proving to be a vixen indeed, and it didn’t put him off. Chifuyu was actually spellbound by your brilliance. 

But, he could not admire your spunk for long. He had to search for you—not to share with Hanma your location, god no. That bastard did not deserve you. Purely selfish, his true intentions were to take care of you. Be your saviour.

Since he was a boy, he had dreamed of being a woman’s salvation. The printed panels filled with declarations of love hummed in him like a guiding star as he left the penthouse, hell bent on flushing out every district in Tokyo until you turned up.

Matsuno Chifuyu wanted you, and he would not stop at any lengths til this beguiling woman—this seductress veiled with innocence—would be in his arms once again.

Shuji was completely soaked. 

From head to toe, the rain had seeped into his clothes, his skin, weighing the ends of his hair heavily. He shook off the excess water, minding the puddles pooling underneath his dress shoes. Shucking them off, he carried the box of takeout food in his hand like a warrior returning from battle with the enemy’s head for his beloved monarch, careful to set it on the console table.

In his other hand, he carried a bag full of baby clothes, ointments for swollen joints and more nausea medication, a surprise for his beloved wife.

Y/N must be asleep. He had heard from Iroto about Tomio, and there was little doubt you would be conflicted. Shuji could understand—he had once been in your shoes. When his father passed on, he was half-agony, half-relief. The man who had made him bleed countless of times, who made his mother’s life a living hell, was finally buried six feet under.

But, on some days, it felt like he was still relieving his father’s death. Still in that empty morgue. Still standing under the rain as they buried the last remaining family member he had left, far away from his mother’s own resting place. Shuji was adamant on not leaving his parents together, knowing it would be what Hanma Tsuki wanted. 

If she could not find peace in her waking life, her only son would make sure she had the eternal felicity she deserved in death. 

“Y/N?” his voice echoed off the empty penthouse. He peeled off his wet jacket from his broad frame, frowning at the resounding silence.

“Doll? Y/N? I bought some dumb baby stuff for Shusei and food for you. Are you hungry?”

His voice carried like the echo of a lost ghost. A chill ran down his spine. Shuji set the items down the table, mind ablaze with traumatic images of you dead or dying. Heart in his throat, he was intimately cognizant with your withdrawn personality. She would never… Y/N would never let someone like her father affect her this much. 

Scouring the living room, he was assaulted with your fragrance, but no sight of you. The bedroom was empty save for a scattering of jewels on the floor. Fuck… did we get robbed? Despite the space looking pretty much pristine as how he left it before his mission, there were a few notable items missing.

Your tote bag, your favourite pair of earrings. The large pendant on the diamond necklace he gifted you. 

His chest felt strangely empty when he reached forward to gather the stray gems. Tucking them in his closed fist, he surveyed the room, a sense of foreboding so strong, it choked out every last fibre of rationalism in him.

Shuji walked out of the room slowly, like a sleepwalker strolling through his worst nightmare. 

The food you prepared for yourself on the stove was in a pot as cold as ice. The fridge was filled to the brim. The cupboards were packed with unopened boxes of Kraft Mac ‘n’ Cheese.

Yet, you were nowhere to be found.

He darted his brimming gaze towards the kitchen table, and something shimmery caught his eye. 

Upon closer inspection, it was your wedding ring, and underneath it, a single sheet of paper.

There was a tremble in his palm that was not borne from the rain water chilling him to the bone. 

Only six words were written on the otherwise blank page, but it was enough to render him mute and rooted to the spot. Drowning in waves of disbelief, rage and complete regret.

Shuji unclenched his fist and the diamonds scattered to the ground, the skittering sounds loud in his ears roaring with blood and rash accusations.

Cursing his stupidity. Cursing his folly. 

Six words. 

A whole world of pain that delivered itself like a deathblow straight to his core.

I know the truth. It’s over. 

Shuji did not break as much as he shattered.

The longest hours of his life where time felt like it slowed down to infinity were dotted with flashes of lucidity where he briefly came to his senses that he was acting like a man who had lost his mind. 

With his hair mused from his shaky hands running through his thick locks one too many times and his eyes red-rimmed, Shuji raced around Tokyo searching for you.

He dug up every resource he could find to scour the city for his missing wife. Underlings who were wrenched from strip clubs, illegal underground fights, and even a dentist appointment had no choice but to comply with their boss’ wishes of searching for his errant wife. But, after hours of flitting around the city, keeping their eyes peeled and ears sharp, they could not find the elusive woman that had turned the great Reaper’s heart inside out. 

She had vanished into thin air, they told him. Train lines, motels, clinics. Everywhere they went, they found no trace of her. 

Once the sun broke over the horizon like the spilling of a watery golden yolk, he called off the search. Tired men slumped back into their homes and into the arms of weary prostitutes. Underground scums returning back to the cesspit they came from. For Shuji, he went home. 

Or, what was left of home.

The penthouse was starkly quiet, every ragged breath he inhaled rattling around the space. Your fragrance lingered, and like a man haunted by the vengeful ghosts of his past, he stumbled into the large and desolate bedroom, straight to the vanity table where your Chanel perfume lay innocuously on the lacquered surface.

He sprayed some onto his wrist, the woodsy warm vanilla calming him; letting him pretend that you were right in his arms for a split second when he fell into a jagged, restless sleep.

Dreams of your sweet face contorting into a snarl, of your tears turning into peals of mirthless laughter rang in his subconscious. You were smashing your wedding ring into pieces. You reached inside your womb and tore his baby from the root of where that sweet soul grew. 

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you, Shuji.

Venomous words dripped from your lax mouth. You cried rivers of blood, begging him to undo his sins towards you. You’re a fucking monster, Hanma Shuji. 

Shuji awoke with a start to dusk.

One day. He blinked his dry eyes and stared at the ceiling, completely exhausted. One day without my Y/N.

He continued with his search. Soon, a day turned into two, and on the third day, he was informed by his subordinates that L/N Tomio had passed on in restless sleep. They told him that the old man never stopped grunting his daughter’s name, calling out to her even when he took his final breath. He must’ve known about Y/N. So, the man did have a heart. Too bad his only child was not here to see it. 

I am always the last man standing. Shuji watched as they took his father-in-law’s body and buried it in a white cloth. Yakuza bosses were little more than broken men at the end of their lives, and the funeral was a pathetic affair. Men who fought alongside Tomio for his whole life did not even bother to be at his wake to pay him their respects. Besides Shuji, a scattering of Toman numbers and a weathered man who identified himself as Tomio’s estranged younger brother, no one else was present at the wake.

He was sitting at a lowered chabudai, drinking some sake when a low baritone broke his mindless concentration.

“Hanma Shuji?”

Your uncle was staring at him, smile genial and the first signs of liver spots dotting his wide cheeks. “You are Tomio’s son-in-law, yes?” 

Your discarded wedding ring weighed heavily in his breast pocket, giving him the strength to see this day through. “Yes.”

“Where is my niece? Did she not want to attend her own father’s funeral?” 

Shuji did not answer him. He asked a question of his own. “Are you L/N Dan’s father? The one who is the heir?” 

The older man tutted and sat down next to him, helping himself to a spare cup of sake. “Heavens, no. I am Touma. L/N Touma. The youngest brother.”

Touma. The exiled one.

Shuji had briefly heard about your other uncle the day he arrived at your mansion to finalise the engagement with your father. A pacifist and the only L/N brother who did not follow down the dark path, Touma was a blip in the Blood Phoenix’s history. A flaw. Easily erased. Instead of being ruthless and bloodthirsty like his brothers, he chose a life of enlightening students on the wonders of Japanese literary prose. 

Something told Hanma Shuji that should you have known your uncle better, he would’ve been your favorite person in the world. 

“She’s not here, is she?”

The sadness in your uncle’s tone made Shuji’s gut tighten.

“No,” he admitted. 

Touma took one good look at him.

“And you have no idea where she is, don’t you?” 

Shuji lifted his eyes from the sake glass, his gaze flashing. Touma gave him a toothy grin. 

