#accounting for solicitors

[mmbaaccountantss]

Understanding the Need for Specialized Financial Services

Law firms operate within a highly regulated environment,where adherence to strict accounting standards and compliance with regulatory bodies like the Solicitors Regulation Authority (SRA) are paramount. This necessitates the need for specialized financial services tailored to the unique requirements of the legal industry.

Legal Accounting: Ensuring Compliance and Accuracy

Legal accounting differs significantly from traditionalaccounting practices due to the specific rules and regulations governing the profession. From managing client funds to handling trust accounts, law firms must maintain precise financial records to comply with SRA guidelines. This is where specialized legal accounting services come into play.

By partnering with an accountant for law firms well-versed in legal accounting principles, legal practices can ensure accuracy in financial reporting, compliance with SRA accounts rules, and seamless management of client funds.

[thehardkandy]

I need my next big life goal is to make enough money that I can pay another person to do every single thing I don't want to do

[pedanther]

This is just such a fun description, in both translations:

Comme l'avait dit l'intendant, le notaire attendait dans le petit salon. C'était une honnête figure de deuxième clerc de Paris, élevé à la dignité infranchissable de tabellion de la banlieue.

As the steward had said, the notary awaited him in the small salon. He was a simple–looking lawyer’s clerk, elevated to the extraordinary dignity of a provincial scrivener.

As the steward had said, the notary was waiting in the antechamer – a respectable-looking Parisian assistant solicitor elevated to the insurmountable dignity of a pettifogging suburban lawyer.

Anybody here speak French and can say how to translate "tabellion"? Google Translate seems unsure what to make of it. The older translation chooses "scrivener" here and a plain "notary" on its second appearance, later in the chapter, while Buss opts for "pettifogging lawyer" in the first instance and "pen-pusher" in the second.

[casefoxinc]

Learn how to set up your law firm's chart of accounts with this easy-to-follow guide, designed to help you keep track of your finances and optimize your business operations.

[lexlawuk]

HMRC Account Freezing Orders (AFOs): Legal Guide to Challenging AFOs

HMRC‘s crackdown on suspected criminal and money laundering activity has led to a staggering 170% increase in Account Freezing Orders (AFOs) over the last three years. If you’ve received notice that HMRC has frozen your account, it’s crucial to understand the implications and your rights. If HMRC has frozen your bank account, our expert team is here to provide you with the legal support you need…

[tenth-sentence]

Westpac estimated that about half of its borrowers were in finance, insurance, property and business services and included barristers, solicitors and accountants.

"Westpac: The Bank That Broke the Bank" - Edna Carew

[advocate-paresh-m-modi]

Cybercrime Lawyer in Gujarat | Cyber Crime Advocate in Gandhinagar Gujarat | Advocate Paresh M Modi

[abrotion]

Need To Consult A Lawyer? Read This First!

One of the hardest times in someone's life can be filing for divorce. When it comes to the settlement, you want the fairest deal. The best way to do this is by finding a lawyer that knows the laws and will work for you! Read this article for more tips.

One thing that is very important when selecting a lawyer is ease of access. A common complaint among people is that their lawyer is hard to reach. Don't be left wondering whether your lawyer is working or out having a round of golf.

If you notice that the lawyer you chose is not doing the job that you were expecting, do not be afraid to fire them. This is the person that you are paying your money for, so at any point you can cut ties. If you are facing a legal matter, you only want the best on your side.

Ask everyone you know if they've used a lawyer for a legal situation such as yours, and who they might recommend. Don't forget to collect references for the lawyers on your short list and check them out. Also conduct a background check and Google them to see what others say about their services.

When you hire a lawyer for a lawsuit case, hire one that will take your case on a contingency fee. If a lawyer is not willing to take your case on contingency, consider looking for a different one. If a lawyer wants to charge your hourly for this type of case, then he thinks he cannot win.

As stated in the beginning of the article, finding the right lawyer can really help when it comes to your court date. Whether you are a plaintiff or defendant, having a lawyer that works for you will maximize your success. Remember the tips in this article so you can choose someone helpful!

Read more here Solicitor trust account auditor

[fukuwatchesbl]

I don’t know what the legislation is in Thailand, but this always bugs me. There are places where you can put both your names on a bank account even if you aren’t married, either as private people (me and my partner in France did that for the household expenses), or as business partners by both owning part of the business.

No but I genuinely can't stop thinking about all the ways Beam betrayed Jim. I can't stop thinking about how everything was in Beam's name probably because Jim's finances were such that Beam looked better to the banks, and how much it must have taken as a person who grew up in poverty like Jim to trust Beam with his money like that, how much in love he must have been. I can't stop thinking about how Beam didn't do anything to protect Jim's hard-earned financial stability. Sure he probably didn't expect to die tragically in a ferry accident, and nobody in love wants to think about the love possibly ending someday, but NOTHING? Jim didn't keep money under the mattress? He trusted Beam that much? I think about my aunties and great aunties who from even before I was old enough to understand what they were saying and why were telling me 'you must always have your own' and always had cash squirreled away in their house somewhere. Like, Jim not really having queer community then meant that he never learned that lesson until he learned it the hard way. Because I'm sure that as a man it never occurred to him that he could be in that situation until Beam's parents were taking everything from him.

Jim might forgive Beam, but I sure as shit never will.

[mmbaaccountantss]

Why Legal Firms Need Expert Tax Advisory Services

 Legal firms operate within a highly regulated environment, requiring meticulous attention to financial details and compliance. Whether it's managing SRA accounts or conducting audits, the complexities of legal accounting demand expertise and precision. With our specialized tax advisory services, we help law firms navigate these challenges while optimizing their financial strategies for growth and sustainability. 

[casefoxinc]

This blog provides insights on the importance of lawyer trust accounts and the role of FDIC insurance in protecting client funds. Learn what you need to know to ensure compliance and safeguard your clients' money.

[lulublack90]

Prompt 2 - Doctor

@jegulus-microfic July 2, Word count 1000

Regulus had always dreamed about being a doctor. His parents had mostly approved. They would have preferred he’d chosen to be a solicitor or an accountant, but they decided that doctor was also a respectable profession as long as he went into the correct area. Such as plastics, where all the money was. They had a friend who ran the plastics department at St Thomas’s in London and they arranged for him to train under him once Regulus finished medical school. 

But Regulus had other plans. He secretly sent out feelers to other hospitals and got offered a job in York. It was the one that he’d secretly hoped for. Sirius had moved up to York after he’d fled their family home. He’d gone to university there and fallen in love with the kindest man Regulus had ever met. Of course, his parents didn’t know that he knew any of this. 

He’d had all his correspondence sent to Sirius’s house and he’d go out on daily walks to phone his brother on a separate phone Sirius had sent him and paid for so they could talk without their parents finding out. 

Graduation day came. He was top of his class and a highly sought-after new doctor. He had his picture taken, said goodbye to his classmates and made a run for it. He left his parents complaining about the pitiful excuse for food that had been laid out for them and ran to Sirius’s waiting car. 

“Hey, Reggie!” Sirius’s smile was full of love and Regulus couldn’t help himself. He flung himself across the gear stick and hugged his brother as tightly as he could. “I’ve missed you too,” Sirius spoke quietly into his ear. 

They rushed back to his parent’s house and hurriedly carted the few boxes of his belongings down the three flights of stairs and out to Sirius’s car. Soon they were on the M1 and on their way north. 

He hadn’t just left his parents with no idea where he’d gone. He’d told them he had found another job and was sorry he left like he did, but he had no interest in learning how to pull back wrinkly old skin, so people could kid themselves that they looked younger than they were. He thanked them for everything they’d done for him and hoped that they would still want him in their lives. 

Remus was waiting for them at the front door. He flung his arms open and gave Regulus a firm, warm hug. 

“I’m so glad you made it, Reggie,” He said as he ruffled Regulus’s hair. They’d become good friends over the years since he and Sirius had met, even before they’d started dating. Sirius would drunk dial him and Regulus would spend most of the night chatting with Remus while Sirius did keg stands and made a show of himself. 

“Can we take you on a tour tomorrow? You can get to know the city before you start your first shift.” Sirius asked over dinner. Sirius had braved the locals to go to the chippy round the corner. It was excellent, the best fish and chips he’d ever had. 

Regulus went to sleep that night, finally feeling free for the first time in his life. He took Sirius up on his offer to see the small city. They ate breakfast and hopped on a bus into the city centre. Sirius took him to see the giant cathedral towering over the other buildings. Then through the Shambles, an ancient medieval street. The narrow street was jam-packed with shops and shoppers. The top levels of the buildings overhanging the street below. They took a walk along the bar walls that wrapped around the entire city, protecting it from enemy armies. Sirius took him on a river cruise down the Ouse and then into the Dungeons to learn about Dick Turpin. 

“Stand and deliver, your money or your life!” Sirius had yelled at him as he jabbed him in the back with a fake sword he’d gotten from the gift shop. 

“Turpin would have used pistols, not a sword,” Regulus pointed out. Sirius shrugged and poked him again. They walked down by the river to get home. His feet hurt but it had been worth it. The city was beautiful and he’d spent more time with his brother than he had for years. Tomorrow he’d start at the hospital and he needed to be wide awake to be on his game. 

Sirius dropped him off at the door, kissed his cheek and handed him a packed lunch. 

“Look at our boy Remus, all grown up and off to be a doctor.” Sirius pretended to wipe a tear from his eyes. 

“There, there dear. He’s a big boy now, we have to let him go,” Remus made his voice deep but struggled by the end, as he couldn’t help laughing. 

“Yeah, yeah, love you too. C'ya later.” He blew them a kiss anyway and walked through the doors. 

The resident in charge of them was the most handsome man Regulus had ever seen. He had to take a few deep breaths to calm his speeding heart. He felt suddenly very warm and could feel himself beginning to sweat. 

“Dr Black?” Dr James Potter looked up from his list. “You wouldn’t happen to be related to Sirius Black would you?” 

“Yes, he’s my brother, Dr Potter,” Regulus replied in as even a voice as he could. 

“He’s one of my best friends, I’ll be sure to let him know how you’re getting on,” Dr Potter winked at him. Regulus felt lightheaded. Oh, great, now he not only fancied his mentor but the guy just happened to be Sirius’s friend. He should have known better than to move in with his brother. Well, he was going to prove he deserved to be here. 

Dr Potter looked at him, his eyes glimmering with something.

“Well, this is going to be fun,” James grinned widely before they began the morning rounds. 

[sebastianswallows]

Beautiful memories — Chapter 1

— PAIRING: Sebastian Sallow x F!MC (aged up)

— SYNOPSIS: Sebastian is sentenced to Azkaban for six months. When he is released, he finds MC is expecting a child, and is filled with anger and jealousy and confusion. He just doesn't know the child is his yet.

— WARNINGS: angst, just a lot of angst (eventually there will be fluff and smut, but in later chapters)

— WORDCOUNT: 2.7k

— A/N: This fic is for a prompt by @pugsnotdrugs92, and I was also asked to write a similar fic by at least one anon.

Sadly, since she gave me that prompt, Pugs has deleted her blog. I have just learned this tonight and I am... pretty damn upset, I'll say that (not at her of course 💗, but at what caused it).

I will just say that if you get hate from anyone, block them, block indiscriminately until you have peace. I hope that Pugs (and anyone who deleted their blog as part of this mess) will make an account on this hellsite again one day <3

Anyway! On with the fic. Hope you enjoy it, my dears 🌺

Nobody had any idea who turned Sebastian in. It came so unexpectedly that they almost didn’t believe it when he happened. After all, it had been two years since Solomon’s death, and everyone in Feldcroft believed he died in his sleep.

“I know it isn’t me,” she said tearfully to Ominis one day, “and I know it isn’t you.”

“And it wasn’t Anne either,” said Ominis with a shake of his head.

“Are you sure? She still isn’t speaking to Sebastian.”

“She protected him this whole time, why would she report him to the ministry now? She might not forgive Sebastian, but she wouldn’t do this to him…”

Their suspicions fell on Leander, or the goblins, or any number of rivals Sebastian had made, but none of their suspects were likely to even know the truth about what happened that day in the catacomb. It therefore stood to reason that someone had overheard them speaking about it at some point, but that did little to narrow it down — for all they knew, one of the portraits had heard them and reported it to the Headmaster.

Ultimately, it didn’t matter who told the Aurors about it. The trio rushed through their N.E.W.T.S. half-heartedly, with Sebastian unsurprisingly scoring lower than he ever had, and in their spare time they spoke of nothing but the upcoming trial.

They’d even arranged for a solicitor for Sebastian, and visited him via floo in London, but he only spoke to his client in private. And every time Sebastian walked out of the wizard’s office, he looked more discouraged than the last.

The trial took place during summer, right after their 7th year ended. Both she and Ominis attended it every day. Imelda came sometimes as well, and Poppy, and Lucan — even Garreth attended on two occasions. He’d never liked Sebastian much, but he seemed to put aside his feelings throughout all of this.

“They don’t mean to send him there, do they?” he whispered as they sat outside the courtroom one sweltering afternoon.

“Where else?” said Imelda. “They closed all the other wizarding prisons centuries ago.”

“But he’s supposed to have done it while he was still a student…”

“What d’you expect? That they’ll give him detention for murder?”

“No, but…”

“You don’t think he really did it, do you, Imelda?” asked Poppy, leaning over Garreth.

“He didn’t,” said Ominis without even glancing their way.

“That’s right,” she said from beside Ominis. “Sebastian’s done nothing wrong.”

The trial went badly almost from the start. The judge was a grey old wizard in a funny wig, and there was no jury to speak of. He seemed to treat the death of a former Auror, even one of such ill repute as Solomon, quite seriously. The Prosecution leaned into that every chance they got.