“I heard everything about my niece’s affairs. Word does travel fast even if you are an outcast.” The old man knocked back the glass and winced, kissing his teeth. “To tell you honestly, I was hoping she would be here. I’ve been waiting for twenty-one years to tell her the truth.”

The reaper stilled, waiting for the other man’s next words. The funny thing about grief is that it can loosen one’s tongue more effectively than the world’s strongest drink. And Touma looked like the kind of man who was perpetually nursing a hangover from holding onto a lie.

“Tomio was not her father,” Touma muttered wistfully, looking off into the distance. “I am.”

Shuji swore he heard his heart crack. The beatings, the antagonizing, the sufferings you endured at that monster’s hand… it all became clear now. But, what the other man could never figure out was what could’ve caused you to stay with a man who was not your own flesh and blood in the first place when your real father was still alive and breathing? 

The answer came to him borne on the wings of a heavy sigh. 

“Tomio’s wife—Meiko—was the only woman I have ever loved.” He poured himself another shot of sake. Shuji did not miss how his hands were shaking. “We were young and foolish. I got Meiko pregnant with Y/N when Tomio was at the height of his career. Before Tomio cleaned up my mess, Meiko and I were inseparable. In fact, all of us grew up with her and when I heard what I had done… I must confess, I did a cowardly thing.” His eyes turned glassy, and in this light, they looked almost like the curve of yours. “I left Y/N’s mother and went to the States. I never came back for her or for my baby. And then, when I finally mustered up the courage to face her, I found out she had passed away and my Y/N—my sweet girl—was raised by a man who worshipped the ground Meiko walked on but despised the reminder of me. Despised my baby.”

Touma chuckled hollowly. “I was so wracked by guilt that I never came back. I never stepped foot in Tokyo ever again. I let my daughter think that brute was her father and I never came back for her, I never—”

Shuji slammed his cup of sake down, cracking the glass. The air stilled. Electricity crackled in between his fingers, his heart fracturing into two. Touma’s lower lip wobbled.

“You should’ve come back for her. Maybe she would’ve known a father’s true love if you had just manned the fuck up and raised her.” Tears pricked in his eyes, and Touma’s countenance turned reticent.

“Even so. I heard the conditions for the marriage he imposed on you two. I also heard—pardon my intrusion—that it was far from a happy union.”

Shuji’s jaw clenched and he shot to his feet, his patience wearing thin for this sorry excuse of a man. “Whatever it is you heard, it’s far too late to give a shit about a woman who’s not even here.” His sneer pulled taut over his gaunt cheekbones, golden eyes manic with loss. “Don’t you see? She left me. Your daughter, niece, whatever the fuck she is to you—she’s pregnant with my baby and she left me because I was a piece of shit to her. A lying, cheating, fucking piece of shit. So in a way, you and I are the same—we’re both assholes in our own right.” 

He was breathing hard, tears beading in his lash line.

“But, the d-difference between you and I… the difference is that I will never stop searching for her. I will never abandon her like you did. I love her. I love her so much she’s all I can think about. I—”

He sucked in a sharp breath, clenching his jaw and turning his face away. The tears continued to pool in the back of his eyelids. 

Touma stood up and his eyes, so much like yours, bored into the side of Shuji’s face. He expected the older man to hit him, to avenge his daughter with a swift right hook that the younger man knew he deserved. He wouldn’t stop his strike; he would welcome it.

But, what he got instead was a hand on his shoulder, a pressure that echoed forlornly with a similar loss.

“Trust me.” Touma’s empty tone was haunting, his vacant eyes even more perturbing. “I know.” 

The older man patted his arm before he shuffled out of the empty wake room, his parting whisper hanging in the desolate silence. 

“I know what that regret feels like.” 

You awoke with a start, skin slicked with sweat. 

Outside, the world was shimmering with a starting pour that covered the world in a curtain of rain. You shrank back from the window when lightning arced ahead, and you tasted the fear in the back of your throat. 

As irrational as it was, you despised the downpour, and you curled back underneath the motel’s blanket, shivering. 

Thunder clapped and you clamped down on a shriek when the quick flash illuminated a figure outside the window, mere feet away from your frozen body. His hair slicked with rain, those oceanic eyes scanned the decrepit building, like he was debating if he should search the place. You hunched down the windowsill further when his gaze flitted past your position. 

Chifuyu had his hands in his pocket, a purse on his lips. Roving those listless eyes down the street, he bowed his head and walked down the street. You exhaled. 

Sitting with your back against the headboard, you quickly shook your head and tugged the threadbare curtains tightly shut, cutting off the sliver of orange street light illuminating your room.

Your tired eyes circled over your bare essentials; the bundle of clothes, the dwindling supply of cash. Come tomorrow, you were getting on the first train out of Tokyo and towards the closest airport. You just had enough money to book a one-way flight to Singapore. You would raise your baby away from this life. Away from the haunting skyscrapers of this great metropolis.

Anything to remove yourself from this world. 

A loud knock on the door interrupted your thoughts. The doorknob rattled and you shrank back, breathing hitched.

“Y/N?” 

Your stomach fell. How did he…?

“It’s ‘Fuyu. Hey. Can you open up? I’m just here to talk. You don’t have to be afraid.”

The sincerity shone brightly in his tone, and you cursed how sloppily you had left a trail. But, Chifuyu was a Toman leader. He had connections beyond your pathetic position. Finding you was as easy as asking the right person, and you supposed that was exactly what he had done.

“Y/N? Hey? You there?” 

Ungluing your limbs, you shuffled towards the door, holding onto your swelling belly, pausing inches from the thin wood. It was telling that Chifuyu gave you a choice to bridge the gap between him and the barrier. If he wanted to, he could easily break down the hinges and forcefully barge into the room.

But, he didn’t. He waited. 

You took in a shuddering breath. “What are you doing here?” 

A brief second of silence stretched between you both. “I came here to help you. And to share some news with you. May I come in?”

Hand on the knob, you debated for a second. Chifuyu seemed to read your mind.

“I’m not here to take you back to Toman. I won’t do that to you. I just want to talk and check up on you, Y/N.”

Heart in your throat, you glanced down at your rumpled silk nightie, and hastily tugged on a cardigan, remembering with searing clarity the hot lines of his muscular body against yours. Despite your reservations, your heart squeezed, and you swallowed down on your hesitation, opening the door. 

His forlorn expression brightened infinitesimally at your uncertain countenance.

“Y/N.” 

You stepped back, wary of being within arms length to him. There was no telling what was going on in Chifuyu’s mind. His blue eyes were stormy, brewing worse than the downpour outside.

Trickles of water beaded on his lashes, and he studied your features, waiting for you to speak.

“What do you want?” Your voice cracked, and you hated how small you sounded.

The edge in his blue orbs softened, and somehow, you knew what he was going to say before he opened his mouth.

“I want to—”

“No.” 

His lips thinned into a frown and yours parted in surprise at how readily you defied another person without another thought to their feelings. You were a stranger even to yourself.

“Oh. I was about to tell you I want to help. I know you need to escape Tokyo, but I have to give you fair warning.” Nothing could prepare you for what he said next. “Shuji has men everywhere in the city looking for you. He’s getting desperate.” 

It didn’t make sense. Your head spun, and your lower lip was caught between your teeth. 

Chifuyu lowered his voice. “It’s not safe for me to be here. Can I come in?”

Confused by this turn of events, you let him into your room. Those blue eyes shimmered in the half-light, and you perched yourself on the edge of the lumpy mattress while he stood by the door. Despite the distance and his soaked clothes, you could still feel his warmth radiating from where you sat. 

“Shuji is devastated. He’s a fucking mess. I spoke to Iroto and he told me that bastard hasn’t slept for days.”

What does this have to do with me? You steeled your heart and cooled your gaze. “Oh. I see.”

Unperturbed by your lack of reactions, Chifuyu continued. “I also believe you deserve to know this… but, your father is dead. He passed on a few days ago. Shuji was the one who buried him.”

That gave you pause. Your chest twinged and you sucked in a sharp breath. Tou-san. You blinked your glistening eyes and nodded, head bowing forward. “Thank you for keeping me informed.”