Anne was called to give testimony in the first week, and she confessed under oath what she had found when she reached the catacombs, which was enough to shock the court. Sebastian’s friends took courage from the fact that she had not actually seen what killed Solomon, but it was only a matter of the judge drawing a line between a quick succession of events.

Ominis was called to the stand as well, but lied shamelessly. Even the threat of Veritaserum from the Prosecution didn’t sway him. He knew none of them would dare submit a Gaunt to that — a rare occasion of his family name amounting to something. However, him being Sebastian’s oldest friend cast doubt upon his entire deposition…

And then, she was called to give testimony as well. Unlike Ominis, she was not sure she could afford to lie, but nothing could get her to betray Sebastian.

All that she could remember was that Solomon attacked the both of them, and both she and Sebastian felt quite threatened by him, and then somehow, between the flying curses and roving Inferi, Uncle Solomon fell dead. But that happened, after all, more than two years ago, Your Honour, and it was in a dark and gloomy cave — and oh, what were they doing there? Objection. Relevance?

Ominis and the others congratulated her on well she held her own, but deep down, she felt like she had let her best friend down — her statement didn’t put the blame on Sebastian, but neither did it exonerate him.

By the time the trial was approaching the end, their former classmates had stopped coming, and only she and Ominis were left.

“He looks so —”

“I know,” said Ominis, not wanting to hear her describe him. This was on the last day, and the judge would give the verdict.

Guilty. Six months in Azkaban.

The courtroom reverberated with murmurs from the crowd — some in approval, others in outrage.

It was a horrible sentence to hear, but it was not as bad as their worst fears — people were often given life imprisonment for the Unforgivables. Fortunately, in Sebastian’s case, there was not enough conclusive evidence either way. Still, if they were to appeal, it would take longer than six months to even have a new judge assigned to the case, so they were left with no choice but to accept it.

As the Aurors led Sebastian away, she and Ominis stood together and called out useless encouragements to their friend, telling him to have courage, to be strong, have faith that he would soon be free, but he went with the guards without looking back at them…

Most of their former classmates were shocked but seemed to think the six-month sentence would pass quickly. They knew Azkaban was pretty horrible and could remember a few things from their DADA class, but none of them was truly educated on the nature of Dementors. Ominis was. He’d been in their presence when he and his father went to visit an uncle of his who’d been sentenced for murdering a muggle. He claimed it was the worst experience he’d ever had in his life — worse than Crucio, in its own way. He still remembered how the despair lingered inside him for days.

And as time passed, she became aware of something lingering within herself as well…

By the fourth month, she had to use concealment charms around her waist when she went out in public. Ominis figured it out on his own — it was probably that echolocation spell he used to get around. He’d merely been suspicious at first, but by the fifth month…

“Can anyone else see?!”

“No, and they won’t if you just stop —”

“But this could ruin your reputation!”

“Don’t you think I know that?!”

“I can’t believe you! How c—”

“Ominis, shut up,” she hissed.

“But you —”

“It’s Sebastian’s!”

“… Oh. I suppose that makes it better, then.”

From then on, Ominis supported her and helped her in any way he could — which admittedly wasn’t much, as he was still getting used to living on his own after being freed from his family’s clutches. And either way, the first few months were gentle enough on her that she could cope well enough on her own. The only help she needed was preparing her small flat to host two people — and eventually three — which meant some creative furniture transfiguration to fit everything in too small a space.

Christmas arrived in the meanwhile, then the New Year. They had tried writing to him every month by then, but the authorities kept sending their letters back — none were allowed for fear of concealed enchantments, they said, and no visitations were allowed either for lower-class prisoners. It broke her heart to know him all alone throughout those rotten months and all through the holidays. Neither she nor Ominis found it in them to celebrate anything that year…

Sebastian was released in February. They wouldn’t be allowed on the island of Azkaban, but they could see him at the Ministry, where he would be transported before he was officially freed.

She and Ominis got there at sunrise, and waited for hours.

Sebastian’s assigned solicitor couldn’t be there, as he had another case, but he sent a house elf to sign the release form in his name. Anne hadn’t come either, but that was hardly a surprise…

The two of them sat alone in a busy hallway, watching witches and wizards pass through — some going in, some going out — until finally, late in the afternoon, the Auror at the front desk told them that inmate Sallow would be arriving within minutes.

“Here, here, they said this will be the exit,” she said, pulling on Ominis’ sleeve.

Two large wooden doors lay open out of which a long dark hallway extended like a neck, and on either side were doors being shut and open of ministry workers travelling through. There was constantly a small crowd of people darkening that space even further.

“I think that’s him,” she said, standing on the tips of her toes when she spotted a dark ruffled head of hair.

“Alright, stay calm,” said Ominis, taking her hand to settle her. Since he’d realised that she was pregnant, he was instinctively more protective.

“Oh, it is! It is him!” she said with tears in her happy voice.

Sebastian was led out of one of those side doors — dressed in a grey and black prisoner’s uniform, his hands and feet chained, terribly thin and tired and bent at the back, and looking as if he hadn’t slept for days…

“Sebastian!” she called out, waving to him with the hand that wasn’t in Ominis’ grasp. “Over here!”

He looked up slowly, as if doubting that he’d heard his name called. His eyes searched blearily through the crowd ahead, not really focusing anywhere, but then they fell on her. She grinned brightly when she caught his gaze.

“Y-you came?” he said, looking at the two of them like they were a dream come true.

“Of course,” she said.

“Surely you didn’t expect anything else,” grinned Ominis.

“I… I need to go somewhere, they’re taking me to… to…” He didn’t have time to explain before Aurors led him around the corner and to another room, for processing.

“We’ll be here,” she called out after him, “we’ll wait for you!”

“How does he look?” whispered Ominis. “He sounded quite weak.”

“He looks… the way he sounded,” she said, “but he’ll be alright… He has to be. We’ll make sure of it.”

Less than thirty minutes later, Sebastian stepped back outside. He was now dressed the way he was when they arrested him: a faded green sweater and black trousers with worn old leather shoes. The clothes hung on his lanky frame, his face was all angles and shadows, and he looked as if he hadn’t had a wash in the whole six months. He was, of course, without his wand as well — they’d broken that after his sentencing.

But there was a still little light still left in his eyes, and it shone when he saw his friends again. He called out her name and Ominis’, and walked toward them with feeble brisk steps.

“I can’t believe it,” he grinned weakly, his steps growing bolder the closer he got to his friends. “I never thought —”

But then he noticed their joined hands, and her swollen stomach, and it nearly stopped him in his tracks. He only caught the sight for a second before she let go of Ominis and rushed to embrace him.

“Seb,” she cried out as she jumped into his arms. She clung to his neck like a lifeline. “I’ve missed you so much…”

“I’ve… missed you too,” he said, his voice low and uncertain.

She buried her face in his neck while Sebastian’s eyes fell to Ominis — who embraced him too from the other side in an uncharacteristic display of affection, before he stood back timidly.

“How… erm, how are you?” he asked with a nervous smile, feeling more happy than he cared to admit, and relieved to have his friend back in one piece.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Sebastian. Gently, he dropped the girl from his arms and slowly pulled away.

“Of course,” she said, wiping her tears and stepping back, but keeping his hand clasped in hers. “You don’t have to. You don’t have to say anything. We just came to take you home. It’s alright now… You’re free, you’re finally back. We’ve missed you so much…”

“Home?” said Sebastian, looking between her and Ominis coolly. “Whose home is that?”

“Well… whichever one you want,” she said. “Yours or mine or…”

“I don’t think I’m ready to see Feldcroft again,” said Sebastian. “But I wouldn’t want to… impose on either of you.”

“What?” frowned Ominis. “Don’t be stup— I mean, don’t worry about that, Sebastian.”

“Oh, is there something to worry about?” he asked.

“Well —”

“We don’t need to discuss that —”

“— here.”

“— now.”

“… I see.”

“Don’t concern yourself with anything,” she smiled, stepping up to him again and embracing him loosely. “Let’s leave this horrible place first…”

They made their way out of the ministry building and through the cold London streets toward Diagon Alley, and his friends talked to him excitedly about the things that had happened: what their former classmates were doing, what they knew about Anne, even the latest Quidditch matches.

They probably felt less cheerful than they seemed, but their enthusiasm was overflowing as they prattled on about all the normal things people their age should care about, almost as if nothing bad had happened at all. They laughed, and smiled, and rubbed his back, and all the while there was in Sebastian’s gait much of the same imprisoned and defeated look as there had been when he was led out of the courtroom at his sentencing.

“We wrote to you while you were there,” she said as they approached the Leaky Cauldron.

“But the damned guards never delivered them,” said Ominis.

Sebastian listened in silence, and they tacitly agreed it was because of what he had been through. He would open up to both of them in time, they were certain…

They decided to have lunch at the Cauldron since neither of them had eaten anything since morning — and they didn’t even wish to think of the food in Azkaban. They ordered sausages and eggs and mashed potatoes and a great big serving of pickled pumpkin.

Sebastian ate the least out of the three of them — and what he didn’t finish, she devoured. Ominis hid his chuckle behind a cough, while Sebastian could barely look at her. If she noticed it, she didn’t say. She just kept smiling and laughing along with Ominis…

More than ever in Azkaban, he wished he could dig a hole for himself through which to disappear. The Leaky Cauldron was noisy and crowded, the smell of food made his stomach turn, and every scrape of a chair was like a scratch across his brain. Even sitting down was uncomfortable, his muscles too thin and his back too weak to hold him. He moved uncomfortably from one position to another, and let his friends prattle on to fill the emptiness between them.

After almost an hour, they decided to leave, and Sebastian nodded in agreement.

“I’m seeing someone at the ministry next Wednesday about a position,” said Ominis as they walked toward the fireplace. “But I can stop by afterwards if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” she said. “You’re always welcome, you know that.”

“Do you have enough chocolate at home? I can bring some more.”

“Shelves full of it,” she laughed. “But more is always a good idea. I suspect we’ll need it.”

“Well, I’ll bid you two goodbye for now, then,” said Ominis as he waved them off, blissfully oblivious to what was going through Sebastian’s mind.

“Goodbye,” she said with a tearful smile, letting go of Sebastian for a brief while to hug their friend once more.

“I’ll let you know before I arrive on Wednesday.”

“Not to worry, Ominis. We’ll be alright… Everything will be alright now.”

“I hope so…”

“And good luck with your interview!”

“Thank you… Although I’m not sure I want it.”

“Thank you, Ominis,” said Sebastian tiredly. “For… everything.”

“Don’t be silly,” he smiled. “I’m glad to have you back. We both are. Just focus on getting well again…”

Sebastian nodded, not feeling that any of their kind words were true. He disappeared in the green flames with her, wishing for once to not appear on the other end.

[mw4n]

Should ¥XX,000,000 Make Fushiguro's Shit Worth It? - ch. 2

༄ synopsis - Being Toji Fushiguro's in-house private solicitor may pay well, but recently you're reconsidering if the pay makes all the stress (read: Toji himself) worth it. At this point, with all the less-than-legal actions Toji commits on the regular, you're practically a certified mob lawyer. [ full synopsis ]

༄ series tags - toji fushiguro x reader; lawyer! reader; no curses; yakuza/organised crime; violence; explicit content; dilf! toji; tags to be added

༄ wc - 5.2k

<< ch. 1 || ch. 3 >>

( う-´)づ︻╦̵̵̿╤── \(˚☐˚”)/

It’s times like these where your brain disobediently begins to wander to relatively unimportant matters, like the chances of someone in the office accessing the printer history and seeing that you’ve freshly printed a document conspicuously labelled ‘CV - final.docx’ under your printing account.

Then, your brain starts to think about the chances of them bringing that up with your boss, and how embarrassing it’ll be if this falls through. 

If it was any other office, you’d say that those chances would be slim - if not flat out impossible. But your mind drifts further towards Usui, whose cubicle is parked right next to the printing room and has been known to snoop in the printer history when he’s bored.

That was how he found out one of your colleagues had been using the printer to print advertisements for their brother’s business: more than 90 flyers. 

Honestly, what kind of hobby is that? Browsing the printer history?

You purse your lips with annoyance at the thought, unaware that the slight movement has caught Fushiguro’s attention.

He pauses from his perusal of your CV - even the manner in how he scans your paper, one handed and casual, seems hot (insert dreamy sigh) - watching you silently over the top of the page. 

Finally, he speaks up.

“Something the issue?” The voice settles around you. The background noise dulls amidst the washing in your ears. 

Any concerns about Usui dematerialise and you snap to attention, not unlike a soldier before their superior.

“Not at all, Mr. Fushiguro. Take your time.” 

He hums, lowering back to your CV. It’s taking him longer than expected, but despite your shitty job, your CV is relatively impressive. It seems he also notices.

“So, Y/N, this is all well and good,” he sets it down, spinning it on the table to face you. He’s conjured a pen from somewhere and is using the back of it to tap at a particular set of words, “but what I want to know is why someone who graduated near top of her class from Kyoto University, excellent marks and sponsored by an international law firm, is doing at your current company and not… there.” 

The pen nib clicks onto paper and circles around the name of the firm. 

Is he even allowed to ask this? 

You stare down at it. It’s just a couple words - it doesn’t even take up that much space on the paper, but it had felt huge for the few months it occupied in your life. 

You’re not surprised he’s asking. If you were on the other side, interviewing a candidate, you would ask too.

The events of last year run through your mind, scenes rapidly unfurling. The sights, smell, sounds flood into you briefly. You resist the urge to withdraw and squeeze your eyes shut, settling for digging your nails into your palms under the table instead.