Another stretch of silence. Chifuyu took one step forward, and at your lack of reaction, he took one more. And another. Until he was standing right in front of you. His knees touched the ground and he slowly reached out to grip your shaking palms. When you didn’t push him away, he squeezed, begging you without words to lift your head and look him in the eyes.

“I was so worried about you.”

Your fingers twitched in his grasp. “How did you find me?”

“It wasn’t easy, but I got wind of a single female living alone in a rundown motel. Word came back that she was far too clean-looking to belong to these streets. I put two and two together.”

You quirked a joyless smile. “Well, here I am. Happy with what you see?”

He was sincerity personified when he said, “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

Safe. The word melted like a bitter drop on your tongue. “So, what are you going to do now that you found me? Are you gonna rat me out to Shuji?”

Chifuyu snorted, shaking his head lightly. A few raindrops dislodged from the tips of his raven hair and flecked onto your exposed knees. “Why would I do that? I told you, I want to help.”

Finally, your eyes met his. A world of pain and conflict swirled in them, echoing the forlorn sobriety in his. 

“I want to help,” he said again, softer. “You deserve someone to help you so please, lean on me, Y/N.”

A sob bubbled from the back of your throat, and tears sprang down your cheeks, faintly shining in the dead of the night. “I want to. But, I’m scared, ‘Fuyu. I’m so scared.”

“Don’t be,” he straightened, and gathered you into his arms. Your cheek pressed right to his pulse point, and you could smell his musk, taste the rain and salt from his skin. Chifuyu was careful to not overwhelm you with too much physical contact, and the press of his body next to yours was comforting rather than salacious.

He kissed your forehead.

“Tomorrow, I’m sending you on a train out of Tokyo. You can go to the closest airport and book the next flight to another country. I’ll—”

“No,” your vehemance was quieter this time. Chifuyu opened his mouth to retort, but you beat him to the punch. “There’s somewhere else I need to go. A safer place.” 

“A safer place? Where is it?” 

His curiosity was a flickering ember in the night.

You quelled it with the oddest answer.

“An apartment complex in Minato. Shuji will never find me there.”

Chifuyu’s confusion was palpable.

“But, before I do that, I have to handle something if you would consent to help me.” 

One hand curled on your belly, it was a losing fight to hold back the tears and the horrifying self-loathing deep within your soul. The battle was over before it even began. 

Don’t do this, your inner voice screamed. Don’t do it!

“Y/N? What is it—“

“I need you to take me to the abortion clinic and help me sign the permission slip,” your lower lip wobbled, fresh tears cascading down your face. Beside you, Chifuyu was made of stone. 

“I need your help to finally cut all ties with Shuji.”

The sorry excuse for a reaper stared out at the revolving world below his feet, holding a glass of whiskey tightly in his fist.

Golden eyes untouched by sleep and dark with despair mapped the turns and dips of Tokyo sprawled open like a patchwork quilt, listless in both actions and thought. His phone buzzed, but he let it go to voicemail. Too many times his hopes were raised, only for it to come crashing down when yet another report of his underling’s inability to find you reached his jaded ears. 

Shuji was tired.

More than that, he was exhausted.

Every morning, he would greet the world with mentally taxing thoughts of your well-being; where you were, if you were safe, and if—his throat tightened—if Shusei was well. 

His lost family. 

The glass of whiskey fell to the floor, his shaky hand unable to grasp onto it. 

Fuck. He would have to call someone to clean up this mess.  

Shuji breathed heavily, and his pocket vibrated again. Cursing, he fished for his phone, and when he heard who it was on the other line, he nearly growled.

“Shu—“

“Why do you still have my number?”

His clipped annoyance deterred her from replying. She cleared her throat and pushed on despite his irritation. “I wanted to give you my condolences on your father-in-law’s passing. I hope you and your family are okay.”

Family. Shuji’s eyes stung. He exhaled. “Sure. Thanks.”

He was about to end the call when Ichika’s next words stopped him short. “That is if Y/N is still there with you.”

“Huh—“

She ended the call, leaving him perplexed and reeling. Before he could dial his ex-mistress back to ask her exactly what the fuck she meant, someone knocked on his door.

“What?” Shuji gnashed his teeth when he saw it was Iroto. The underling bowed low, and spoke through stiff lips.

“Sir, I apologize for entering without permission, but there is something you must know.”

From the lapels of his coat, Iroto procured a brown envelope. Its contents became of interest to Shuji who watched impassively when the other man removed more than ten glossy photos. 

His heart lurched when it registered in his sleep-deprived mind who it was in those images. 

In every shiny square, your face was a sweet beam that served to heighten his curiosity, not quench it. You looked as fatigued as he did, and an air of despair was conscripted in the lines of your sweet expression. But, that was not the only thing that caught Shuji’s eye.

The familiar sign, the grey walls, and potted plants in front of what many assumed was a nondescript clinic. Shuji knew better. 

This was the same clinic he had meant to take Ichika for her abortion.

He stared numbly at the tears in your eyes, the pinch in your brow. The grief splashed out so clearly in this damning evidence of his destroyed hopes.

“When—“ Shuji’s voice failed him. “When did you take these photos?”

“Early this morning. My men had to develop these to make sure it was really her.” A beat of hesitation. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Iroto bowed, hastily shuffling out of the office before he could be subjected to the reaper’s infamous temper. Shuji was barely breathing. He stared holes into your countenance, memorizing the curve of your brow, the fall of your hair. 

Y/N… did you really do this? He sat back in his chair, letting the waves of self-hatred and loathing drag him under. I had no idea how much my actions affected you.

Shakily, he grasped onto the photos, the only living proof that you still roamed the same earth as him and held it close to his chest. His phone was regrettably empty of your sweet face, his ego never letting him consent to falling in love with his own wife—not even to taking photos of her—and for the upteenth time, Shuji cursed himself out. 

If only you had loved her sooner… if only you had stopped being an asshole… maybe your wife would still be here with you today.

Despicable. He was disgusting. 

Shuji pitched his head forward, breathing hard. He tossed the pictures aside, shooting to his feet and flipping his chair in the process; a loud cry wrenched from his lips as he started hurling pens, books, expensive ornaments into the opposite wall where they rebounded or shattered from the force of his grief. His anger was a typhoon, unbridled in its lust for destruction. He slammed his fists into the drywalls, leaving multiple indentations from the strength of his throws, and ripped his tie off, tugging on the roots of his hair with shaky fingers. 

Sorrow lined his muffled cries and he fell to his knees in the middle of the destroyed room, curling into a pitiful ball. The 6’5 renowned reaper of souls, who would not blink twice at gouging a man’s eyes out while he still stood breathing, was made up of heaving sobs and unrelenting regret for how he treated his wife.

Y/N… Shusei…

His heavy sobs reverberated across the room, and he wished you were right in front of him in this instance. You would know what to do; how to calm him down. Everything about you was goodness personified and he had lost out on the one person in his life who truly gave a shit about him. 

Worthless… he’ll grow up to be so worthless. A man’s face, so much like his own, sneering down at his trembling mother whose arms were like vines of protection around his frozen body. A complete waste of space—I should’ve killed him when I had a chance to. 

Shuji started giggling, his peals of laughter turning manic. Are you happy now? He cackled. Are you happy now, you bastard? You got what you wished for. I’m detestable. No one loves me and okasan is dead. Tell me, you fucking shithead—are you happy?

Pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, he blubbered a watery laugh. Looks like your words are right, otou-san. I am a waste of space.

“What’s going on?”

Hanma peeled his watery eyes towards the doorway where Kisaki cut an imposing figure. His ice blue orbs were wary, surveying the remnants of destruction surrounding the eye of the storm where his best man laid, still curled up in a ball.

“What happened?”

Of course. Kisaki didn’t know. He hadn’t had a chance to tell him about what transpired in his home life with the current political upheaval in Blood Phoenix going on. Shuji turned reticent, his voice hoarse and haunted. 

“She’s gone.” 

The atmosphere in the room turned subterranean.

“She left me after finding out the truth that I cheated on her. Y/N has aborted my baby. She’s gone.”