A scale sits inside your mind, weighing the choices. Either lay low, make up some reason, or be honest and risk… his disdain. 

The thought that he, like the others, would just dismiss you and think of you as another liar, presses against your chest suffocatingly. You can’t put your finger on why it would upset you so much.

So what if he doesn’t believe you? Worst comes to worst, you just go back to your cubicle and continue working. Nothing changes. The world goes on. 

You’re aware that the silence has stretched on a tad longer than it should’ve, yet Fushiguro doesn’t speak.

He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. (He’s wearing a loose cream sweater this time, of which you suspect is designer. It’s got these irregular and obtrusive stitches at the cuffs and hem, but the rest of the make is constructed so well that those have to be deliberate design.) 

“I… did go to that firm, actually. I received the offer shortly after my undergrad and it was only with their help that I was able to pay for most of law school,” your voice dries up at the next part. You hem, taking a sip of water. “But it was during one of my training days there, right before I was set to graduate, where I ran into some trouble in the firm and… was terminated. Due to the sensitivity of what happened, they settled for just revoking my place and the last tuition payment.”

You weren’t blacklisted, per se, but it didn’t exactly help that the people involved in the ‘trouble’ were pretty well connected. 

He’s not stupid. Judging by how cautiously you’re speaking about it, he knows it would be fruitless to prod any further. 

“Are you not allowed to speak of it?” 

Your face remains stiff, betraying no emotion. “I wouldn’t really want to.”

If he decides to take back his offer because of this, you wouldn’t really blame him per se. You’re not exactly forthcoming with the details, and that could be a risk in itself depending on the job. 

“Hm…” Fushiguro scans the name of the firm on your CV, imprinting it in his memory. Though he’s not the most well-versed in the legal field, being involved in a completely different industry of work, the name feels familiar.

You watch him, almost cautiously. His face is unreadable. 

Your heart sinks. 

-

“Do you have any questions?”

You blink - the only indication of surprise you’ll allow yourself. Have you passed some kind of stage? Successfully, at that? 

Regaining your mental composure, you sit up straighter, hands folding neatly in your lap and knees pressing against one another. 

“For… you?”

There’s an amused lilt along his lip. The lip, which you notice, has a pale scar in the end. You wonder if that feels different than the rest of his skin. Probably.

“Yes, for me.” Though he’s not smiling, you can feel some smirk-like energy emanating off him. 

“Ah, I was mainly wondering what kind of work you’re involved in. What would I mainly be required to do?” 

You can’t lie, you’re curious on why he’s decided to extend an offer, an extremely generous one at that, to you in the first place, given your relatively limited interaction with him. 

“That…” this time, he’s the one who looks a little troubled. “It’s mainly just small things. Representing me when some clients try to sue my business, or if something happens with Megumi again, I can rest assured knowing that he’ll have someone to contact that knows what they’re doing. Just in case the brat runs into some… problems.”

Your brows furrow. “Typically, Mr. Fushiguro, paying someone to be your exclusive lawyer is quite a big deal-”

He flaps a hand, “if it’s the money you’re worried about, don’t be. I’ll compensate you satisfactorily.”

“I am worried about the money, but not my salary. With all due respect, Mr. Fushiguro, what kind of business do you run that allows you to pay so generously and require a lawyer?” You hesitate before saying this next part, but this interview has been relatively informal from the start and - again, if anything goes wrong, you’ll just go back to your tedious office job again. “And… what made you consider me as a candidate?”

“My business details will be confidential. But I call it that just for tax reasons, it’s essentially just me being a freelancer. As for why you…” Mr. Fushiguro leans back, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “... instinct?”

…

That answer was barely a step up from him saying ‘your looks’, and was hardly reassuring. You don’t get the sense that he’s as generous with details as he is with your future salary though. 

He must see the hesitant expression and deigns to elaborate. Though not much.

“Trust me, and in my line of work, instinct… is the difference between-” he raises a hand, drawing a line high, “-and here.” His hand plummets lower.

Heaven and hell. 

The reminder of your salary makes you swallow the rest of the questions back. No matter what hellish conditions he proposes or how hard he works you or how suspicious this is all beginning to sound… ¥XX,000,000 is a crazy number that lowers any inhibitions. 

An angel on your shoulder pipes up. But… what if he requires you to be on call 24/7? 

The devil on the opposite side smashes the thought with ‘¥XX,000,000’.

What if his personality as a boss ends up to be the absolute worst - worse than your current one! 

¥XX,000,000.

What if his work is… illegal?

You grit your teeth. 

¥XX,000,000!!!!!

That’s one, two, three, four, five, SIX zeroes at the end of that! 

The social media jokes about would you suck your bros dick for 20 dollars runs through your mind. That’s 20 dollars. Imagine this?

"And is the money… legal?” You feel hesitant asking this, worried if that’s an affront to his character.

He raises an eyebrow. “Say, how big of a concern would you say that is for you?”

our shock probably condenses too visibly, judging by the large guffaws that begin belting out of Fushiguro.

As you walk back to the office, your iced coffee barely touched and gripped in your hand (he had been smart to order both your drinks as takeaway, it seems), you feel dazed.

The concrete under your high-heeled pumps feels closer to clouds and a heaviness you hadn’t even known had been weighing on you feels lifted. 

The next steps logically present in front of you. You’ll have to type and present your two weeks notice to your boss, but Fushiguro said you’d be on call starting after this weekend.

That meant for your last week at work, you’d be working for Fushiguro - essentially two jobs at once. He hadn’t been the most forthcoming with details, but you hadn’t either with your past. And it seemed like his requirements weren’t that much.

Besides, it was just him and Megumi. Even though you were just one person, how much work could there be? 

You can’t even help but smugly think to yourself: this might be the easiest ¥XX,000,000 anyone’s ever made. 

(The you in the future can only look back at your naive self and sigh.)

--

The first time Fushiguro employs your services, he only texts you a location pin with four words. (‘My office. One hour.’) The notification catches your attention right as you step into the carriage of a packed train car, along with the rest of the 5PM rush, causing you to pivot directly on the heel and wrestle your way out. Apologising profusely to the others ,you have no choice.

You had just gotten off of work (it was still your last week in your crappy law firm) but Fushiguro had already told you at the informal ‘interview’ of the possibility of being contacted after the weekend. For that salary, you had no complaints of working two jobs for a week.

Judging from this text message and your first texting conversation, you can already feel that Fushiguro has a very identifiable no-nonsense minimalistic style. The lack of detail in his messages makes you want to grit your teeth, but there’s nothing you can do but squeeze into a different train line – enduring the disgruntled puffs and stares from the other sardined-crammed salary dogs eager to get home.

As you persist through the side-eyes from a couple of the older students, you reflect on that location pin. Why does his office location seem familiar?

It’s only when you step off the bus and approach the looming black gate, complete with two robust security cameras, that you realise that his office location is literally just his house.