For the longest minute, Kisaki did not say anything. Shuji remained on his knees, in a gesture of supplication, waiting for the death blow that would end his life. 

“Ah. Well, Tomio is dead so it doesn’t matter. Y/N is free to go and the marriage can be made void if that is what you wish.” Shuji stared at a fleck of blood on Kisaki’s otherwise spotless dress shoe, rigid with disbelief.

“She was a lost cause, anyway. A woman that young and inexperienced was never going to inspire leadership in an organisation like the Blood Phoenixes. I had hopes you could fill in Tomio’s shoes, but with his own daughter lost to you, there should be no reason why those men should follow you, either. It’s a lost cause.”

Was Kisaki serious? Did he really think Shuji was mourning the end of this deal and not the loss of his wife?

Apparently, the Pierrot sensed his mood darkening. “Oh. Was that not why you were upset? You should be dancing in relief that I am this forgiving. I’m in a good mood.”

When Shuji did not reply, Kisaki sighed. “Unless, I read it all wrong and you did, in fact, fall in love with Tomio’s brat.”

“Do not call her a brat,” Shuji mumbled automatically, coming to your defense. 

Kisaki raised a perfectly groomed brow. “Hmm. So you did fall in love with her. I thought she meant nothing to you? That once you did your duty and gave her a son, you would run away with that secretary of mine—or did you think I wouldn’t know?”

Shuji froze, his heart dropping right into his stomach.

“You weren’t much of a telltale, but that slut? She could never hide her true emotions. Don’t worry. I’ve taken the liberty of firing her for jeopardising this deal. You don’t  have to punish your lover.”

“We’re not lovers,” Shuji’s hoarse voice interrupted Kisaki’s tirade. “Not anymore. I dumped her after realising that Y/N is the one I want and not Ich…” 

He trailed off, unable to speak your name and his previous mistress’s in one sentence. It would be dishonorable to you. The real love of his life. 

“A little bit too late for that, isn’t it?” Kisaki softened the blow of his callous observation by sauntering over the miraculously intact bar-cart and fixing a drink for Hanma. He poured a glass of whiskey and handed it to the lovelorn man, sitting himself on the floor opposite him and nursing his own drink.

Shuji knocked back the flask of amber liquid until his throat burned and he dragged the glass back, kissing his teeth and wincing. “Yeah, it is.”

The silence stretched on, filled with pockets of quiet sips and contemplation. 

“You still have time to fix this, y’know,” Kisaki murmured. Hanma gripped his glass of whiskey tighter, the amber liquid sloshing onto his wrist. 

“And tell her what? That I want her back? That I’m in love with her after all the shit I did? It’s going to take a miracle to do that.”   

“So, do it.” Kisaki’s monotonous voice spoke volumes. “You’re the famous reaper, so act like one.” 

Kisaki was not seriously expecting him to hound you till the ends of the earth like the famed creature of death, was he? 

Or… he was. 

While the Pierrot was his sole title, Hanma could feel it rubbing off on him—becoming one with his facade. The dreaded collector of souls turned into a lovesick clown. He would sneer in self-pity if his leader’s words didn’t ignite in him a new purpose.

“Do you think I should do that?”

Pinning him with a fire in his eyes that Shuji had never seen before, Kisaki nodded.

“Don’t let Y/N slip out from your fingers the way Hina slipped out from mine. You can still fix this.” 

With the zeal of a starving man, Hanma searched for you throughout Tokyo. 

He started with the abortion clinic, retracing your steps. Perhaps you were recovering in a motel nearby from the procedure. Scouting the different locations, he even got desperate enough to sniff out the love hotels, worried you may be on a short-term stay and he would miss out on your figure when his back was turned. 

Many receptionists, upon recognising the tattoos on the back of his hand, tightened their smiles the moment he walked in the doors. 

Yes, there are many single female travelers here, but we’re not allowed to disclose the guest list, sir. 

As if life held a veil to his eyes, no matter what he did, he could not seek you out.

I just want to tell her how sorry I am. Shuji rubbed his eyes, the exhaustion catching up to him. It had been days since he had a decent night of sleep. Every time his head hit the pillow, he would dwell for hours in a fitful state, waking up in starts and stops, gasping for air, reaching towards the end of your bed to pull you close to him, like he always would whenever he had a nightmare. But, you were not there.

Somedays, just to get a lick of the rest he was sorely denied, Shuji would spray your fragrance onto your favorite pillow, holding it close to his chest as he pretended it was you. 

Twenty days without her. The sun was losing its brightness. Akasaka was cold and stark from his perch on top of the world, glittering with nothingness as his arms ached emptily. The memory of your silhouette in them growing dimmer.

He was afraid to forget you. 

Shuji, look! Your laughter rang in his head, one finger pointing outside the great floor-to-ceiling windows of your bedroom where you both would just lay on the soft mattress and watch the clouds past by. That one looks just like a burger.

This is the second time you’re seeing food in the clouds, doll. He would tighten his arm around your waist, brushing a kiss onto your head. I think the baby is hungry. 

Shuji choked on a sob, smoke filling his lungs from the half-burnt cigarette dangling limply in his hand. 

What was the use of all these riches in the world, the best penthouse in the district and heaps of cash in his name when he did not even have his sweet wife to share it with? 

He turned to the photos of you still on his bedside table. The last living remnants he had of you. It must’ve been the thousandth time he was trying to memorise your face; the sad curve of your frown, the sheen of tears in your eyes. God, he wished he could remember you in a happy veneer and not this heartbreaking rendition of the woman he loved.

Today, he was too tired to go to work. He sent a text to Kisaki, telling the other man he was feeling under the weather and that he needed time to recover. It was not a lie. The sight of you, hidden by a lumpy cardigan, your expression pinched in pain as you exited that abortion clinic, broke something deep in him.

Shuji scrubbed a hand down his face, flicking his smudged stick into the ashtray, lips pressed into a thin line.

Come back to me, my darling. 

He started to choke up, close to tipping the scale towards a breakdown when his phone beeped with a text.

His heart leapt when he saw the words on his screen, disbelief lining every crevice of his stunned expression.

Kisaki’s Secretary: I know where your wife is.

That was the first thing that rendered him mute. The second? It was his ex-mistress who sent him the message herself. 

Hanma wasted no time. He slipped on a simple t-shirt and a pair of jeans, running a hand through his hair to tame the waves. On a second thought, he strapped on a pair of black, leather gloves that hid the shake in his fingers. There was no time for styling his locks with pomade or even to brush them neatly back. He had to find you.

His driving was reckless as best, no other thought beyond the vision of you returning back into his arms. My Y/N… my love… 

The gas pedal almost touching the floor, Shuji raced towards Ichika’s apartment, wanting to hear from herself where his beloved wife was—and if she was pulling his leg, he was making sure to finish what he started that day in the apartment when she lied to him about her pregnancy. 

As fate would have it, the slender, pretty young woman was exiting her apartment when she nearly collided into his chest. Her sharp yelp was no match for his strength when he pushed her back through the door, locking it behind them as he bore down on her shivering figure, the fire in his golden eyes undeniable.

“Where is she?” he snapped without preamble.

Ichika, whose cheeks had leeched off colour, mutely opened and closed her mouth. Unable to speak. Shuji’s patience snapped.

“Well?” he snarled, taking one step closer to her, not missing how she flinched. “You got my attention now. Is that what you wanted?”

Ichika regained her composure and tacked on a sneer. Wrenching the silver ring from her finger, she threw it right into his face, enjoying with a perverse delight when the untamable rage spread across his features.

“I know this fucking pathetic ring was not meant for me. Take it back home to that bitch you call your wife and tell her—”

“I know it was you who shared our sex tape with Y/N.”

Her tirade died in the back of her throat. Ichika’s eyes widened, the fear behind them palpable. “H-how—”

“My men managed to recover Y/N’s Cloud before her phone was thrown down from the balcony. The messages are there. I know it was you.”

Rising to his full anger, Shuji let the angst and heartbreak take him under. Fully drenching him in an impenetrable red fog. “I just didn’t want to believe it because I thought you would understand. You would understand how much Y/N means to me. But, you’re a selfish bitch. You never wanted to marry me or have a family, so why couldn’t you let me go and find it with someone who does? You fucking ruined my marriage!”

He bellowed the last part, slamming two hands around her neck, squeezing hard enough to make her eyes bulge. 

Ichika struggled, gasping for breath, her fingernails stabbing into his arms. 

“Tell me where is she,” Shuji sobbed, not a shred of composure left in his body. He had fully given himself into the dark impulses that flashed in his mind—completely hellbent on destroying the woman who took everything from him. “You could’ve lived happily with the money my gifts gave you. You could’ve—fuck, shut up! Stop fucking crying! You don’t deserve to cry. You don’t deserve to fucking cry like you’re a victim here.”

Her mouth fell open, gaping wide, shrieks reduced to reedy, clattering breaths. 

“So, where is she!” Shuji shook her hard enough for her teeth to clatter together. “What did you do to my wife?” 

For one split second, Shuji was sure Ichika was possessed by a being not from this earth. Her eyes gained a startling lucidity and she stopped struggling, blue in the face, but her words resounded clearly as if she spoke it in his mind.

“It was you who destroyed everything you held dear.”

The light dimmed from her eyes, every last force of her life used to spit those words in his face. Ichika, the woman he once loved, whose soul he cherished as a mockery of his own, went limp in his arms, her mouth lax and tongue lolling out, chin wet with spittle and the explanation she could never give before he killed her.

He killed her. 

Shuji let go of her body like he had been scalded, her lifeless form thudding to the ground, heavy like a sack of potatoes falling.

“Fuck—no, no, no.” He gasped, reaching back for her lifeless form, shaking her lightly. “Ichika? Hey, come on. No, don’t do this. Don’t—”

It was useless for him to beg. She would not hear.

He stifled a sob and set her back down, cradling her limp head like it was a broken bird’s neck. Shuji tried for a pulse but could not find it, and he hiccuped back a keen, stepping away from the body. 

There was nothing else he could do. Nothing else but give an anonymous tip to the police, hoping they would arrive soon. His dead mistress’s silver ring glinted in his periphery and he quickly snatched it up, not leaving a trace behind. 

He ducked his head low, steering clear of CCTV’s and crossing one unblinking camera down the hall. The same one he had disabled the day he crawled into her shitty apartment to fuck her on her pink satin sheets.

I’m a dangerous man, doll—no one can know I’m doing this with you.

No dash cams were around as far as his eye could see; though the sun burned hotly on the back of his neck, reminding him that even if there were no earthly spectators, his dark misdeeds could never be hidden from a celestial sight.

Shuji cursed under his breath , quickening his pace when he heard the first wails of an ambulance siren in the distance. He pulled out of her apartment compound the exact second a screeching police car drove in, narrowly catching him right at the scene. 

He adjusted his glasses, hightailing it out of here before they could connect her heinous death to his name. His glove-clad hands tightened on the steering wheel, and he did not ease up until he arrived back into the penthouse, shaking and itching for a drink.

Discarding his gloves into the sink, he reached for the whiskey cabinet, sloppily pouring himself a glass and knocking it back frantically. 

Though there was no blood on his hands, he could not shake off the pressing itch that he was drenched in his ex-mistress’ gore.

Ichika’s face flashed in his mind; her beautiful features falling flat in death, her words shaking him to the core.

It was you who destroyed everything you held dear.

It was you who destroyed everything you held dear.

It was you who destroyed everything you held dear.

Shuji threw the expensive glass across the room, watching as it shattered, the broken shards that caught the light of the dying sun mimicking the tears glinting down his cheeks. 

She’s right—I truly am the Reaper… everything I touch dies.

a/n: reblogs and feedback are much appreciated!!

© all works belong to lalalunanymph. do not copy, repost or claim as your own.

[crhinge]

Breaking Down The Classic Rom-Com

I feel like I haven’t written a fun post in a hot sec so lets talk about one of my favorite subjects: Rom Coms

According to wikipedia, a Rom Com, also known as Romantic Comedy, is “a subgenre of comedy and slice-of-life fiction, focusing on lighthearted, humorous plot lines centered on romantic ideas, such as how true love is able to surmount most obstacles.” In the past, Romantic Comedies have also been called “Chick Flicks” but I think this is devaluing of both women and  the romantic comedy genre. 

The other day, I woke up to find that the most wholesome rom-com couple of all time reunited: Matty & Jenna (Aka Mark Ruffalo & Jennifer Garner). This got me thinking about the beauty of the Rom-Com and how unappreciated they can be. It has been years since we have seen a rom-com with the cultural impact of 13 Going on 30, and I would like to petition for more of them after a sad and painful year. 

I can already hear the millions (in my head this blog is extremely popular) of comments “What about To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before?!?” “What about The Kissing Booth?!?” And too that I say, "Good Riddance!” If you’re rating your rom coms on a TATBILB scale, or even WORSE The Kissing booth, I feel sorry for you. Truly I do. So let's dive into the best Rom Coms of all time, but first... 

What makes a Rom-Com good? Well let's start with a relatable as hell main character. I am talking a girl (sometimes guy), who has many flaws, but the audience can see themselves within her/him. Let's use Jenna Rink from 13 Going On 30 as an example. Well, she's literally a 13 year old in a 30 year olds body, but don’t we all still have a preteen hiding inside of all of us? She is 100% willing to be herself at every step, even if that means dancing thriller all alone. She touches on all of our insecurities, while teaching us how to break down our walls. 

Rom-Coms also need characters to make realistic choices. This does not mean that the movie itself is realistic, but rather than you can understand the choices the characters make. Again, 13 going on 30 does a fabulous job of this. Obviously, Jenna traveling in time because of wishing powder is not realistic, but the choices that her and her past self make are. Due to the insecurities of her childhood and a need to feel included, relevant, and powerful Jenna pushes important people out of her life, which happens to so many people in the real world. These decisions force her to miss out on the love of her life, and ultimately, the story ends sadly: the love of her life marries someone else and she is left with tears, wishing powder, and an old doll house. That is until she is able to travel back in time and change the course of her life. 

Lastly, Every classic Rom-Com couple needs to have chemistry. There. I said it. Hollywood loves just casting random famous actors without giving them a proper chemistry read. One great example of this is Julianne Hough and Josh Duhamel in Safe Haven. Both fun, famous, Hollywood actors who have zero chemistry. Mark Ruffalo and Jennifer Garner had more chemistry throwing back Razzles than those two did during an intimate sex scene. 

Alright, now that we have broken down the requirements of a Romantic Comedy, let's jump into the best and worst of all time.

Best: When Harry Met Sally. 9/10. A classic. A tale as old as time. Both Sally & Harry are very flawed, yet relatable characters. Sally is too picky and particular, while Harry is a player. They both suck at relationships, but make rational decisions based on their motivations. We all have friends like these two and their chemistry is on point, both on a friendship and romantic level. They bounce off of one another splendidly. 

Worst: Sleepless in Seattle. 1/10 I know, this is a strong take, but this is a terrible movie about a stalker. Meg Ryan (I don’t even remember her character's name) is the stupidest most unrelatable character I have seen in a long time. She is extremely unlovable, cheats on her SO emotionally, and flies across the country to stalk a man that she has never met before. And then you’re telling me that Tom hanks FALLS FOR HER? Nope. No. I refuse to except this. Plus, their chemistry in this is pretty mediocre (You’ve Got Mail is Way Better) and we only get to see them together once. 

Best: 10 Things I Hate About You. 8/10. I was tempted to leave all high School Rom-Coms off this list, but Heath Ledger is my exception. Talk about likability. Kat is a strong, powerful, independent woman who learns how to be more vulnerable while still being a feminist badass. We all wanted to be Kat growing up. Meanwhile Heath Ledger is the classic bad boy with a soft side, and who wasn’’t into that? Both characters grow into new people throughout the movie making them relatable, complex, and realistic. Not to mention the angel that is Joseph Gordon Levitt, who keeps the audience up beat and smiling throughout the course of this Shakespeare tale

Best: My Big fat Greek Wedding. 10/10.  Have you seen this film recently? Because it is an absolute DELIGHT and so relatable. It dives into the difficulty of family expectation and cultures merging. It also has the cutest proposal of all time with a realistic couple that fights for one another on a daily basis. You laugh. You cry. You get a dynamic cast with wonderful chemistry. You feel invested in the family and the relationship. Just a joyful wonderful film.