Or at least, it’s the location that Megumi had you drop him off at a few weeks ago when he had busted his bike AND your car. The car, of which, was still getting serviced.

You had half a mind that the mechanic was an extreme slacker and had already resolved to never go to him again for any issues. Sure, the damage wasn’t small but did it really warrant more than three weeks in the shop?

Maybe you just didn’t know that much about cars.

Keeping your face as impassive as possible, you approach the intercom at the side of the gate and shoot a text to Fushiguro.

I’m here. What floor?

The message blueticks but no notice of him typing shows up. You furrow your brow, your thumbs hovering over the keyboard to follow up, when an abrupt grating noise causes you to jolt a foot in the air.

The black gate slides open a hair – its automatic – and you walk in.

Sidewalk-height embedded floor lamps light up the path to a two-story tall lofty glass lobby and carefully maintained shrubbery and foliage decorate the road in. The road stretches towards an underground carpark, but you just beeline to the lobby.

Everything about this gated community exudes wealth. If you had any doubts of Fushiguro’s ability to follow through with ¥XX,000,000, you don’t now.

Your phone dings again.

45.

You quickly text back asking for what flat, but upon pressing forty-five into the intercom, the lobby door opens automatically as well without having to input the corresponding flat letter.

A thought fills you.

There’s no way…

Indeed, Fushiguro’s apartment occupied the entirety of the forty-fifth floor. At this point, having seen the apartment complex and even how fast the elevator had jetted up all the way, your heart feels dead to the splendour of the rich. Instead you can only wonder what exactly does Fushiguro do?

The apartment door is partially ajar, light spilling into the dim lift-area, but you knock regardless.

A voice–distinctly not Fushiguro–rings out. “Come in.”

It’s Megumi.

You push open the door and the warm light of the setting sun fills your vision: floor to ceiling glass windows, the largest living room you’ve seen in Tokyo yet and a wall-mounted screen of the biggest TV you’ve seen ever depicting a split-screen game of Kirby beating the shit out of Ryu from Streetfighter going ham.

Where the fuck does Fushiguro get his money from?

You had been happy at the sound of ¥XX,000,000 but seeing the wealth is much different than merely hearing about it. The joke he made at the interview – “Say, how big of a concern would you say that (the legality of the money) is for you?” – is beginning to feel less like a joke and more like an omen that your money blinded eyes had missed!

Who jokes like that?

You had even googled Fushiguro online but had found no mention of any rich man with that last name!

Well, that wasn’t true, but the photo that had come up was definitely not the Fushiguro you knew. Some professor who lived randomly in Hokkaido. No one who could plausibly match the scale of the wealth you’re seeing and the name ‘Fushiguro’ had shown up with your research.

You’re apprehensive, but you’ve already walked into the mouth of the tiger. Might as well wander further in. Or however the saying goes.

Was that even a saying?

“Hello,” you slip off your heels, soles crying with relief at the action, and greet Megumi. “Is Fushiguro in?”

Megumi turns around, blinking in acknowledgment of your presence. “Dad…? Ah, he did say you were stopping by. He’s in his office upstairs.”

Up…stairs?

Stairs? In Tokyo?

Comically, you slowly turn to see the wooden spiral staircase that leads to a partial second floor that overlooks the massive downstairs open-space living room and kitchen area you’re in.

“Ack-!” A strangled cry catches your attention as some explosion unfurls on the screen in the corner of your eye.

It’s at this moment that you realise another teenager you know is sitting cross-legged next to Megumi. Tongue sticking out of his mouth in extreme concentration, Itadori’s slamming his thumbs onto the controller.

Your gaze pans to the screen.

“Who’s winning?”

The Kirby is clearly wiping the floor with Ryu.

You were a little surprised that Itadori was better at videogames then Megumi bu-

“Me, of course,” Megumi scoffs, haughtily, stopping your train of thought.

Megumi is Kirby?

You flick back to Megumi’s spiky hair and cold demeanour. Itadori’s sunshine smile. The cute, round and pink Kirby. The macho buff Ryu.

Maybe it does make more sense that Itadori would play a manly-masculine figure like Ryu.

Megumi as Kirby though?

Feeling like your characterisation of him has been momentarily subverted, you can only respond with an empty-headed “ah,” before you pad up the spiral staircase to find the office.

Fushiguro is engrossed on his laptop, an annoyed expression on his face, when you knock.

He skips the pleasantries, not even acknowledging that you’re fifteen minutes early, despite the fact you had literally hauled ass across Tokyo to get here without a car and during the 5PM off-work rush, and gets to it.

“I need you to do something for me,” he sighs, leaning back and pinching his brow. He directs a palm to the chair in front of him, so you naturally take a seat.

You slide a hand into your tote and pull out a small notepad, ready to take notes. “Yes?”

Fushiguro rubs his chin. “I need you to… silence someone for me.”

Your stomach drops.

A beat passes.

You clear your throat. You hadn’t exactly been clear about your employable services, and this… coupled with the wealth and mysteriousness that he’s been engaging… “What, exactly, do you mean by silence?”

Your voice sounds a little pinched. Anyone would in this situation.

He chuckles. That feels like a death knell.

“Literally.” There’s a roaring sound in your head. A million versions of tiny yous scream in panic around your mental scape, upending neurons and dragging their tiny nano-nails down your mycelium-wrapped cells. “There’s this woman that… I’ve had some history with, and she’s been yapping some falsities about me. Shut her up for me.”

You feel like an employed thug.

Shut her up.

Your mental image of yourself shifts from your beautiful, well-put together, but admittedly tired looking body to a broad shouldered, beefy moustached henchman. One wearing a wife-beater and yups ‘yes, boss!’ at every remark.

You look down at your hands. These hands weren’t built for tying the ropes around wailing victims in warehouses! These hands were built for typing on keyboards, gripping iced drinks, and spending hours writing on paper!

The image of the moustached henchman you comes to mind again.

You shudder.

A premonition, perhaps.

“You’ll need to be a little clearer. What do you mean by history with? Who is this woman? What falsities? And what do you mean by shut her up?” The last part comes out sounding near desperate.

Fushiguro looks to the side. At the time, you hadn’t known it, but looking back at it… that was a tell-tale mark that he was embarrassed. Maybe even he hadn’t anticipated that your first job from him was for this.

After a couple more minutes of what could only be described as ‘prodding’, you finally extract the situation from Fushiguro. The most painful prodding of your life. You had never known a client requesting help to be so difficult. Usually, they wanted to provide more details for you to get rid of the problem! None of this looking away, humming, twiddling thumb business.

It’s a hook-up. He’s telling you to get a hook-up to stop pestering him and spreading information about him. The same speechless feeling you had when you had seen the casual display of wealth from his house comes back again.

Does a hook-up really need to be silenced? Is blocking her not enough?

You scratch out that last thought. With your newest data on Fushiguro’s personality (this face-to-face meeting so far) it was unlikely he had her number to begin with.

Whatever.

For the sake of that ¥XX,000,000 you’ll just deal.

“Do.. do you remember her name?”

Trying to get helpful information out of Fushiguro feels like trying to cradle a wiggling cat.

“Nah.” He tosses a grape into his mouth, biting down with a crunch. The bowl of grapes had been produced out of nowhere it seems, suddenly spawning into his hand as he leisurely munches away. With every crunch of the fruit under his pearly-whites, you can hear the number of hours you’ll have to spend searching for this woman ticking up.

Had you really graduated law school for this…

“Do you remember what she looked like?”

He leans back in his office chair at a terrifying angle, thumbing at the scar at his lip absentmindedly. You feel a little ray of hope. He hmms. A sign of him thinking, surely-

“Blonde.”

A couple seconds go by before you realise that’s all the information he’s got (or willing to give you).

You know better than to ask if she had long hair or short. With how hard he had to dig in there – by ‘there’, you mean his head, of course – you were probably lucky to even get blonde from the empty expanse in the end.

You pitied the woman he had so heartlessly forgotten.

Clearly she couldn’t let him go if she was still yapping information, fake or not, about him.

“How long ago was this?”

He pulls up his calendar on his computer, squinting.

“Not sure. Could be a week. Two weeks. Three. A month.”

I can’t believe this man!

You sigh, deciding to put your foot down. This is the first task from him, and you’re fearful that this is going to let a scary precedent build.

“Sir, you do know I’m not a private investigator, right? You might be better off hiring an actual P.I for this.”

Fushiguro narrows his eyes like a cat, the edges of his lips flicking up.

He opens his mouth. A stream of unidentifiable numbers falls out, injecting energy into your brain with every increased digit.

“….!@#(% yen.”

That’s all he says, and that’s all it takes for your bending spine to crack straight. The countless hours calculated to do this job vanish in lieu of a big plastic beam on your face.

“Blonde, you said?” 

Walking past the living room, head full of thoughts, you almost smack straight into another kid. It’s a girl with an adorable bob and flower-clipped into her fringe. She’s wearing the same middle-school uniform as them. Probably another one of Megumi’s playmates.

“Oh- I’m sorry,” you apologise, ceasing from your wailing mental whirlpool of all the hours you’ll have to plug to find this mysterious blonde hook-up.

She stares at you, mouth slightly agape.

You hadn’t bumped into her that hard, had you?

“It’s… okay,” she says, eyes and voice dazed.

“Nobara- where are you?!”

Her docile appearance vanishes as she flares up.

“Shut up, Itadori! You’re the one who can’t even play my Ryu right!”

“You know I main Samus!” Itadori yips back. There’s some hesitancy before he speaks again. “Because she looks good.”  

“You’re so disgusting!” Nobara plants her hands on her hips, calling towards the couch area. From this angle, the tall back of the couch masks the two kids sitting on the carpet. Turning back to you, her ferocious demeanour melts away and now you’re the one dazed at how fast her face changed. She’s too adept. “You’re so pretty. Are you Megumi’s new mom?”

The minor squabbling in the living room fades a little in your ears, along with some colour in your face.

Huh? Megumi’s… mom?

!!!!

Your ears feel like they’re on fire.

How could- wha-

No!!!

“No!!! I just work for Fushiguro!” You rush to clarify, tongue nearly tripping over itself. “I definitely am not Megumi’s new mom! I barely know him!”

She looks unconvinced. “Uh-huh.”

As serious as you can, you set your hands on her tiny shoulders and affix her with a solemn expression. “Serious.”

She purses her lips. “Fine.” A pause. A sly expression. “Are you single?”

“…Pardon?”

Her eyes gleam. “Do you like women?”

“E- Eh?”

 “Nobara, knock it off. You’ll scare her, and she just works for my dad.” It’s Megumi who calls out this time from the living room.

The tiny girl deflates. Her hand grips your pinky finger and shakes it coyingly. “If you’re into women, I know an older girl who I think you should meet. You’re so pretty it’d be a waste not to have you in my life somehow, you know.“

You’re amused that this Nobara girl is trying to matchmake you, having literally just met you a second ago.

“She’s graduated and working already! There’s no way you can pair her with Saori! Saori’s only in high school!” Itadori protests, his voice coming through amidst the Supersmash Bro’s game effects from the impressive speakers.

His cruel reminder of your age shoots you through the heart, but he’s right. You have to agree with him. You can’t have Nobara trying to pair you with a high school student. Hell, even a university student would feel a little weird to you.

It’s less about the age and the difference in maturity from life stages.

“That’s very sweet of you,” you smile, eyes curving, “but I’m afraid I’ll have to say no.”

Nobara shakes her head fast. “Don’t be afraid! Be brave! Say yes!”

This time you laugh and pat her head. “Bye kid, have fun with Megumi and his friend.”

You’re too petty to let Itadori know that you remember his name.

Hmph. That’s what he gets.

…why are you one-sidedly beefing a middle schooler…

As you close the front door and wait for the lift, you can hear the tail end of the trio gossiping about you.

“…so pretty.” That’s Nobara.

“…assistant…” Megumi. You weren't an assistant though.

“…too old for Saori.” That was for sure Itadori.

The last bit makes your eye twitch, but you let it go. Sexual orientation questions aside, high school is way too young for you.

--

Two nights (sort-of) later, you’re hunched over your desk at home when you find her.

Your bangs are pinned back from your face by a fluffy hairband and you’re sporting a sheet mask that you most likely should’ve peeled off ten minutes ago. The only lights in your room is the computer screen (nightshift mode, of course) and the soft penguin night-lamp on your bedside table.

From the hours you’ve spent searching for her (thank goodness your time at your shitty workplace was over, so you didn’t have to be up early tomorrow), you’d long kicked off your fluffy slippers and hitched a leg onto your chair.

Now finally, unlike the four other false leads you had fruitlessly leapt at and had to let go – wasting precious hours – you’re sure that this is the girl.

Yumi Tsukumo.

Blonde. Hooked-up with Fushiguro at her house (the fact that they had hooked up at hers and not Fushiguro’s place isn’t surprising given what little interaction you’ve had about his careless appearing self).

And she was for sure spreading some crazy falsities.

You weren’t exactly sure how Fushiguro had found out. Maybe she had spoken to someone, and it had slowly spread back to him, but judging off her blog alone…

You whistled low.

Small dick? Scroll scroll scroll.

Unimpressive stamina? Scroll scroll scroll scroll.

Rolled over after? You slam your dinky plastic mouse on your mousepad.

Were these actually falsities?

You peel off your sheet mask and trash it decisively. Vindication!!!

Then a reminder that he’s paying you (with suspicious money) and you probably shouldn’t be rejoicing in this pings in your head, and you deflate. But then the pile of empty energy drinks on your desk attracts your attention and you decide to rejoice anyway.  

For all that work just to find this woman and the 2% of help he provided you, maybe you can be exultant for juuuust a couple minutes.