Worst: Something Borrowed. 0/10. If you’ve never seen this movie, don’t. Ginnifer Goodwin sleeps with her best friends fiancé and we’re supposed to be okay with it because she liked him first. Hard pass. And she ignores John Krazinski who is right in front of her. She is unlikable, unreliable, and makes dumb decisions that no one else would. 

Best: He’s just not that into you. 9/10  I will go to bat for this movie. It follows several realistic storylines in a Love Actually manor, except they actual seem legit. A woman realizing her boyfriend is never going to marry her. A girl facing the fact that maybe some guys just aren’t that into her, and she isn’t an exception to the rule. A man slowly making the decision to cheat on his wife as they are growing apart. A woman realizing that she is worth way more than her bastard husband. A woman realizing that the person she’s sleeping with will never leave his wife for her. It's compelling, has realistic characters that we can relate to, and still warms your heart in the end. 

Best: The Big Sick. 8/10. Okay to be fair, this is based on a true story so it automatically has realistic characters and decisions. Maybe I should leave this off of the list, but I wish this film got the recognition it deserves. Two lovable main characters who make mistakes that are understandable. Wonderful chemistry between Kumail and his girlfriend as well as her family. 

Best: About Time. 11/10 This is hands down the best Rom-Com of all time and Potentially the best film of all time as well. If you don’t cry in this movie you do not have a heart or soul. The characters are SO insanely likable and adorable.It touches on the importance of family and valuing time and how little of it we have. The chemistry within the whole cast is palpable, and we can all relate to at least one character, whether it is the protagonist Tim, his wife Mary, his sister Kit-Kat, or his father. 

Well it is important to point out the obvious here: this list is lacking diversity in a huge way. All but one of these movies follow a cis, straight, white couple, and that is extremely concerning. People have attempted to make more diverse rom-coms over the past few years, but they all seem to be lacking one of the three core components of what makes a rom-com great: Relatable, realistic, and great chemistry. For example. Crazy Rich Asians was a fantastic film, but the high level of wealth that Nick Young comes from, made his character difficult to relate to, and I’m sorry but the chemistry just wasn’t there for me. Always Be My Maybe’s characters fell flat and it’s not a film I would want to watch more than once. Love Simon made some huge waves for LGBTQ representation in the media, but that ending kiss was unrealistic along with his friends reaction to fining out he was lying, which left the movie anti-climactic by the end. 

Now, the most recent film on this list was made in 2017. And before that 2013. So where have all the Rom Coms gone? Why don’t we see more of them. There are a few Rom Coms that could be contenders on the “Best” list from the last couple of years that include a small amount of diversity: 

Yesterday 7/10. The big question here is does this count as a romantic comedy? The love story isn’t the main plot, but is definitely a large sub-plot. This movie features an interracial couple and is highly re-watchable. The main characters are entertaining, relatable, and have pretty good chemistry. We will see if it stands the test of time. 

The Broken Hearts Gallery 7/10. This movie has gotten NO recognition. The main character, Lucy, is an extremely likable 20 something, not unlike our Ginnifer Goodwin in He’s Just not that Into You. The plot is fun and predictable but keeps you watching. I don’t know if this one will stay on my list long, but it’s definitely up there. 

But here is my challenge to Hollywood: create some new, beautiful Rom Coms that celebrate diversity but that don’t throw away the relatable, realistic, and high chemistry characters that we are just waiting to fall in love with. It’s got like 16 ideas up my sleeve, so just give me a call Hollywood. 

[decennia]

i give u free reign to infodump ab all of the knights and the og army bc i am vv intrigued agjgssgsh

THERE IS SO MUCH HERE OMFG MORAL OF THIS STORY NEVER ASK ME TO INFO DUMP BECAUSE I WILL TAKE FULL ADVANTAGE OF IT—

I've separated it into sections:

The Knights of Walpurgis, and the motivations for their assigned sins.

Dumbledore's First Resistance, and the motivations for their assigned virtues.

The dynamics between the opposing contenders.

Given the sheer volume of information, I've included a cut. Please enjoy this manip that I am still very proud of.

THE KNIGHTS OF WALPURGIS (later known as Death Eaters) Tom Riddle (Pride)

Pride and arrogance were very large contributing factors to Tom Riddle's downfall in the end, and honestly, the whole idea for the gifset came from Florence + The Machines' Seven Devils playing while casually thinking of Dagrim and Tom, and then about how perfectly Tom would fit as Lucifer.

Dagrim Patil (Avarice)

When questioned about what she wants, and what Riddle promised her in exchange for her unwavering loyalty, her response is, quite simply: everything. Dagrim grew up starved not for affection, but recognition. And what she was denied in childhood, she would take in adulthood by force. Her philosophy is that if something is worth wanting, it is worth taking.

Cantankerous Nott IV (Lust)

We know so little about Theodore Nott's father from the source material, other than he was elderly, and he raised Theo himself. And that he was a Death Eater, of course. His name is an ode to his ancestor, the Cantankerous Nott who created the Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood directory. I assigned him "lust" purely for the events leading to the conception of his son (sis, it gets messy).

Abraxas Malfoy (Envy)

Abraxas Malfoy envied Tom Riddle to the point of a half attempted mutiny. He was quickly put in his place, his co-conspirators made examples of, and spared only for his close friendship with Dagrim, who pleaded for his life. Riddle, who trusted Dagrim to a fault for all she'd done to earn it, conceded. Abraxas would later prove himself to Riddle again, regaining his seat among Riddle's favoured generals. He was the one who taught Lucius to never disobey the Dark Lord, and he was not a kind teacher.

Ulysses Mulciber (Gluttony)

Indulgence and excess, spoiled rotten and filthy rich. The Mulcibers were the richest of the Sacred at one point in their lives, rivalled only by the Malfoys. Ulysses never knew the meaning of "enough," and was a glutton not only in all manners of vice, but also for cruelty, dealing it out carelessly with little to no regard for the repercussions he was well protected from by his noble standing and wealth. He was one of Riddle's greatest allies and sponsors, and instrumental in his rise to power.

Carmilla Avery (Wrath)

Carmilla was in the year above Riddle, and was quick to anger and slow to calm. Her temper was legendary, and even her younger brothers – also admitted into the Death Eater ranks – feared her. She had an untempered fury, a rage at the world for no reason at all. She developed an unhealthy codependency with Abraxas Malfoy, who served to have a soothing presence over her. People seldom survive crossing her, as her reputation dictates.

Serafine Lestrange (Sloth)

Serafine is not lazy (as the sin "sloth" would suggest), she just lacks the motivations to pursue the goals that are expected of her. A particularly bright witch, and a wealthy one too, she never applied herself at school for she didn't see the need. Instead, she fell into a fascination of the Dark Arts, where she met Riddle, perusing the Restricted Section. She is rather discontented with life, disillusioned from already such a young age. She initially joins Riddle's gang for the excitement of it all.

DUMBLEDORE'S FIRST RESISTANCE (later known as the Order of the Phoenix in its official conception in 1970)

Albus Dumbledore (Patience)

Name a man more patient than Dumbledore, I'll wait. Better yet, he'll wait, because he's patient as hell. So patient, in fact, he waited until after Harry's supposed death to come to him as a hallucination and tell him about how he was a Horcrux.

Rathin Patil (Temperance)

Temperance is abstinence, and I wanted to explore the kind of toll having his sister so far gone into the dark would have on any man, let alone one who really cared for her and wanted to do right by her. Rathin is not a perfect man, he is still fallible, and unfortunately, he develops a dependent comfort in inebriation when Dagrim disappears with Riddle. He pulls himself back together, especially when he becomes Isaiah Moody's partner at the Ministry, and he begins to pursue Miraya.

Miraya Varma (Diligence)

Methodical and persistent, Miraya Varma earned herself a position at the Ministry immediately out of Hogwarts where she would later go on to form her own task force within the Ministry specifically designed for the interrogation and recommended sentencing of dark wizards and witches. She has been known to put her duty first, up until the birth of her son, Divyansh Patil, father to Padma and Parvati.

Isaiah Moody (Humility)

For a very long time, people seldom knew the Moody name, and that was the way Isaiah liked it. He believed that his line of work would endanger his loved ones (in spite of his wife being in the same profession) and so he never took credit for the numerous arrests he made. It was Isaiah who suspected something was strange about Morfin Gaunt's arrest while investigating the Riddle Massacre, and consulted Dumbledore about it. Once his identity was discovered and he was viewed as a threat by Riddle, an attack was made on his heavily pregnant wife, jeopardizing her and his unborn boy's (Alastor) life.

Minerva McGonagall (Chastity)

Mini Minnie is seventeen, my dudes. But not only that, Minerva grew up with a religious father (he was canonically a reverend), who probably taught her his values. Also given the fact that Minerva was the first of the younger generation to participate and involve herself in the war (she sought out Dumbledore and enlisted herself into his Resistance, fearing her family would be made into another statistic if she didn't at least do something to intervene), she really didn't have much time to think about something as arbitrary as the concept of virginity. Also, it's the 1950s.

Corinne Scamander (Kindness)

Corrine is honestly the greatest. She has all of the tenacity of Tina, and the best qualities of Newt. It was Dumbledore's previous bond with Newt that encouraged him to recruit her, and she willingly accepted, because of course she would. She'd always been the soft spoken girl with a tender touch and a love for life, and she was often the advocate for hope in the resistance. She was adept in a few healing charms she'd learned from her father, and was something of a specialist in magical beings, proving herself to be highly valuable while Riddle was expanding his ranks with all manner of dark creatures.

Declan Diggory (Charity)

Sacrifice is in the Diggory blood, and Cedric's grandfather, Declan, was not the first to prove it. He also, unfortunately, wasn't the last, but he sure was one of the best. Selfless to a fault, Declan would willingly get hypothermia if it meant someone else would have warmth. Diggory's contributions to the war effort consisted of offering sanctuary and shelter to muggleborns who received death threats, and orchestrating the evacuations of targeted muggle residences. He was the leader of a small faction of the resistance, including, but not limited to: Fleamont Potter, Enoch Longbottom, Wilhelm Shacklebolt, and Ramona McKinnon.

DYNAMICS (just the contenders for now because this is hella long)

Albus Dumbledore vs. Tom Riddle

Adversaries, a fair deal of mistrust and guilt from Dumbledore's side (upon reflection, he'd been the one to introduce Tom to the wizarding world; even though he knows that if Riddle had been left unchecked, the risk of him becoming an Obscurus would've resulted in catastrophe all the same). Riddle sees Dumbledore as nothing more than a foolish old man, a pest, and an obstacle to overcome at first, but learns to begrudgingly respect Dumbledore's strength and mastery of magic (after all, Riddle only knew him as the Transfiguration teacher before, and thought the accounts of Dumbledore's victory over Grindelwald had been exaggerated to great effect). Riddle's hubris was believing he could defeat Dumbledore on his own, thinking himself already stronger than Grindelwald ever hoped to be.

Rathin Patil vs. Dagrim Patil

Rathin had always been very protective of Dagrim, and loved her dearly, although his acts of affection were often misinterpreted as pity and condescension. This only served to push them further apart. When Dagrim turned to the Dark Arts and found solace in Riddle, it revolted Rathin, as he was hugely against the corruption the Dark Arts has on the performing witch or wizard, and wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy. He still very much loves her, and it hurts him to fight her. Dagrim, on the other hand, finds catharsis in duelling her brother, believing it to be justice for the way her parents treated her and the little he did to dissuade them.

Miraya Varma vs. Cantankerous Nott

A mutual respect and an academic rivalry, Cantankerous and Miraya were not friends by any means, but not enemies, either. Cantankerous even went as far as to warn Miraya of an impending attack, allowing her to evacuate the building. But although he knows she's clever, he also knows that she's incredibly stubborn, and displayed little surprise to find her awaiting him in the now vacant building. They are equally matched, and their unique relationship spans several decades, even into Cantankerous' failed run at Minister for Magic, and Theodore and the Patil twins' time at Hogwarts. She was present at his trial following the Battle of the Department of Mysteries, and watched as he was sentenced to life in Azkaban for his crimes as a Death Eater.

Isaiah Moody vs. Abraxas Malfoy

Given his profession, Isaiah has a lot of enemies on the Sacred Twenty-Eight who are loyal to the Dark Lord. One such enemy is Abraxas Malfoy. When Tom gets word of Moody's involvement in solving the Riddle Massacre, he sends Malfoy and a newer Death Eater, Evangeline Rosier, to hinder the investigation. Abraxas and Evangeline were responsible for the attack on Isaiah's heavily pregnant wife, who, if she hadn't been an Auror herself, would've never survived. Alastor Moody was prematurely born at St. Mungo's following the attack, and all of Isaiah's efforts were turned on exacting vengeance on those responsible. Malfoy went into hiding, but Isaiah, ruthless, managed to hunt down Rosier. She died under questioning, setting in motion a vicious cycle of vengeance between the Moodys and Rosiers. Once Isaiah had been killed by Evangeline's brother (Evan [who was named after her] Rosier's father), Abraxas deemed it safe to rejoin society.

Minerva McGonagall vs. Ulysses Mulciber

On the list of things Ulysses loathes, he would put half-bloods above muggleborns (although he turns a blind eye to his Dark Lord's blood status when it conveniences him). Half-bloods only serve as a reminder of the lowest and weakest of his kind; the unworthy muggleborns, the lecherous blood traitors, the vermin muggles. Mulciber prides himself as something of a "purifier," and finds great enjoyment in pruning family trees that have been poisoned by muggle blood into purity once more. He takes a great interest in Minerva McGonagall, given that she is an incredibly powerful witch at such a young age, and he wonders how glorious she would've been had she been a pureblood (a twisted and untrue belief among the Sacred Twenty-Eight during that time). Minerva, the threat of Mulciber weighing heavily on her, places her family under Dumbledore's protection. She vows to stop Mulciber and his perverse idea of justice.

Corinne Scamander vs. Carmilla Avery

It didn't take much to enrage Carmilla Avery, and Corinne had been caught in the tempest Carmilla's fury since the day they'd met. Carmilla, who took great pleasure in picking on people she deemed lesser, made a target out of Corinne, perceiving her kindness for weakness. During their time at Hogwarts, Corinne had gained the attention of Avery for being a blood traitor and a muggle sympathizer, which only strengthened Carmilla's vindication. Corinne, who had been friends with Rubeus Hagrid prior to his expulsion, and who had almost fallen prey to the basilisk when she had heard Myrtle Warren's cries from the bathroom, never lowered herself to Carmilla's level nor did she rise to any of the challenges. This hurt Avery's ego, as she thought this was Corinne's way of claiming herself better than her. It wasn't until after Hogwarts that Carmilla's growing resentment came to a head, and, without the protection the school offered Corinne, Carmilla was looking to finally put an end to the blood traitor line of Scamander.

Declan Diggory vs. Serafine Lestrange

Declan and Serafine were childhood friends who drifted apart during their time at Hogwarts, particularly when she fell in with Riddle's crowd. She is viewed by Dumbledore as having the power to sway the entire outcome of the war, for if Serafine could be persuaded into leaving Riddle, her cousins (one of whom is the father of Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange) would surely comply, and the families who held the Lestranges in high regard would be inclined to follow. This makes Declan and Serafine key pieces in Dumbledore's game of strategy. However, Serafine was disowned long before she defected from the Death Eaters, leaving the Lestranges firmly in Riddle's grasp. Although Serafine claimed to feel nothing for Diggory, she still refused to deal any real harm to him when they duel, in spite of having ample opportunity to do so; something which Riddle picked up on. She was later forced to torture Declan in front of him to prove her loyalty to the Dark Lord, something which Declan permitted her to do, knowing she had very little choice in the matter. He was left for dead, but Serafine would later secretly return with Corinne to get him medical attention. She gives her son, Francis, "Declan" as a middle name.

[janiedean]

@seethemflying I think Sansa is in the next bracket down of important characters (with Jaime). In the outline, they weren't named as one of the big five, but in the process of writing have grown more important. No way is Sansa's ending going to be anything like Show Sansa's, though (and same with Jaime tbh).

agreed but lemme take a second from cramming to rant about this because I honestly have An Issue

in the sense: I 100% agree that both jaime and sansa are next bracket/secondary main (speaking as someone whose top five is made by ppl who are either secondary main or tertiary main if they have a pov like.... I'm not gonna argue that theon is a main fiver bc he's in my top three) but like what I can't deal with is the following as in that the main five are the main five bc they have in between them all the main themes george wants to tackle + the main plot stuff except for the 'romance is my #1 sense of existing in the plot', as in:

jon is azor ahai + has the chosen one deconstruction trope going on + most likely has the 'I never wanted to be Important™/have a throne but I'll have to for duty' ending + identity arc ie if he's not jon snow first of his name i'm eating my hat

dany has the dragons + the targ ancestry deal + 'I thought I wanted to rule but actually I don't I just want to help ppl' storyline (which is the hill i'm dying on)

bran has the oH WAIT fisher king deconstruction going on + the magic™ storyline + he's most likely kitn + he's tied to uh the literal rebirth of the continent so + how to deal with disability storyline

arya has the I NEED TO REALIZE WHO I AM storyline + the learning to be yourself as a gnc woman storyline + revenge is shit storyline + I'll become a skilled assassin and choose not to act on it unless absolutely necessary storyline + trauma/ptsd storyline tied to losing your own identity

tyrion has the shakesperean hero thing going on as in I have to make peace with the fact that I killed my father/did mistakes + overcoming the societal issues/problems/the prejudice most ppl have for him that’s caused by his disability storyline + he's the only one of these five who doesn't have any magical stuff in his background/only has his brain to rely on + overcoming his family's legacy and making it better storyline

now: a bunch of other minor/secondary characters have all of this (I mean idk theon and jaime have identity + learning to deal with/overcoming societal scorn given by them being disabled/having become disabled in various ways + ptsd, brienne has the gnc woman thing etc) but like each single one of these characters only lacks the OH I HAVE A BIGASS GREAT ROMANCE WITH MY BACKGROUND (I mean gendry exists to be arya's LI but idt it's gonna be important in her future storyline the way it'll be in brienne's to say one).. which oh wait SANSA JAIME AND BRIENNE HAVE, because guess what that's the next secondary bracket where those three characters have it as a main part of the story which is exempt from the politics angle (bc none of them is tied to the iron trap by the plot no none of them jaime doesn't want it, brienne isn't a contender and sansa was supposed to be queen in the beginning so she's obviously not going to be that later no not even qitn that's gonna be bran) and here falls the entire shebang because what half of this fandom doesn't seem to get is that *drumroll* george's favorite angle to tackle when it comes to romance is... THAT EXTERNAL BEAUTY IS NOT WHAT YOU SHOULD BE LOOKING AT IN PEOPLE AT THE END OF IT AND GUESS WHAT THAT'S THE MAIN POINT OF ALL OF THEM PLUS THE KNIGHTHOOD DECONSTRUCTION THING and with that I mean:

not counting that sansa's reaction to trauma is written to be specular and opposite to arya's as in arya tends to lose sight of herself/becomes someone else/resorts to violence to survive sansa never loses track of herself/her innate kindness which... is smth I wish dnd remembered, the thing is: sansa is presented in the beginning as 'i'm a twelve year old with all the issues with shallowness a 12yo brought up like me can have and everything I want from life is a good love story', which... guess what she's 100% going to get except

characters need to have an evolution, if sansa wants a handsome pretty guy who'll make her queen in the beginning and she has to realize joffrey was The Worst, do we really think her endgame is being queen of a handsome nice king when her entire schtick is liking songs about knights and wanting true love and someone gentle and brave blah blah? no, and that's exceedingly obvious when the text throws at you in the face that her only two actually viable choices for LI - sandor and tyrion - are.. guys who are either disfigured or disabled or traumatized or all three of them but are actually good people and she has to learn to see beyond looks, and no one else fits that bill period - sansa isn't getting with a pretty guy who'll make her queen, sansa will find love with a guy who's nowhere near pretty or handsome but will love her for who she is and that she will see the good behind the not-handsomeness dot and she'll prob go back north with him and be happy advising bran bc she learned stuff in court at most and I'm dying on that hill, bc again the entire point of her sl is having the nice good love story where she sees beyond external beauty which has been clear from page five of her first pov imvho

never mind that again she wants to be a queen in the beginning and then she realizes it's shit so why would she be one in the end? like not to be that asshole but george isn't exactly pro monarchy and it's obvious he's not going to paint it as an inherently positive thing

this attaches back to the fact that there's a whole knighthood deconstruction happening for which sansa has to realize that the gallant/true knights are not the ones who seem that/look like it/flaunt it around

which brings us to the fact that oh wait sandor and jaime in themselves are true knights in spite of the fact that sandor refuses to even consider himself one and jaime thinks he fucked it up and no one sees them as such

and that the truest knight in westeros who will get recognized as such is brienne

who doesn't look standard hot either

and has the love story with jaime right on page

and jaime also has the love story right on page where he has to realize he's into people that aren't c. especially brienne and so on which is what's happening right now like jb recognizing themselves as true knights™ is part of their whole thing like... it's... important

(this counting that san/san is beauty and the beast played straight with sansa as the beauty while jb is the same trope except reversed on itself five times because both j and b are both of them)

and this would also like make utter sense if oh, wait, jb weren't in the riverlands where sandor also is and if oh wait who has sworn a vow to find sansa like again I'm dying on the hill that brienne kills stoneheart, they go on the quiet isle to recover, sandor is like AH YOU'RE LOOKING FOR SANSA and sansa gets rescued in the vale by the only three true knights in these series including the one that's her actual love interest at least the way I see it and where do you think that's going to end yeah exactly

as in: she'll have the umpteenth proof that all the true knights in these books don't look like the songs and she'll get the one she wanted

(also brienne is way more like sansa than arya in personality so like... parallelism of two girls into romantic stuff getting with the guys they like? except that for b. it's relevant bc she's ugly and she gets with hot guy who's into her and for s. it's relevant bc she's hot and she goes with guy-everyone-considers-a-lost-cause showing that they're not exactly a lost cause)

like sansa is there to a) have half of the main love story plot b) as the resident song expert witness what knighthood actually means, jaime is the resident person doing things for love and finding ways to do it that aren't toxic/finds someone who'll actually love him and not what he represents, brienne is the resident 'I never thought anyone would be into me and I'm pursuing my dreams without a shred of hope they'll go well' and she gets all of that and sandor is there to be sansa's LI and to tell ppl that you can go to rehab and have a decent life even if you were used and abused to hell and back (jaime too tbh) and like none of that has to do with the iron trap, the magic, the zombies and whatnot but it's okay because it's their point in the plot and is2g I just wish people would take characters for what they represent instead of shoehorning them into others's themes/stories just because it's what they want for them, the end

(I could rant about the third bracket of characters ie theon & co & getting over trauma/ptsd without the Love Story™ but I have to get back to study if I wanna fill some prompts later so it's not gonna happen for now but... sorry for the rant I'm just really tired of the whole sansastark will get the iron trap and the north and be the ymbq and get with a guy that looks good for her depending on what we ship not considering the overall reaching plot or her book plot and everyone else will have zero relevance in the story because we said so especially when it means giving all of that to a character who is uh not belonging to any of the categories represented by the main five which are actually kiiindaaaa relevant rep but I'mma just gonna shut up here)