You scroll a little longer on her blog, admittedly some schadenfreude at work, but her privacy settings on all of her her social media has messages turned off. The only way to contact her is most likely in person.

You scrub her digital footprint for her address, a weird expression of uncomfortability on your face. This is your job now.

Now that you have her full government name, it’s significantly easier to find where she works. Honestly, maybe you should be a private investigator.

Satisfied, you note down the address and name onto your notepad and head to your bathroom to brush your teeth, pointedly ignoring the first rays of sunlight beginning to leak through your thin curtains. That was what your sleeping mask was for.

-

It feels a bit stalker-ish to show up at her apartment door, so you settle for appearing at her workplace. It’s a local coffee shop that you’ve never been to, but it’s the kind of place you’d go on a weekend with your friends – all rustic looking and calm.

You cast a glance, longingly, at the chalkboard sign on the street advertising some kind of strawberry shortcake. After what you’re about to do, there’s no way you can come back here anytime soon.

It’s hard to imagine that someone with Yumi Tsukumo’s online footprint works at a cute place like this, so you’re crossing your fingers and hoping you hadn’t gotten the location wrong.

You check your notepad again. You check the maps app on your phone.

Okay… brace.

Dressed in a pantsuit, looking as professional as you can for this, and holding a briefcase that feels red-hot in your hand, you step into the café.

You recognise Tsukumo instantly from her selfies online. The café’s empty, and she’s leaning back on the counter tapping away on her phone. Her jaw mechanically and robotically jolts up and down as she gnashes on what can only be gum.

She looks up at you and sets her phone down, dragging herself to the cashier with a bored expression affixed to her face. The entire café is empty. It’s an odd hour to come.

“What can I get you?”

“Are you Yumi Tsukumo?” You ask politely, nails digging into the briefcase even more.

She raises an eyebrow, the gnashing jaw halts. “Yea, can I help you?”

You’re silent when you serve her a formal cease and desist letter.

Her mouth parts as she takes a moment to read it. You can tell the exact moment when she stumbles onto Fushiguro’s name because her eyes light up in jubilation.

“Oh my god, Toji sent you specially? He remembers me!” She cries out, all excitedly, eyes still scanning the page. “Flowers, chocol…”

You don’t say anything.

Her eyes drag onto the next part and she freezes. The gleeful emotion morphs into confusion and then anger. She slams the paper onto the counter, hand snatching for a coffee cup slated for delivery that no one had collected yet and throws it all over you – outraged.

You really wish you worn a more waterproof shirt instead of one that absorbed coffee so well.

---

next chapter link (to be added)

(probably how Itadori ended up playing Nobara's Ryu instead of his usual main)Nobara: Itadori, why do you like playing Samus so much anyway? Megumi (already knows): ... Itadori: BECAUSE SHE'S TALL AND HAS A NICE BUTT! Nobara: EW! THAT IS UNACCEPTABLE REASONING!

༄ A/N - Please let me know if you think its funny... too long too short... everything... open to all criticism QQ hehe i didn't even think ab making a tag list but more people than expected asked for one so... here! tq for the unexpected support 🙇🙇

i am more active on ao3 so sub there if u guys want email updates etc ~~

༄ taglist - @ejwrsblog @twinky-wink @corvusmorte @gators-aid @theshortmuffin07

[see-arcane]

WARNING: Spoilers for The Vampyres, Dracula, and "Clarimonde" below the cut.

Also a bit of knife-twisting of the metaphorical variety. (Not that it hurts any less than steel.)

Rather than throw myself into another scribbling digression to take a break from other scribbling digressions, I’ve scratched a story itch via the sketchbook. This is the result.

I’ve gotten questions about what happens to ‘Quinn Morse’ aka a certain knife-swinging solicitor who God, the Devil, and Death itself won’t let die after the events of The Vampyres. The obvious answer is: dude’s still doing the job appointed to him by the Powers That Be. Poor guy is stuck paying a Faustian due of wiping out the predatory undead before he can ever put down the blade and hop in the grave himself.

Enter Clarimonde, from Théophile Gautier’s short story of the same name (also “La Morte Amoureuse” “The Dead Leman” “The Dead Woman in Love”) who’s still out here breaking hearts and ruining sleep schedules. The girl’s an undead party queen and a romantic hedonist, but is so terrible at the vampire part of vampirism she regularly drops dead(er) from being too hesitant about taking blood and/or conscripting. She takes barely a drop of blood when she does get to it; though that sin was enough for her own heart and physical form to get broken with betrayal. She got better—corporeally, at least—and carried on.

Until she crossed paths with Mr. Tall Dark and Sold His Soul for Love. And vice versa, our good friend the ex-Victorian psychopomp has finally run into a vampire it would be immoral to slay just for the sake of erasing another undead ‘to-do’ off the list…even if she’s temporarily the only one in the world. And therefore the only barrier between himself and finally getting to rest with his loved ones. He doesn’t even have the impetus of killing to save someone’s life as an excuse. Damn it.

I won’t say I’m not thinking about fully scribbling out the bizarre/sweet/likely doomed companionship that could exist between these two love-powered angst machines. The idea’s got teeth, pun intended. Plus there’s definitely an itch to be scratched regarding my old headcanon that Clarimonde was the Pretty Girl in Piccadilly that Mina and Dracula nearly broke their necks trying to get an eyeful of once upon a time. There’s some loaded ammo there for Clarimonde to really test her safety by mentioning, ‘Hey, your wife would have wanted it. I know, I read her mind that one time. We can break out a Ouija board and confirm.’

But I am trying to reserve the bulk of my writing juice for the current Big Project, so it’ll have to be something to poke at around the corners for now. Just wanted to share the concept with folks who might be interested.

Also, some deleted dialogue:

Clarimonde, posing in her sheerest funeral veil: “So, what are your thoughts on casual intimacy?”

Jonathan, sharpening the kukri: “I’m a big admirer of the praying mantis’ approach.”

Clarimonde: “The male’s or the female’s?”

Jonathan: “Either.”

Clarimonde: “So no romancing unless it’s to pull some psychosexual chess master mess on a villain?”

Jonathan: “Supposing the villain in question used said intimate betrayal on their own victims, yes. Also, they’d know something was wrong if I was ‘immune to their charms’ and—what’s this?”

Clarimonde, handing over several centuries’ worth of letters: “Documented evidence from members of aristocracy and clergy that I am a nefarious succubus in need of punishment for my preying on the morals and hearts of pious citizens. Look, they even included illustrations of how they’d do it.”

Jonathan: “…And were these documents attached to deliveries of jewelry or just sacks of gold?”

Clarimonde: “Both. On account of my evil coercing them into it.”

Jonathan, handing the letters back in a portfolio: “I’m afraid your villainy does not qualify for my services at this time. You’ll have to reapply with one or more proofs of murder and/or predation upon mortal innocents at a later date.”

Clarimonde: