#black paralegals

[thehoodarchives]

IT IS BLACK HISTORY MONTH!! and.. IT’S BANNED?

Small commentary on the recent events developed.

By Kiél Young

Apparently our dearest president has decided to make sure that D.E.I. is paused and therefore any celebratory activities involving minorities are paused for the moment, this including the spectrum of Juneteenth, Black History Month and other minority celebrations and memorial ceremonies or accolades. However, it wasn’t made for him in the first place so we will ignoring the direction of our free world country “leader”. When looking at the stance of black history month, we are indebted no only to our ancestors to honor the month but to were indebted to the communities around us, we have the responsibility to teach it to our kids, to others, and to BE black history on a day to day basis outside of the month, support your community this month whether it’s visiting black history museums, libraries, businesses, bookshops, and don’t expect a handout or discount respect the facilities in which you support and if you cave in to going any of the companies such as Target that have rolled back their D.E.I.’s — support the black owned businesses and the businesses of maybe Latinx or indigenous communities. There’s so many things that we can do this month and uphold this month to be same stance that we do every single year and a pen and paper signed ain’t changing a thing! and it shouldn’t. Say it loud! I AM BLACK & I’M PROUD.

[kitabasis]

Sam Black, to an eldritch being from beyond time/biblical angel/dark god/???: Um, Evan's literally neurodivergent and a minor?

[starkholme]

Oh but the amazing multi-talented tall blonde with a dead brother also has my heart

[traveler-at-heart]

Live, Love, Natalie Rushman

Summary: Based on a request by @lynattyx - Natasha and R meet when she's working undercover at Stark Industries.

Natasha Romanoff x Fem!R

Live Love Legal

The sign was meant to be a graduation joke, but you still placed it on a shelf in your very serious, very corporate office.

Even now, as you were promoted to Senior Associate -the youngest at Stark Industries- and you had a bigger space, with a breathtaking view of Central Park and Midtown Manhattan.

It was your first day, and you were determined to make things right. Top of the list, onboarding Miss Potts’ new paralegal assistant. Your secretary (holy crap, you had a secretary!) had called to informed you she was waiting at the front desk.

“Natalie?” you called, imagining the woman with red hair and black slacks was the new assistant.

Though, you were not prepared for the sight that greeted you when she turned around, striking green eyes and a perfect smile in place.

“You must be Y/N”

The way her raspy voice caressed every syllable of your name almost made you weak in the knees.

But this was work, and you couldn’t lose your shit over the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen.

“Yes. Come with me, I’ll show you around”

Pleased with the firmness of your voice, you gave Natalie a tour of the office, pointing at different areas where most meetings took place. You also showed her where to find the information of everyone she might need to contact, and then you went up to Pepper’s office. The short elevator ride was littered with small talk, and you considered a success how your cheeks flushed only once.

“Come in” Pepper said and you opened the door, Natalie right behind you. “Y/N, happy first day as an associate. And you must be Natalie Rushman”

After a brief introduction, you were ready to leave both women to work.

“If you need anything, just let me know” you said to Natalie before going back to your office.

“Anything?” she said with a small smile. Perhaps it was all in your head, or the woman had really managed to make the question sound… loaded.

“Of course” you said, heat going to your cheeks.

Once the elevator doors were shut, you leaned against the wall, wondering if you’d imagined Natalie’s parfume still lingering in the air.

Maybe that sign at your office should read Live Love Lesbian instead.

—

It had been a week - a busy, insane week- but Natalie hadn’t needed your help with anything. While you wanted to feel relief, because you had enough on your plate, you were actually disappointed. Those green eyes and that beautiful voice would not leave your thoughts.

To your displeasure, you weren’t the only one.

“Tony” you said, feeling a headache as you entered your office first thing in the morning and saw him behind your desk, feet up.

“Y/N. How’s the new job going?”

“It would be better if you gave the government some information about those suits. But I will say I love my new parking space”

“Right! New is good” he agreed, not moving from your chair. “Like that new girl. Natalie Rushmore…”

“Rushman” the headache intensified.

“Right, whatever. Isn’t she good?”

“Ask Pepper”

“I mean I did, and she told me to stop before  I did anything that might get me sued for harrassment”

“Pepper’s right. You can’t go around sleeping with your employees”

“I was only flirting” he spun around and you had enough, finally kicking him so he’d stand up. “I was never inappropriate to you, right?”

“That’s because I’m gay, Tony”

“And do you think Natalie might be…?” you glared at the man and he was quick to explain. “I hear there’s a sixth sense involved in the whole experience”

“Leave before I throw you out the window, Stark”

“You’re no fun” he complained, winking as he shut the door to your office.

—

The next time you saw Natalie was as you prepared a meeting with new VC investors and the board.

“I need you to place the NDAs in the binder that we’re sending to legal…” Pepper said and Natalie stopped walking. The sudden halt made you turn your attention. It wasn’t hard to understand what that look meant. She had forgotten. Pepper insisted. “You did send the NDAs, right?”

The hardness of her tone made you flinch, and you spoke before thinking about what could happen.

“Actually… I asked Natalie to hold off on that. I wanted to double check the IP section but completely forgot about it. I’m sorry, Pepper”

“Ok, it’s fine” the woman said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Just make sure it’s ready before the presentation”

You nodded, and turned to walk down the hall to find the documents. Natalie followed right behind you, and you almost didn’t hear the quiet thank you she whispered your way.

“Don’t mention it”

Truly, you had forgotten all about it by the next day, until you found a latte waiting at your desk.

It was exactly how you took it, and you were very particular about your coffee.

“How…?” you wondered out loud.

“I notice things” Natalie said from the doorway. You flinched, amazed at how stealth she could be.

“And you’re silent. Like a ninja. Or a spy” you drank again, chuckling at the ridiculous comparison. “You didn’t have to, I didn’t do anything”

“This job is very important so it does mean something to me, Y/N”

The way she said your name had you blushing, so you nodded and thanked her.

“Have you noticed the bar around the subway station?” you asked as she turned to leave. “Great food, pool table. It’s fun, if you ever want to stop by”

“Oh, you don’t want to play pool against me” she warned and you chuckled.

And yet, the next week you were both there, eating and drinking past midnight. Natalie wasn’t kidding when she said her aim was impeccable and when you lost the third game in a row, you admitted defeat and offered to buy her coffee and a scone of her choice the day after that.

That’s how it became a bit of a habit, to buy coffee for two on certain mornings. If you knew Natalie had an early morning, you’d be the one to drop off a steaming cup of espresso with a danish scone.

Sometimes, you’d find a cup from the cafe around the corner, your name and a smile srcibbled across it.

You were working overtime to convince yourself that you did not have feelings for her. That the nights at the bar, the coffee or lunch time you spent together was nothing more than a friendship.

Until one night, when you were both working late. Your desk was a mess of scattered paperwork, all thanks to Tony’s idiotic actions. Pepper was the new CEO of Stark Industries while he made mess after mess.

“God, I hate him” you read a complaint filed by the police against Tony, who had gotten drunk and worn his suit during his birthday party.

There was also another thing that bothered you about that night. The memory of Natalie, all laughs and flirty eyes as Tony showed her how the suit worked.

You hadn’t realised how hard you were biting the pen until Natalie called your name.

“You have ink all over your lip” she said with a smile and you brought a hand to your mouth, the liquid leaving a bitter taste.

“Oh my God, is the ink toxic? Am I gonna die?” you panicked, looking around for a napkin. Natalie giggled, approaching with a hankerchief.

“It’s fine. Here” the redhead leaned forward, and you blushed as her soft hands cleaned your lower lip. Natalie held your chin between her thumb and index finger, satisfied with the result.

“Thanks” you said, unable to keep your eyes from going to her lips. The action wasn’t lost on Natalie, and before you could apologize, she leaned forward, capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

“Now you have ink too” you said, laughing at the small stain on her lip. She smiled against your mouth, but the happinness was short lived as an explosion made you look outside. “Wow. What the hell was that?" you said, turning around.

It looked like drones were chasing after an Iron Man suit. Natalie grumbled and stood up.

"I have to go"

"Nat?" you followed her down the hallway.

The woman was gone, an apologetic look on her eyes as the elevator doors shut.

—

No calls, no messages, nothing. Not even an email.

You asked IT to keep her account active, just in case.

It had been a whole year; and maybe time to give up hope.

You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. Natalie had disappeared right after Vanko had tried to kill Tony. Maybe she’d gotten hurt and someone was covering it up?

Whatever it was, the few times you asked Tony about it, he seemed irritated and quickly changed the subject.

And yet, here you were, still looking for answers, resisting the urge to give up on someone who had, for all intents and purposes, ghosted you.

You sighed, turning to look out the window of your office.

Imagine your shock when you saw a fleet of alien ships flying around New York City.

—

Natasha’s eyes were trained on Stark Tower. Were you there? Had you been able to get somewhere safe?

“Romanoff” Rogers called and she looked around.

“Need a lift” she said, creating a plan. All she had to do was take a small detour to your office and then she’d kick Loki’s stupid ass.

However, as she threw the alien off his own ship, she looked around and realised there was no easy way to land.

“Oh, God!” you shouted as a ship crashed through your window. To your surprise, instead of a weird looking creature, it was being flown by…

“Natalie?” you practically screamed, sure that you were having a fever dream.

“Come on, there’s no time. Let’s take you somewhere safe…”

“The whole city is under attack, that’s kind of impossible right now” you yelled, following her closely. “And what the hell is going on with you? Where have you been? And why are you dressed like that?”

It was hard not to notice the tight unitard that adjusted perfectly to every curve in her body.

“Watch out!” the woman said, pushing you aside. She rounded the corner, preparing her guns and shooting against the aliens. Turning casually to you, she spoke in a calm demeanor, as if discussing what movie to watch. “Would you like the short or long story, detka?”

“I don’t think we have time for long stories, Natalie. Is your real name even Natalie?”

“Well, it’s Natasha Romanoff so… close enough?” she said with a weak smile and you glared.

An arrow flew by and Natasha cursed under her breath. You understood why a second later when an explosion shook the building.

“Clint! I’m at Stark Tower, do not engage!” Natasha held a hand to her ear, speaking through comms. She then turned to you and smiled, leading you by the hand to the emergency stairs. “Where were we?”

“Natasha Romanoff. I guess you’re not a paralegal either… oh my God!” you yelled as you spotted a giant green creature coming up the stairs.

“Hulk, Rogers needs back up” Natasha said, completely unfazed by the monster. “Come here” she asked, taking you to a hallway.

“Nat, a bunch of crazy shit is happening and you’re not losing your mind”

“Well, there’s your next answer. I’m a former assassin, born and raised in Russia. Now a SHIELD agent” once the coast was clear, she made you stand up and follow her to the conference room. “I was working undercover to get some info about Tony’s stupid ass. And then I met you. I was about to ask you out on a date because I like you, but the mission was over and I was instructed not to engage again”

“You like me?” you repeated, ignoring the explosions around the city.

“Out of all the things I just said, that’s the one you’re sticking with?”

“Well, duh. Because I like you too” you smiled, pulling her closer for a kiss.

“Now’s not the time” a metallic voice said. You turned to find Tony floating outside the window and you glared. “I was called for an extraction”

“What?”

“Come on, it’s not safe here. Tony will get you out and I’ll meet you once this is over, ok?”

“You better not disappear on me again, Natasha Romanoff”

“Wouldn’t dream of it” she promised.

Once Tony carried you to a safe part of the city, you waited for him to put you down and remove his helmet to slap the back of his head.

“Why?”

“I asked you about her a million times, Tony. You could have told me why she left so suddenly”

“Now you know. I’ll get you a nice restaurant reservation to make up for it. Gotta go!”

As he flew away, you couldn’t help but smile.

Natasha liked you back.

��

Dust settled and emergency services began to approach the city, aiding with evacuation. Your eyes searched Natasha’s as you walked around.

“Detka”

“Are you ok?” running up to her, you brought your hands to her face. She had a small cut in her forehead and seemed tired, but she was alive.

“Yeah. It was fun”

“Fun? I hope our date doesn’t include this type of fun.”

The woman laughed and pulled you close to her.

"Alien invasions are a six month anniversary kind of thing" she joked. You laughed, but kept your eyes on her cut, looking concerned. “I’m ok, really. Nothing a shower won’t fix”

“How about a kiss?” you offered and she smiled, leaning forward to meet your lips; it was short and sweet. A promise of more to come.

“Let’s go back to my place” you said and Natasha’s eyes widened. “For you to shower. Clean that cut, get some sleep. And then, we’ll talk about that date”

“You have yourself a deal”

[dejwrld]

⤷‧₊˚ hiromi punishes his flirty sub into submission.

warning readers discretion is advised ⸻ flashing edit, japanese rope bondage kink, dom/sub relationship, shibari rope bondage, jealous!hiromi, flirty reader, assertive dom!hiromi, written with black reader in mind, orgasm denial, orgasm control, mentions of rope burns/markings, slight age gap (hiromi in his 30's while reader is in early/mid 20's), oral (m.receiving), reader is not a hoe but the way hiromi describe her you would think sis is (he just jealous), a little praise kink, a little degradation kink, cum swallowing, hiromi is a well-established lawyer, reader is in law school & daughter of a successful judge, mentions of other jjk characters (nanami kento, toji fushiguro, atsuya kusakabe), mentions of aftercare, flashback in italics, usage of toys | wc: 3.8k, mdni

sticky note from deja — this is a repost, but same hiromi & reader from this fic. don't really consume jjk fics like that anymore but do still enjoy writing about hiromi, choso, nanami, & toji.

DURING THE TWELFTH CENTURY, JAPANESE PRISONERS WERE PUNISHED WITH SEVERE TORTURE, COMMONLY IN THE FORM OF HOJOJUTSU TIES. The traditional martial art was used by  Samurai to restrain their victims, causing agonizing pain, and discomfort. However, Hiromi was sure those same Samurai would be turning in their graves if they found out the same torture method was now used in the bedroom of many dom and sub relationships. Shibari was now a popular form of bondage play that gave many doms the power of control and many subs the satisfaction of relinquishing that control. 

And Hiromi Higuruma was now introducing this form of bondage to his rebellious sub. 

Hiromi's form of dominance was unique. Whereas others were aggressive and authoritarian, he was a perfect balance of assertiveness and compassion. However, his sub had a tendency of taking his kindness for granted, one too many times.  Some days, she had him on the verge of voiding their contract entirely,  but on others, he was so blind by his lust—agitated that his sexual desires could cloud his judgment to such an extent.

As he ends a Zoom call with his colleagues, he left his office, finally pushing the thought of work out of his mind. His house slippers drag along the wooden floors as he makes his way to the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, slipping a straw in when he opens it. After taking a sip he saunters through his penthouse toward his bedroom,  smiling as he’s greeted by the wonderful sight of his sub completely bare on his king-size bed. Ropes decorate her pretty body, the thick strands wrapped tightly, rendering her helpless and immobile. It took him weeks to master the beauty of shibari and being able to successfully bind his sub in ropes was a stunning sight, to say the least. 

He nibbles on the straw peeking from his bottle as he indulges in the artistic sight of the ropes against her smooth skin. A blindfold leaves her blind, his approaching footsteps causing her head to raise from the pillow beneath her head. Hiromi takes a long sip of the water before stepping a bit closer to the bed. It was good to know that she hadn’t fallen asleep during his time in a quick Zoom call, but then again he did prop a vibrating wand set to the lowest speed against her clit before he left, pleased as her needy whimpers echoed through the penthouse. This was just the start of her punishment for her lousy behavior. 

The industry of law from police officers, paralegals, and judges to lawyers—was a small world in Japan. If word of your failure to win a case you were defending can travel fast enough to be talked about during the six o’clock evening news, then obviously the childish gossip of his sub Y/N flirting with a fucking councilman got to him before he finished his opening arguments for a case. Usually, Hiromi would brush it under the rug. She still was young, dumb, and eager to get a taste of any cock that could buy her something she could easily get from daddy. But he’d had it with her behavior. 

The sandy brown rope tied in the most beautiful knots traps her legs in such a way that she couldn’t squirm away from  Hiromi or the vibrator’s touch. Another rope wraps around her upper body, binding her arms behind her back. Hiromi’s a little worried about that one, as she was lying on her back. But it was a magnificent scene, especially with the way the thick rope makes her boobs look perkier. 

Hiromi drags the lounging chair in the corner of his master bedroom towards the edge of the bed. He plops down on the seat and leans over to remove the blindfold, placing the silken covering on the nightstand next to his bed. When he makes eye contact with her tear-filled eyes he is void of pity. His heart doesn’t soften like it usually does Instead, he just stares at her with so much hunger that one would think he was some sex addict. Hiromi leans forward to place the straw of his bottle between her lips, urging her to drink. He can hear her faint swallows while he thumbs away her tears, taking note of the dried-up tear streaks that stain her heated cheeks. 

“Did you cum?” Hiromi asks, reclining into his seat. He brings one leg over the other as he stares at her with those deadpan eyes of his. 

Y/N watches as he places the water bottle on the nightstand next to the blindfold. She did cum; she came more than once, actually. However, admitting that wouldn’t satisfy Hiromi. Sure, he likes knowing that she orgasmed when the two engaged in sexual activities. But he relishes the thought of being the one to bring Y/N’s body to that point, on his command. 

Hiromi gets the answer to his question when the young lady breaks eye contact. He kisses his teeth as he watches her stare at the ceiling,  her reflection staring right back in the mirror looming above. He stands to grab the vibrating wand between her opened legs, smirking as he finds her slick coating the toy. He toys with the vibration settings as he returns to his seat, his expression reverting to one of stoicism. 

“Just please touch me Hiromi, I want to feel you.” Y/N cries, finally breaking her stubborn silence. 

“No,” Hiromi states impassively. “Do you even know why you’re in this predicament in the first place?” His large hand takes a hold of her face, forcing her to look at him. 

“Nope,” It annoys him that she’s bratty enough to articulate an answer with such pride.

How can one crave and beg for his touch but still be defiant enough to answer his question like that?

“Hmm, interesting,” are the only words that come out of Hiromi’s mouth before changing the setting of the toy to medium speed. He places the vibrating wand back between her thighs, firm as he pressed it against her clit. “And be sure to not cum without my permission this time.” 

He watches her squirm against the confines of the ropes, the knots not budging one bit against her struggle. Instead, they only grow tighter around her limbs. 

“Y/N, do you remember rule 14 in our contract? It’s one rule that I hold so high, especially considering who we are.” 

Y/N can’t concentrate on Hiromi’s question due to the intense feeling that’s burning between her thighs. She feels like she’s on trial, and with each question that leaves Hiromi’s mouth, he is deciding her fate for tonight. Will she be found innocent or guilty? The young law student only moans out as she tries to remember the answer to his question, simply because she knows her dom so well. If she obeyed, he always rewarded her. 

As a law student, it was important for Y/N to eye every document presented to her in this folder. Hiromi expected her to read over the contract multiple times simply because he would adore a challenge if she caught a mistake he made or something. He specifically invited her to dinner to look over the contract, and the woman was finally getting to the end of it.

“I don’t really understand this rule,” Y/N spoke out. 

“Which one?” Hiromi inquired from across the table. I did my best to make them as clear as possible.” 

“Rule 14.” 

“What does it say? I expect you to be more vocal if we’re going to make this work. Say the rule loud and clear and tell me why you don’t understand it.” Hiromi said before cutting into his steak to continue eating. 

Y/N watched as he ate his luxury dinner. When he had a seminar at her university, she was so curious to know who Hiromi Higuruma was that she forgot the rumors were true. He was as assertive outside the courthouse as much as he was inside of it. 

Y/N cleared her throat before speaking, “The sub is not allowed to engage in other romantic relationships nor romantic gestures with other associates in the law industry. This includes police officers, lawyers, paralegals, judges, and political figures.” 

“Okay, and why don’t you understand it?” Hiromi grabbed his glass of wine to take a sip from it.

“It’s bullshit, and it contradicts your second rule of saying that we’re not romantically involved with each other—just merely helping each other with our sexual fantasies. If we’re not romantically involved, why am I forbidden to mingle with other people?” Y/N’s arms crossed over her chest, awaiting a response. 

“You’re allowed to mingle with other people, knock yourself out. Just not someone that’s in the same industry as us. It may not seem like our world isn’t small, but it is. I don’t want this to get messier than engaging in this form of a relationship already is.” 

“Messy? How would it get messy?” Y/N asked.

Hiromi met her gaze. Usually, people broke eye contact with him because he was the most intimidating lawyer in the room. But she held her head high, this one,  and never broke eye contact. It was almost as if she were challenging him.

“Former subs get attached to the point where they blabber to their little law friends or attempt to use my colleagues to make me jealous. Both of those examples are messy.” Hiromi answered.

Y/N’s lips parted to speak, but nothing came out. She just picked up the pen and signed the contract at the end. Hiromi watched as she signed it, even going so far as to leave her red lipstick print on the first page of the contract. Oh, this was going to be fun.

Y/N finally realizes why she was stuck in the intricate shibari rope bondage with a vibrator buzzing against her clit. She flirted with that councilman, Toji Fushiguro. If she thinks hard enough, she can even remember him grabbing a handful of her ass with how flirtatious she was. But in her defense, she’d had a few too many strawberry mojitos.

“Does the name Toji Fushiguro ring a bell to  you?” Hiromi moves his chair closer to grasp the wand. 

A sudden gasp escapes Y/N’s mouth as she writhes on the plush bed. Hiromi grips the wand and moves it around her wet folds teasingly, placing it on her clit in a slow circular motion. He knew Y/N so well that if her hands weren't tied behind her back, she would desperately inch away from the pleasurable action so she wouldn’t cum. Whines of desperation slip past her lips as she attempts to arch her back off the bed. Just as Hiromi could see her toes curl, he removed the vibrator from her clit. He deviously clicks his tongue while dragging his slender fingers down her bare body, fingertips grazing the ropes that imprinted her smooth skin. 

“Since you want to act like a brat, brats have to earn the privilege to fuckin’ cum.” 

His words come out as a sweet whisper, but Y/N can hear the threatening undertone clear as day. Her legs quiver beneath the ropes, swallowing the remnants of her orgasm away. The action ignited a heat across her body so hot, that she felt as if she were running a fever. 

 “I went out with the guys the other night. You know, Kento, Kusakabe, and your favorite, Toji.” Hiromi tosses the wand aside, tired of the mediocre toy. “You know, like all  guy talk…someone is bound to brag  about the women  they’re trying to fuck.” 

Hiromi stands from the chair he was sitting in, Y/N watching closely as he pushes it back to its rightful place in the corner. She can hear his footsteps against the wooden floors but is too lazy to follow his movements. The weight of helplessness ensnares her as she listens to Hiromi’s words. Through her blurry gaze, she anxiously watches  Hiromi roll up the sleeves of his white button-down to his elbows. He folds the cotton with such precision, that one would have thought he was returning it to whatever store he bought it from. The soft thump of his footsteps is soon replaced by the clink of his belt being undone, the sound, amplifying the tension already filling the room. Y/N might not be able to tell what the man is up to, but she’s certain he’s seething with jealousy after what she did, and that only compelled him to punish her.

“Toji begins talking about how he’s so close to fucking this judge's daughter. I shrug it off as just Toji being Toji: a freshly divorced horn dog that likes sticking his dick in any woman wearing a short skirt. But then he mentions your name,” Hiromi pauses as he returns to  Y/N’s side.

His nicely tailored bottoms hang loose around his waist, the band of his Calvin Klein briefs now visible. His shirt is unbuttoned, revealing his chiseled chest and the beginnings of a mouth-watering happy trail. 

“Now answer me this. Why would Toji Fushiguro know your name?” Hiromi’s arms cross over his chest, his muscles bulging slightly in the shirt he’s still wearing. “And if you answer with, ‘I don’t know’—expect to be punished.” 

With lust in her eyes and desperation ravaging her body, Y/N nibbles her bottom lip as if it is a chew toy. She’s grateful that he didn’t put the familiar cotton candy-colored ball gag in her mouth before her punishment—she wouldn’t be able to do as much shit-talking if he did. But one thing Hiromi knows about Y/N is that she enjoys testing his patience.  It’s like a person filling a glass to its brim and continuing to add small droplets until it overflows.

And with an innocent doe-eyed expression, Y/N looks up at Hiromi and says, “I don’t know.” 

Hiromi's eyes roll at the woman on his bed, stepping forward to grasp at one of the ropes causing Y/N to gasp. As he tugs her to the edge of the bed his cock twitches in anticipation at thought of his oncoming punishment, the images of just what he had planned rushing to the forefront of his mind. When one has a bratty sub with a mouth as smart as theirs and an attitude to match, They’ve got to use it. 

The majority of her body lies comfortably on the king-sized bed, the same one she’s spent many nights sleeping in after an evening of wanton fun. But it’s her head that’s hanging off the bed, gulping the knot that formed in her throat as she stares up at her dom. She’s endured many punishments before. Spankings with a leather paddle that left marks on her plush asscheeks, to having her orgasm denied just when she was about to cum. The young woman should’ve been used to the punishments by now, but when she thought she had the upper hand—Hiromi was always there to remind her who was in control. 

It didn’t take long before Hiromi’s cock found comfort in Y/N’s mouth. A feeling she hasn’t experienced in a while considering his schedule has been rather hectic thanks to a certain case. If her mouth wasn’t already occupied she would’ve happily voiced just how much she missed the feeling of his cock on her tongue. Knowing Hiromi, he probably wouldn’t even take the young woman seriously at all. 

So caught up in her thoughts, Y/N fails to notice the rough thrust of Hiromi’s hips, her resulting violent gag birthing a smirk on the man’s face as he withdraws his cock completely from her mouth.  His hand envelops his spit-covered length, letting the tip brush against Y/N’s lips before inevitably forcing his cock back down Y/N’s throat —this time he wouldn’t stop. She feels the full force of his frustrations in each harsh thrust, her breath slowly being ripped from her lungs, bit by bit. Y/N hopelessly squirms on the mattress, her movements obstructed each time by the rope digging into her soft skin. 

Hiromi pulls his length out of Y/N’s mouth, giving her a chance to breathe. She looks absolutely obscene like this,  her tear-stained cheeks inciting lust in the pit of his stomach, but he forces that lust away because it would only make him pity. Before he knew it, he’d begin to coddle her through her punishment, and Hiromi couldn’t have that. He lets his palm glide up and down his shaft before repeating his previous action,  stuffing Y/N’s mouth to the point that she was seeing stars. He wasn’t sure if his behavior was due to jealousy or a broken rule, but he did know that afterward, this lesson would be ingrained in her mind, that next time you’d think twice about disobeying him.  

The pornographic sound of Y/N’s throat is the only thing heard throughout  Hiromi’s master bedroom. She can feel her pussy moistening at the intoxicating mixture of degradation and praise he was feeding her. Y/N always knew what type of vulgar phrase would tumble from Hiromi’s lips,  even if they were quite predictable, the sultry words mixed with his brash voice still makes the woman feel like there is a waterfall pooling in between her thighs.

“You look much better this way, Y/N. Don’t you agree?”

“Good girl, you’re sucking me off so well.”

Y/N knows Hiromi well. So well, in fact, the woman knows he’s going to cum just by the look on his face, his increasingly slow and sloppy strokes confirming his approaching climax When Hiromi was engrossed in his chase for ecstasy, he’d lose all sense of control, the concept of mercy unknown—no matter if he had her knees pressed against her chest or fucked her throat senseless until it burned. 

It isn’t long before Y/N  feels thick ropes of cum shooting down her throat, and there was a lot of it. Hiromi doesn’t stop until every droplet ejected from his plump pink tip paints the back of Y/N’s throat. His cheeks are as red as a freshly grown tomato, whines high pitched and strained. Although Y/N’s eyes are clouded with tears t, she’s still able to catch a glimpse of Hiromi’s sigh of relief. 

When the panting mess of a lawyer finally removes his cock from Y/N’s mouth, a thin string of saliva hangs from the tip. His muscular chest glistens with a layer of sweat as he leans on the nightstand next to his bed to keep his balance. He tears his soiled dress shirt off, letting it fall to the ground, eyes darkening as he glances down at Y/N’s pitiful form with a frown. She yelps when he grabs a hold of her tear-stained cheeks, his grip so hard that it forces her lips to pucker, giving him the perfect view of her cum-filled mouth. 

“Swallow it,” Hiromi commands stoically.

Y/N complies immediately. It wasn’t like she could protest anyway. Unprompted, she then opens her mouth and stuck out her tongue, verifying that she did exactly as she was told, like the obedient sub she was. 

“Huh, so you can listen." Hiromi’s lips curl into a smirk before placing a soft kiss on her forehead. “Good girl.” He praises, thumb tracing her bottom lip tenderly.  

As Hiromi helps Y/N back on the bed, he begins preparing for the aftermath of their session. It was different every night, most of which were filled with Y/N’s giggles while she recalled her favorite parts of the evening. Tonight his room was quiet as ever in his search for the scissors to free Y/N from the ropes still binding her limbs. Perhaps the lawyer managed to get his message across. Or maybe Y/N was collecting her thoughts—after all, this was technically a new form of punishment for her, so it was only natural. 

Y/N feels like she’s still gasping for air even though Hiromi’s cock no longer occupied it, her body aching even as the dom cut through her ropy prison. The imprints of the tethers that litter her soft skin are revealed with each snip, Hiromi’s fingers grazing them gently to alleviate the burn that no doubt lingered beneath each angry mark. Finally free from her ties, the first thing the young law student does was stretch out her limbs, a tired yawn following. 

“Next time,” she sighs, rolling onto her stomach. “You should get pink ropes. They’d look so much cuter on me,” Y/N throws Hiromi a playfully childish pout that earns her an eye roll from the nonchalant man.

“Even after all that, you’ve still got a smart mouth,” Hiromi grumbles as he runs his fingers through his hair. “Typical.” 

“You should be used to it by now.,” Y/N winks. “I didn’t expect you would go this far over Toji Fushiguro, though.” She admits, resting her head on her arms. 

“You broke a rule in the contract. You get punished for breaking rules, it’s not rocket science nor does it have anything to do with Toji Fushiguro.” Hiromi reminds her. 

He retreats to the bathroom connected to his room to run Y/N a warm relaxing bath. He even throws in her favorite scented Epsom salts to help soothe her muscles. His tasks in the bathroom were brief; he wasn’t even in there that long—but he still notice Y/N’s lack of a response. He assumes that exhaustion finally overcame her body because there were only two things that could hinder the woman’s snarky temperament,  and those were her beauty rest and her father’s black card. However, Hiromi takes aftercare very seriously within his dom and sub relationships. So if he has to disturb her sleep to get her cleaned up—then so be it. When the older lawyer steps back into his room, he is met with the sight of Y/N slipping on her neatly folded clothes, the same ones that lay previously in the corner of the room. 

He watched her dress in confusion. She’s never left his place after a session. Hiromi grew so accustomed to his favorite sub comfortably sleeping in his bed after mindblowing sex that he even bought her a spare toothbrush. 

“I’m starting to think you’re catching feelings beyond the contract.” She says out loud, sliding on the heels she came strutting into his place with. “And that will break the very last rule….” Y/N’s voice trails off as she closes the gap between them. The law student grasps at his shirt to tug him closer and pecks the corner of his lips. “Refrain from getting attached.”

[sakebytheriver]

It's interesting the way Interior Chinatown uses Lana's mixed race heritage and dissect the social expectations that come with that identity within the meta police procedural network television lense,

They don't do too much with it explicitly, because in this season she is relegated to a minor protagonist, a role that is made abundantly clear within the text of the show itself both with her relationship to the "main character" detectives within the in-universe TV show Black & White and within the overall story of Willis uncovering the mystery of his brother, but here's the interesting thing they do about Lana being relegated to the role of minor protagonist, the show connects that aspect of her character directly to her mixed race heritage

The show has Lana state that she hopped from job to job, filled every little but fairly important role that was available, something a pretty ethnically ambiguous actress would make a career off of, one or two line roles where she plays a nurse or a waitress or a secretary or a paralegal or a mechanic etc. etc. until she lands the first "big role" of her life becoming a "guest star" rather than a featured extra

Lana being mixed race opens more doors for her in the figurative meta sense of the real life film industry's racism which features into the in-universe storytelling about how in a show called Black & White Willis was never going to be the hero, and with the added layer of Lana not being from Chinatown, instead being a mixed race transplant, it puts her at odds with the insular Chinatown community, already rife with distrust, secrets, and tragic mysteries that she is not a part of, an outsider with a key desperately trying to fit in with the crowd, all culminating together into the moment when Uncle Wong tells her she'll never truly be able to understand the Chinatown community because she's mixed

In that moment the show uses the insular community of Chinatown to represent the nonmixed community that still faces the full brunt of white supremacy and racial profiling along with the clear economic disadvantages the people of Chinatown have compared to Lana whose relative privilege over the community she's trying to convince the police force she is the face of has allowed her to escape the same economic distress and pigeonhole stereotypes they must all occupy within an American copaganda police procedural

It's not that Lana can't claim her Chinese heritage or that she can't be a member of the Chinatown community, it's that she has a certain type of privilege that others her from the community in a way that is not her fault and that she cannot change, in some ways it's on the community itself to recognize that even if Lana is mixed that doesn't stop her from being a part of the Chinatown community, but there is something about how the first half of Lana's arc starts with her claiming to be the Chinatown expert and yet it doesn't even seem as though she lives there, using her privilege to open the doors to the new career of detective becoming a piece within the system that currently oppresses Chinatown in the vain hope to be the "change from within" with characters constantly calling her out on the fact that she knows nothing about Chinatown and then the back half of her arc is Lana working at Uncle Wong's restaurant, the same restaurant Willis worked at, that's literally at the heart of the community's deepest secrets, taking on the role of the lowest employee, a busboy, getting called out by Uncle Wong himself on her privilege and how even if she's working in Chinatown now she still hasn't proven to the community that she can be trusted to use her privilege in their favor rather than self servingly surrendering to the system she used to be a part of, it's a classic "you have to be redeemed from being a cop by working food service" kind of redemption arc

The show didn't have too much time to go into the explicit implications of Lana being mixed race and how that affects her character's interactions with the rest of the world around her given that the first season was only ten episodes and they had a lot of other stuff to be more explicit about and in a way leaving Lana's mixed race heritage and the social implications of the privilege that comes along with it in the subtextual aspects of her character being able to blend like a chameleon and reach higher levels of success than those who weren't mixed race with only a singular line pointing out the fact that her being mixed is the main thing that alienates her from the community of Chinatown was the better choice narratively speaking, it might go over a lot of the viewers heads, but it's there for people who want to go digging

[plant-ago]

An Open Letter to Dan and Phil

Dear beloved nerds,

This was originally going to be an (even longer) actual letter that I was going to give to you at the tour, but my nonprofit-employed ass can’t afford a meet and greet, so we’re doing this instead. I promise it’s not just trauma dumping— mostly, it’s about saying thank you and trying to cultivate some hope for all of us.

I’ve been a big fan since around 2014, when I was a mentally ill neurotic deeply repressed loner egg (average phannie, let's be honest). Now I’m a whole adult who got therapy and HRT and has joined the legions of transmascs with the Dan Howell haircut! What a legacy.

I’m making jokes because the thing I actually want to talk about, and the reason I decided to make this an open letter, is kind of serious. But in light of the election, I feel like I need to share this, both with you and with all the other queers in this little corner of the internet.

Here’s the gist: I’m a paralegal at a non-profit organization that works to help queer migrants get asylum. Mostly what I do is sit them down in our nasty sterile office and try to be kind, and help them get through telling me all the most terrible things that have happened to them, and then turn around and pare it all down into legalese that is digestible to the government to make the case they should get asylum.

It’s a horrible job, really, and one that shouldn’t have to exist. Some parts are plainly wonderful, like meeting so many queer people from all walks of life. But it’s also heartrending and difficult, and burnout is always looming. My horrible banal work is often literally a matter of life and death for the client, and I’m fighting a broken system for a chance at giving them the happiness and safety is owed to them by international law and, really, by any decent human standard, should never have been in question.

The thing is—and this is reason to hope—queer people really do exist everywhere, no matter how much repression and violence we face. In a tiny village in Colombia, there's a kid who’s all spit and vinegar, dresses like a boy and plays football and fights anyone who says that they can’t, who grows up wiry and gets black eyes because men still can’t handle getting their asses handed to them on the soccer field by a dyke. This client texts me at my work number sometimes to ask if I’ve eaten that day, because they wanted to check in on me. He asked me to call him by a boy’s name, recently. I don’t know that he’s told anyone else. I open every message I send him with "Hola, James."

Then there’s the sweet, babyfaced college freshman who got death threats when he was outed to his classmates back home, and whose parents kicked him out when he refused to marry a girl to protect the family's reputation, leaving him alone in a foreign country. He was couch surfing and just trying not to miss class so he could keep his student status and he was so conscientious I wanted to cry— he’s eighteen, guys. Eighteen. I’ll get him his papers or so help me fucking God I will kill for him. You know? You know. After that meeting I had to sit at my desk with my notebook and fill an entire blank page with the phrase “he’s just a kid,” over and over again, until I felt like I could breathe.

On a Friday morning recently I get up and open my laptop to interpret on a call with a soft-spoken older trans woman who's sat in the bleak phone room of the ICE detention facility because her immigration judge didn’t believe that she was really transgender. “An odor of mendacity pervades everything the respondent says,” the judge wrote in her ruling, where she determined the client wasn't "credible." To this day I’m still floored that she straight up ripped off Tennessee Williams—new frontiers in bigotry, truly. She didn’t even cite. In our meeting now, the client quietly tells us how hard it was when she came out but how happy she was the first time she wore makeup, and she'd rather stay in detention here for indeterminate years as proceedings spiral on than go back to Guatemala, where they'll kill her—boys, if I ever get within spitting distance of this fuckass judge, it is on SIGHT. Absolutely fucking ON SIGHT. For legal purposes, that was a JOKE.

So I finish the call and get up to get a snack. It’s only ten am but feel tired already because I’m angry, which is not unusual but also not something I want to hold onto, because it doesn't help anything. So I make some toast and look at my phone— two texts, which I ignore, a spam email, and, wouldn't you know it, a YouTube notification from Dan and Phil games! Jarring! That’s just sort of how life is though, isn’t it? Deathly serious and lighthearted in the same breath.

But regardless, seeing the notification makes me feel warm, so I have my toast and watch a little video of you two playing Roblox or dress up or whatever it is you do on that channel these days. I have a good giggle and I finish my toast and go back to my desk. It’s a crucial part of my diet really— the giggles, not the toast. I’m not angry anymore. I’ll be angry again, but for now my cortisol levels are manageable and I can put my head back into emails or whatever the fuck. Do you ever think about how plants make food for free out of sunlight but we sit around writing emails all day? And that’s if we’re lucky. Capitalism is hell.

Anyway, there is a point I am trying to make, and it’s not really about the banal horrors of neoliberal nation-state or capitalism or even homophobia. It’s to say thank you for coming back to make silly videos together, because I love them, and you never fail to make me happy. And yeah, maybe something about the story of that scared eighteen-year-old kid at the front of my mind makes it particularly sweet to watch you two goofing off and being openly queer. It reminds me why I’m doing what I’m doing, and it gives me the strength to send another fucking email because sometimes doing “important work that I value and believe in deeply” means having to send another fucking email. And sometimes I’ll rewatch your older videos, and then come back to the more recent ones, and my heart bruises, because you remind me what I’m fighting for and why. It’s nothing grandiose, it’s just— for queer people to get to have the ability to grow into themselves and be outrageous and silly and make mistakes and to love and be loved for who they are. To have the safety and support and security that no one should ever go without. That’s all.

So I am being dead serious when I say thank you for making top-tier light entertainment, and for coming back to a job that wasn’t always kind to you, and that it does actually matter. All this talk about terrible influences and legacies has made me think that sometimes you doubt whether you do good in the world, so let me be clear: you really, really do. I kind of get the sense that in order to accept sincerity Dan needs to be beat over the head with it, so if that’s the case, consider yourself coerced, you dickhead. You matter to me, and especially in times like these, I think I speak for all of us when I say that the joy you share is a precious and treasured gift. So please accept my gratitude in return.

All my love,

Jules

(I removed or changed all identifying information in this letter to protect privacy, but the stories are real).

[ditadoyb-but-t4t]

I'm in my last year of law school, right? So naturally I have a Good Pen. like a REALLY good pen. The kind you get you get a warranty for. Hundreds of dollars, sleek black and gold, heirloom-quality. probably not the wisest spend but goddammit this is my PS5.

So, last year of law school, working an internship as a paralegal for a law firm for about a month now. Pretty standard day, tippy-tapping away on my puter. some middle-aged douche picks my clearly expensive Good Pen off my desk, and NIBBLES ON IT in what I assume to be an attempt to be seductive.

Then, in exactly the voice you'd expect from an asshole like this to have, goes "Sup, fresh meat?"

THIS GUY, WHO'S PRESUMABLY A LAWYER OR AT LEAST WENT TO LAW SCHOOL, SAID 'SUP TO ME, DAMAGES MY 400$ PEN, AND TRIES TO HIT ON ME. This is frat bro behavior. I'm a PARALEGAL, and he is a MIDDLE AGED LAWYER(?).

WHO LET THIS GUY LIVE??? I SHOULD'VE BEEN ALLOWED TO UNSHEATHE A MASSIVE HALBERD AND BEHEAD HIM RIGHT THEN AND THERE. I'm so fucking glad I have a warranty and the peace of mind to tell him to fuck right off.

[liillyliilly]

Max It Out

semi eita x reader words; 7101 + bonus content bc i love this AU synopsis; Band AU. She's the manager. As it turns out, he wants her as more than just the band manager.

“You gotta amp the bass up,” Semi called out.

You just rolled your eyes at him again. There was only so much more you could ‘amp’ his bass up. You couldn’t fix something that just wasn’t broken.

“I think you gotta fix your play style instead. I can make the bass louder, but then the main guitar line would have to be shrunk. Unless you want fizzing during your set.” You shrugged. He really couldn’t manage this gig without you.

It was hard to believe that earlier that day, you and he sat opposite in the paralegal office. Some civil service job, getting assigned to share an office with Semi Eita.

Arrogant, egotistical, damningly attractive. You wanted to wear his clothes and be his prized possession.

“Pass the stapler.” Your stapler, he had been working here for five months and still hadn’t bought his stapler yet. To be fair, it was a genuinely good stapler that you had shipped in from your aunt who lived in Germany.

You opened the drawer under your desk, grabbed the stapler, and then handed it to Semi under your computer.

He peeked under the computers, smiling at you. “Thanks, sweetie.”

“We aren’t in a work marriage anymore. I divorced you.”

“I never signed the papers darling.”

How could he always do that? Make you smile? It was unfair.

Sure, you always ate lunch together. Sure, he always packed an extra set of tissues when you went to the movies because he knew you cried easily. Sure, he gave you his leather jacket during winter on the walks from the hauling truck to the clubs.

But you had divorced this man weeks ago. Work marriage of course. He was just too clingy for you.

There of course had to be another layer to this dynamic between the two of you. The whole band manager thing.

You were nineteen and completely in love with Konoha Akinori. Which was why Semi invited you to help them with gigging the band out.

You had known of Semi, but only really got to know him in college. His center of gravity was alluring, to say the least. You were friends with Konoha first, attending high school together. Konoha was the one who invited you to your first real college party. Except it wasn’t even really a party.

It was five guys smoking, listening to music, and messing with instruments.

When you enter the apartment, Beach Weather’s “Sex, Drugs, Etc.” was lulling in the background.

Semi was lying back on a beanbag, strumming his bass guitar gently. Two boys in the opposite corner were blowing puffs of smoke into each other’s mouths, between what looked like extremely wet kisses.

“Issei, Hiro, do you have to do that here?” Futakuchi Kenji, a fellow class member of your advertising supplemental class, was faking being sick. He had drumsticks and was hitting an empty container of fried chicken.

“You can join in whenever you want Jiji.” The pink-haired one smiled, using his head to motion Futakuchi to join them on the sofa.

“Issei’s breath reeks of mango.”

The one with short cropped black hair, wearing a One Piece shirt spoke up, “Mango-licious. That’s the exact flavor, there’s some strawberry in the pod as well.”

The one referred to as Hiro shoved the one called Issei off the sofa. “Song’s over.” Issei just shrugged, taking another hit from his blue e-cigarette.

Konoha explained that Matsukawa Issei and Hanamaki Takahiro had been best friends for essentially their whole lives and that there were a select few songs that they just always made out to. He said he just got used to it, and that you should too.

You decide to make conversation, “So how do you all know each other?”

Semi chimed in, “Konoha and I used to work together at a tutoring place. Before he ditched it to deal drugs.”

Konoha worked in a pharmacy.

“You worked at a tutoring place,” Shock was evident in your tone of voice.

“It’s not hard to help seven-year-olds with their math homework.” Semi continued, “I know Issei and Hiro from competing in the same volleyball circuit in high school. I don’t know when Kenji got here though.”

“Ass.” Futakuchi rolled his eyes, “I joined this shoddy group of friends when we were all struggling to pass the intro math course. And when I found out we were all decent at music.”

Your raised eyebrow at the music comment made Semi smirk.

“If we play for you, you gotta join our cult.” He minced no words.

Konoha assured you that it wasn’t actually a cult, but it did feel like one.

When Matsukawa had finished hooking up all the proper chords to an outlet machine, Konoha had shoved some bean bags out of the way, and Hanamaki downed several glasses of water, you realized that they were good at music.

The song they played was “Lavender Sunflower” by Tory Lanez. When you asked why they would play a song from someone who was in jail, Semi just said you should separate the art from the artist. Futakuchi said it was because Hanamaki liked to say the word ‘sexify’.

They did a few more covers, ranging from Steve Lacy to Cautious Clay.

You gave them a round of applause when Matsukawa slid his fingers across his keyboard to end their mini-concert.

“I meant it. You’re in our cult now.” Semi had come up from behind you, speaking into your ear and resting his hands on your shoulders. The shiver down your spine didn’t go unnoticed by you or Semi.

Electric Guest; the five young adult boys turned into a decently popular alternative indie band. Semi Eita, on the bass. Konoha Akinori, on the guitar. Matsukawa Issei on keyboard. Hanamaki Takahiro, on primary vocals and autotuning. Futakuchi Kenji on drums. Plus you, the mastermind behind it all. Kind of.

All you did was everything else besides play music.

The first time they played at the Battle of the Bands, you sweat so much that your white shirt was permanently stained in the pits. At least they won the prize money, just enough for a team dinner, entrance fees to the next competition and a new shirt for you.

It was a learning curve for you, learning the lighting, the sound management, and the coordination of schedules as you all got busier. Making a Google calendar helped as the years went on.

The whole band thing became so lucrative that all of you could’ve quit your day jobs and been perfectly comfortable, but Futakuchi claimed that the band was never supposed to be their whole lives. Just a part of them. So, in addition to your band manager role, you also ran the charity on the side.

A cross between cancer research, volleyball advocacy, and music education. The holy trinity of causes Matsukawa claimed.

Electric Guest was never supposed to be the reason for you to stay friends with people from high school, and college. But that was how it ended up. Just a group of boys with their girl on weekend nights playing live music.

Initially a cover band, but it turned into original works.

Semi was always a little too clever to just play others' words. “This Head I Hold”, Semi’s first song that he had written had charted on the IONIC Alternative chart in the Top 100 for seven weeks straight, never falling below the top seventy.

Was he humble about this feat? No.

But did he sheepishly make a toast to how your marketing carried the song to where it was? Yes. So it leveled out in your mind for him to be prideful of his music, of their music.

“Amp it up.” Semi stomped his feet again.

Konoha shoved Semi’s arm. “She just said that she couldn’t do that. Do you just have selective hearing for praise? Maybe she should throw in her opinion on your ass in those jeans between the clarification of why increasing the amp would be bad?”

“Screw you, Aki.”

“Meet me in the bathroom in five?” You could practically see the way Konoha’s eyebrows raised in a jokingly seductive way.

“Semi, I could try to reduce the vocals slightly. I just don’t know why you want your bass to be so highlighted tonight?”

Semi just waved his hand in the air, brushing away your comments.

Rolling your eyes, you sipped on your water, reviewing the setlist for tonight.

“Hey, I thought we cut “Get Out” for tonight? And we never play it as the last song?” You did a double take at the setlist, Semi had scribbled the song in right after their typical closer of “Basic- Acoustic Version”

Hanamaki slid into your booth, downing his demon juice, a mixture of Redbull, Monster, and a shot of tequila. He grimaced, then shook his face, smiling at you.

“Semi-Semi has a surprise for tonight, it’s supposed to knock your socks off.”

“I do like a good “Get Out” moment.” You mused.

“A little more than just a good moment supposedly.”

Hanamaki was always one of the guys from your friend group who could manage to make anything sound more important than it was. He was the lead singer after all. You’d be lying if you hadn’t thought about the way some very specific words would sound coming from him to you.

That was another element to this Electric Guest thing, the touch aspect. Once they had integrated you into the friend circle, they became your humans. Your people. You all began to function as a single unit. Where one goes, the rest follow.

The Twitter comments on official posts did love to get a little explicit when they posed theories about how all five of you were in a polyamorous relationship.

That time you and Matsukawa got seen with your hands in his hair and his hands on your ass created a good portion of those theories, especially since Matsukawa still openly liked to lick Hanamaki’s neck between songs.

The touching thing just became second nature, to be close to each other was to be genuine.

Futakuchi threw a plastic water bottle at Hanamaki, “You drunkard, come set up your autotune before you’re too far gone. Please chew some gum before you start singing too, your breath reeks on that stuff.” Futakuchi was referencing the aforementioned demon juice.

Semi had started working at the same place you were working after he had aced his civil servant exam with flying colors.

He had gotten bored of lazing at his shared apartment with Futakuchi for entire days on end. He claimed to need social and mental stimulation. You thought it was because he just wanted to have another reason to get to know you better, which was also true.

Semi was strange when it came to you, freezing up in touch before easing into it. Sometimes you and him could just sit in your apartment for hours on end talking about the band, movies, the best hangover food.

He just understood you on an unparalleled level.

You were all friends, of course, Issei, Hiro, Jiji, Akinori, Eita, and you. But you clicked on what felt like a multidimensional plane with Semi Eita.

He knew what you would say before you said it. He always managed to mitigate your problems with simple, clear solutions.

He also always looked a little too deep into your eyes. You felt like he was inspecting your innermost self when he locked his eyes on you.

No judgment, just assessment. No confusion, just curiosity.

“We can always carpool you know,” He swung his keys on his finger as he walked you to the bus stop, “Save you an hour in commuting.”

“As appealing as that is, I wouldn’t be able to do my share of driving, you know, due to the whole, I don’t have a car thing.” Grateful, you rubbed his shoulder in thanks.

“When I say carpool I mean, I’ll drive and you be my live-in car DJ.”

“Am I being used for my amazing playlists?”

“I love using you.”

So you began to carpool. He would pick you up at your apartment 30 minutes before work started, and then you would sit in the parking lot together for 10 minutes listening to your new underground finds before clocking in.

Semi was a great co-worker, truly. He just always used your stuff and spent way too much time going through your computer search history when you took a break.

“I swear I was going to find some kind of band groupie orgy porn on here this time.” He scoffed when you began shaking your office chair with him still sitting in it.

“At work? You’re kidding me”

“Maybe it was just for future reference,” He licked his lips, looking up at you. “You know, for tonight.”

“You’re revolting.”

“You’re an angel.” He reached a hand up and tugged on the front of your shirt, pulling you down to him.

“You make me sick.” You tried to escape his grasp without damaging your new button-up.

“Lovesick.”

There were only a few more hours to go before their show tonight. You had taken several photos of your boys preparing for the show, posting them on all the social media sites.

Using captions such as, ‘ETA: When Semi Eita gets around to it.’

‘Matsukawa’s forgotten mango vape pod.’ (You thought that one was funny because the vape pod was shown to be almost negatively drained more than it could go, he had sucked all the Mango-licious nicotine out of that poor vape pod)

‘Real or fake? I guess we’ll never know’ Attached to a shot of Hanamaki looking at himself in the mirror, moving small hairs around. The fan-favorite think piece was about his hair, genetically strawberry blond or just dyed.

‘Jiji on that beat’ Futakuchi’s head resting in his hands, his knees bouncing up and down in a short video clip. He always got anxious before shows, despite being one of the relatively more popular members of Electric Guest.

‘Akinori’s Asshole Agenda, task one: hide all the free promotional stickers’ Your box of stickers was shown to be empty, but you had another one in the hauling truck that you would go and grab in a few minutes. The ushers at the clubs helped hand the stickers out when getting people into the building.

Futakuchi called you over to the stage. You put your phone back into your pocket and meandered over to where he was inspecting his drum kit.

“The skin on my drum is getting too thin.” Futakuchi traced a white line that stuck onto the kick drum.

“What do you want me to do?”

He pulled out a fresh skin from his satchel. “Help me reskin this bad boy please.”

“It’s not real animal skin yeah? Just synthetic?”

“Yeah, it should go on fairly easily, I need to polish my cymbals.”

You tilted your head in slight anger. He was going to make you reskin his drum?

Semi had finished messing with his bass settings, resting his instrument on the large case he had brought out to the stage.

“Lemme do it.”

“I can re-skin it, it’s fine, Eita.”

He took the material from your hands, “Let me skin the stupid drum.”

You nodded, swallowing thickly. That tone of voice subtly said, “Don’t test me” and overtly said, “I want to do this for you.”

You let him reskin Futakuchi’s stupid drum.

Joining Electric Guest was one of the best decisions in your life, and you owed it all to Konoha Akinori for bringing you to that ‘college party’. Semi liked to argue that he was the one to thank for getting you involved, but Konoha always pulled up the text receipts of him asking you to officially be a part of the band.

All your firsts had been with Konoha. First kiss, first boyfriend, first hickey.

A high school crush that turned into a decently long relationship at the beginning of university. Konoha was a great boyfriend, dates were amazing, and he was the one who introduced you to all of his friends, who became your friends as well. He was the one who took care of you when you were sick.

He was the one who cried with you when your cousin died.

You truly loved him. But the piece in your heart for him and the piece in his heart for you just didn’t fit together once you hit 20 years old. It was an amicable break-up, but it still hurt.

Best friends with a rich past was how you defined your relationship with Konoha.

Semi was getting increasingly anxious about the fallout when Konoha and you broke up. That’s how it made the most sense to you anyway.

Why else would he have punched Konoha? The fate of the band was at risk.

Semi would’ve rather died than admit why he had to physically express his anger. Screw the band in that moment, what about you? Were you doing alright?

They hadn’t told you about the punch until nearly a year later when you were all either high or sleep-deprived in your apartment, celebrating another competition win.

What they hadn’t told you was louder than what they did tell you about that night, three days after your break-up with Konoha.

Matsukawa had to hold Konoha back, and Hanamaki along with Futakuchi pulled Semi back from throwing another punch. Konoha’s lip was cut and bleeding, so he spat the blood on the floor of the recording studio.

You just sat in the beanbag in the mixing office, none the wiser, headphones on, clicking away at audio files to make promotions.

The night of the breakup, you called Semi and had him at your apartment. It was raining that night. When he arrived at your place, he was soaked through. You asked about it since a short walk from the road to your place wouldn’t have yielded such a damp appearance.

As it turned out, his car had run out of gas, so he took Futakuchi’s moped. When you wrapped him in a towel and gave him tea, he complained that he should be the one soothing you.

That comment triggered you to start bawling. What if it was all a mistake to break up with Konoha? Maybe he was your best option. Semi said that Konoha wasn’t worth shit compared to other guys out there for you.

You told him that that was cruel to say. Semi tried to backtrack, explaining that maybe better options were still around for you. When you just kept talking about how much you loved Konoha, Semi stopped trying to fight the idea of Konoha and focused solely on comforting you and assuring you of your decision.

Two days later, after Semi witnessed your shattered state, the punch occurred during band practice. He saw Konoha’s phone screen saver was still Konoha and you kissing.

“You asshole, she was crying!”

“I already told you Eita, it was an agreed upon break up!”

“The bruise on her neck then? Explain that you dick!” Semi snarled. Hanamaki was shaking in his Doc Martens, but Futakuchi just kicked Hanamaki and told him to keep holding Semi back.

“The bruise? You mean the HICKEY?” Konoha wasn’t mad anymore, just annoyed, “You know sometimes when people break up they have break-up sex. It’s in the name, you oblivious coward.”

Matsukawa finally let Konoha go. Konoha just rubbed his arms where Matsukawa had grabbed him. Konoha had come to several realizations when he had talked to you about breaking up.

Kissing hadn’t felt right for some time, and you both hardly ever tried to be romantic in any sense. Instead choosing to send memes to each other and joking around. It was being best friends under the label of a relationship.

You agreed to split, letting both of you let go of your long-winded high school crushes.

“Coward? You’re calling me a coward? Breaking up with the best girl in your entire life wasn’t a cowardly thing to do then?” Semi was panting, arms shaking, but he was still kicking his feet.

Konoha knew Semi would throw a fit. So he decided to say what everyone else in the friend group wanted to say.

“You love her more than I do,” Konoha sat down, legs sprawled on the floor. He told Hanamaki and Futakuchi to let Semi go. “Did you know that? You love her more than I do. Which is utterly baffling to me because I love her with my entire heart.”

Semi stood for a moment, a slight sway from all the tension in his high-strung body. Semi crouched down before laying on the floor. Looking at the ceiling, he pressed his lips into a tight line.

Hanamaki, Futakuchi, and Matsukawa had left the band space, choosing to let the two friends talk out whatever they needed to.

They too knew that this conversation needed to occur, primarily for Semi.

Semi sniffles then laughs. A genuine laugh. “I guess I am a coward.”

“Damn straight.” Konoha continued, “I always thought you’d get to her before me. Not sexually, or anything like that. But in terms of love. You know? You just always had her first thing in mind. Whereas I, well, I never cheated and I never considered it either, but I always wondered if I was the right person for her.”

“You think that person is me?” Semi scoffed. “I can hardly call myself an adult compared to you.”

“I know right.” Semi kicked Konoha with his outstretched leg.

“You gotta tell her, or else someone will take her from you. Not everyone can see you’re the best person for her. Hell, even I had a mental breakdown when I realized it.”

“So you’re saying-”

“I don’t want your bullshit, Eita, I want you to tell her.”

“I can’t.”

Konoha told him that he’d be stuck then. So, stuck Semi became.

It was almost an hour before opening the doors to the long line outside Club Karazaki.

You still needed to help the boys with their hair. So you grabbed your comb from your bag and made your way backstage.

“Hairstylist in the house, I take 50s and 100s only.” You patted your jeans’ back pocket, “I need a new phone so this is how y’all will contribute.”

After finishing Matsukawa’s quick retouch on his taper, you took the fiver he handed you.

“You know, I think tonight is going to be one of our best performances.” Matsukawa lifted his mango vape to you, you declined it, and he took another hit. “Semi outdid himself for tonight.”

“Ya’ll overhype that man.”

“Nah, we hype him just enough.” Matsukawa held your hand, “You ever get another date with that dude from a week ago?”

You shook your head, explaining how it just didn’t feel right. Lately, your romantic exploits had all crashed and burned quicker than Semi could begin a riff.

Several of the adventures in romance had ended with an upset Semi, which in turn made you upset. The most recent ‘discussion’ between the two of you had occurred just a week before tonight, about the same guy Matsukawa had brought up.

The band left Semi and you in your apartment, and you offered to let him crash on your futon. Futakuchi refused to let a drunk Semi back into their apartment. Claiming that he would puke all over the new rug he bought.

“I just don’t get you.” He was tugging on his sweatpants’ drawstring and lying on your couch. His shirt had ridden up to his mid-stomach, showing off a trail of dark blond hair that snuck under his sweatpants.

“What don’t you get.” You sat on the end of your couch, freshly showered. He put his feet in your lap. You obliged, scrolling through channels on your TV.

He smelled like the expensive wine your label had dropped off to celebrate a bronze ranking on the new album. You asked how much he had drunk, only now realizing his whole face was flushed. He mumbled, so you lifted the bottle, only to find it completely empty.

“You’ll get alcohol poisoning from doing this.” It was only a mini-sized bottle, but it was expensive and aged perfectly.

“Better than how I’m living now.” He took off his shirt, too warm to continue with the material on him.

He didn’t quite have abs, but he was strong. Broad, tan, and wide. The difference between Konoha’s so-called, “slutty waist” and Semi’s toned torso was striking.

You clarified that he actually wouldn’t even be living if he got serious alcohol poisoning.

“That dude,” You said your one-off date’s name, “Yeah him, he looked like my doppelganger don’t you think?”

He did look a lot like Semi.

At the same time you both added the addendum that his fashion was way worse than Semi’s. Semi just laughed, not even a laugh, he giggled. A 22-year-old child, giggling about how you were insulting your date. Shirtless, drunk, and now rubbing your back.

He had shifted, laying his back on the back of the couch, lightly kicking you so you would sit on the floor in front of him.

His hands were warm, due to the alcohol flowing through his veins. When he dug his thumb between your spine and shoulder blade you moaned. He asked if you felt good, and you nodded.

You didn’t expect him to slide your shirt up, your bare back exposed to the cold air of your apartment. In no time, his hands were soothing down the goosebumps.

“Make your little noise again.”

“Hm?” You turned your head to Semi.

“I want you to moan again.”

Your eyes widened. There was no teasing this time, he was dead serious.

Something was definitely wrong with your best friend, especially when he started to kiss your shoulders, moving to your jawline, attempting to move his lips wherever he could reach. He had slid down the couch, using his hands to pull your back against his chest. Skin on skin.

Your shirt was still bunched up at the back of your neck, but with the way that Semi was slowly sliding hands over your stomach, he had a plan to remove the purple sleep shirt. His maneuvers were snake-like. His intermittent hisses were reactions to your scent, your warmth, and the way your skin tasted on his tongue.

When he cupped your chest with one hand and had the other hand in your hair, you had to stop him. Quickly you stood up, and he cussed at the loss of touch.

“Eita, I think you need to sleep.” You tugged him up from the floor, and he just kept cursing. Incoherently, no rhyme or reason for what he was so mad about. You could hardly understand many of the words, a few distinct ones hit your eardrums: Konoha, coward, sex, music, the band. The most frequent word was your name.

You let him sit on the floor, going to grab a glass of water for him. When you reached into your fridge for a Gatorade as well, Semi was standing at the entrance to the kitchen. Brown eyes just watching you.

“One kiss.” He clearly stated.

You laughed, but he only got irritated.

“I’m serious. Just one.” He reaffirmed.

“You’re drunk. I’ll say it twice, Eita. You’re drunk.”

“I’m a better kisser when I’m drunk.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

You handed him the water. He downed it. You handed him the Gatorade. He sipped it. He probably had a reason for asking.

“Is it for a song?” You touched the bottom of the Gatorade bottle, lifting it closer to his mouth so he would take another drink. Semi angrily rolled his eyes, why would that be his only reason for asking to kiss you?

“If I say yes will you kiss me.”

You shook your head no. He was clearly inebriated. You didn’t know how he would feel about this in the morning, and you knew the alcohol was altering him.

It had been two years since you broke up with Konoha. You had promised that you wouldn’t date another member of your friend group. It just wouldn’t work. Plus with the new label intervention as well, they tried to subtly say that dating within the band could cause some scandals.

But they were an alternative indie band, so the label let a lot of the little things go.

But openly dating? Ruining the image of attainability? They just told everyone to keep relationships to a minimum, and if they did want to date, then you should be off limits.

Semi had never seemed more pissed at a formal organization, he ranted to you about how as soon as the three-year contract was up that Electric Guest should go back to being entirely independent.

You agreed, for the most part, just letting him consider how much easier it was for him to get creative licensing protection on his songs. He just said that working at the paralegal office would be enough skill to get legal protection on the music.

Semi cleaned up the Gatorade, tossing it into the trash can. You found yourself in a corner, the sink to your right, and the fridge to your left, Semi in all other directions.

Never had you seen his eyes so blown out. Not even after one of the longer smoke sessions, Matsukawa liked to cook up.

“If you can tell me you don’t love me then I’ll let it go.”

You furrowed your eyebrows, “Eita, what? Of course, I love you. What are you talking about?”

“If you can tell me you haven’t thought about me when you were touching yourself. If you can tell me that you haven’t thought about my lips on you. If you can tell me that you never considered me as an option. If you can say that then I’ll drop it. Otherwise, please let me kiss you.” You paused your breathing. He looked at you. “And don’t use my blood alcohol content as an excuse.”

“I need a minute.” You gently pushed your hand on his bicep.

“I have time.”

You glanced at the microwave clock.

1:28 AM.

He started kissing you at 1:29 AM.

You didn’t stop him.

It was slow at first, gentle even. He started at your neck. Biding time before he got to where he wanted to go. He nipped along your jaw. Your hands were resting on his chest, your breath baited.

When he picked you up and sat you on the counter, you knew you were a goner.

He guided your hands to his hair, his shoulders, and his hips, telling you to just touch him and not stop. He gave himself 15 minutes. You didn’t know this, but he was only using 15 minutes. From 1:29 AM to 1:44 AM.

When he starts to rub his hips against yours, you wish you could’ve stayed like this for hours. You could feel the outline of his body through the sweatpants, and each time you made another sound, his hips just stilted before rubbing again with more pressure.

His first lip-to-lip kiss with you was dry. He just pressed your lips together. He paused, just letting the touch process in his mind. When you pressed back, he smiled into the kiss.

He could immortalize the kiss later, he still had 7 minutes left.

He wanted to reach his hand down into the front of your pants but knew you would draw the line there. His alcohol solution became the one barrier he wished he didn’t have at the moment. Especially when he could feel the way your thighs were shaking slightly, anticipation was a bitch.

He gently, lightly, wrapped one hand around your neck. The other hand was under your shirt doing things you couldn’t quite make sense of because his tongue was in your mouth. His thumb was distinctly writing the letters of his name over your nipples.

When the clock turned to 1:40 AM, he turned ravenous. He pressed his lips everywhere on your face, forehead, nose, chin. Dry turned to wet, and he knew you were covered in his saliva. You groaned slightly when he gave in and cupped the front of your shorts. Before he removed his hand in favor of just grinding against you again.

He was panting when the clock finally ticked to 1:44 AM. Semi tucked his head into the nook between your shoulder and neck. His arms under your shirt hugged you tighter, making you feel like a boa constrictor was attempting to cut off your oxygen supply.

“I’m tired.” You ran a hand through his hair. Telling him to let you go so you could get his futon. He shook his head, pieces of hair tickling you. He wasn’t tired physically, he was tired mentally. To hold back from someone you were magnetized to, spent all his energy. Until his willpower to fight the pull force was just entirely gone.

“Second door on the left?” He spoke right into your skin. If he had gotten this far, one last ditch attempt to feel all of you might just be his lucky opportunity. The second door on the left was your bedroom.

You nodded.

In the morning, you woke up to Semi tracing shapes on your thigh that was laid across his stomach.

He spoke first.

“We can talk about it after the show at Karazaki.” He had begun running his hand on your head, starting at the top of your head before sliding down to your nape. He repeated the soothing caress so many times you lost count.

“Ok.”

The doors finally shut, and all the people at Club Karazaki were finally ready to be blessed with the music from none other than Electric Guest.

The two-hour show went off without a hitch.

Konoha’s guitar solo got the most bras thrown at him. Futakuchi’s reverb of Arctic Monkeys’ “Knee Socks” had the most phones recording him, his drum set and single verse got more viral video and editing clips than you would know how to manage. Matsukawa and Hanamaki’s duet singing “Oh Devil” from the new album almost made you scream for them too.

It was finally time to close off the show, with Semi’s addition of “Get Out”. You couldn’t help but get thrilled at the idea of hearing your favorite song one more time before he planned to officially cut it from the setlist.

Instead of Hanamaki, Semi cleared his throat, thanking the audience for their time, and that the last song was going to be a crowd favorite.

Hanamaki stepped back. Now, the main singer of a band did not just simply step back and out of the primary light. You fidgeted with the system, getting equal lighting on everyone. The red slow strobe was always a good default, especially since you had no idea what was going on.

“I’ll max it out one time for you.” Semi sang.

This wasn’t the revised ending song. It wasn’t even “Get Out”, the song you had believed to be Semi’s bonus on the setlist. You clicked into your headphones, trying to contact Konoha. Radio silence on your end. Standing up in the back of the club, you waved your arms rapidly. Trying to get Semi’s attention.

What the hell was he doing?

“You should never worry, you’ve been here a long time.” His bass guitar was strumming to the beat of your pulse, just fast enough to keep you alive, but steadily increasing in speed. Matsukawa’s keyboard was playing perfectly in tune. So at least you knew they had practiced this song before.

Maybe more than one practice though, because the flow of the music was just too smooth. You sit back down, and instead of leaving the blaring red strobe lights, you cool it down. A light blue focal light on Semi, with grays and whites on the other band members.

It matched with the RnB edge this song had.

“Now you’re in a hurry. Feels like a long way home.”

He moved up more, tugging on the chord connecting his guitar. He stood in the center of the stage.

His vocals were stunning. Usually, it was Hanamaki singing, with Semi doing the backing vocals. But this was all Semi’s scratchy, deep, resounding, pleading voice. He sang like he was begging for a lifeline.

“You’re just the light I follow.” He wasn’t closing his eyes, he was looking straight at you. You looked behind yourself, only seeing the black wall. You checked in front of you to see if any girls you were familiar with were standing in front of your systems booth. But no, the crowd was just packed with dedicated fanboys and fangirls tonight.

“Right now you just can’t see. I’ll feel the same tomorrow. ‘Cause a good thing is falling on me.”

So this is what all your boys had been talking about. Semi’s special show.

“I’ll max it out one time.”

What a nerd.

“And I know they go on and on and on, I know you’re growing tired of me.”

You’d never get tired of him. And somehow you knew that he knew that.

“And even when you're nervous, or you’re feeling out of order”

Hanamaki had joined in, singing the backing lyrics at this point. Semi just kept looking at you.

“I’m somewhere right next to you, singing you the chorus.”

He’d always been clingy.

“I’ll max it out one time for you, ‘Cause I know it’s overdue.”

Hell yeah, it was overdue.

“So, I raise my glass to you.”

He raises his bottle of water.

An uncontrollable smile erupts over his face. The crowd is in shambles. People were screaming, some were off in a tucked away corner kissing, and someone was getting pulled off the gate to the stage by security.

He doesn’t sing anymore. He mouths the words to just you.

“I love you.”

So there they were, Electric Guest. Sitting in a run-down 24/7 diner laughing and throwing fries at each other.

So there they were; Semi and you. He had his arms around you, chin resting on your shoulder, joking about the time Konoha had spilled his weird mixture of mayo and ketchup all over a borrowed white shirt.

Hanamaki and Matsukawa were pinching each other under the table.

Futakuchi and Konoha were arguing about who got more tagged posts on Instagram.

“I think we should adopt a baby or something.” Hanamaki waved Matsukawa’s vape in the air.

“You would be arrested in like two seconds. You can barely function as a human being Hiro.” Futakuchi ate another fry, starting to list off all the reasons Hanamaki would make a horrible parent figure. Matsukawa kept trying to get another hit from his vape, but Hanamaki just kept waving it around.

You turned to face Semi, but he was already looking at you.

“Max It Out?” You brought up the title of his Not Confession, confession song.

“I wanted to title it your name, but no, that would be too on the nose for some people.” Semi glared at Konoha.

Konoha shrugged, “Eita, you always go on and on about increasing your bass, I thought that ‘Max It Out’ would just click better with the average audience. You know, the same audience who wasn’t exactly there to witness you groping on our friend here last week.” Konoha patted your thigh.

Futakuchi dropped his fry. Complaining that he was always the last one to know what was going on with his friends.

“I wouldn’t call it groping, maybe loving, but not groping.”

“That could be a good lyric for our next song,” Matsukawa brought his hands up to motion them in a rainbow shape, presenting an idea, “we could call it, ‘I Had Sex With My Best Friend Who I Pined After Since I Was Nineteen, I Also Passionately Care About Her And Ended Up Punching Her Ex-Boyfriend Who Is Also My Other Best Friend’ I think that has a real ring to it for a song title.”

Semi rolled his eyes, “Not looking like that title would fit with the rest of our catalog.”

You consoled Matsukawa by handing him back the fiver he gave you for trimming his hair.

Futakuchi, still upset at not knowing about you and Semi’s incident, posed a question, “Well if Aki, Eita, and I have all kissed you, where does that leave Issei and Hiro?”

Semi’s mouth dropped open, “When did that happen?”

“Our kiss? Uh, I can’t remember. But we did.”

You shrugged, it wasn’t your best moment. But Futakuchi had been a very good kisser. “After advertising class ended. I was having a moment about where my life was going.”

“I still think you’re the prettiest girl I’ve kissed so far.”

Semi groans. “This is so unfair. I waited over four years, but Jiji and Aki got to kiss you before me?”

“Slow your roll Eita, if we keep this up, maybe we will end up in a polyamorous relationship.” Hanamaki analyzed, and you knew all about his thoughts about that situation occurring. He had told you several times that if a six-person relationship did exist, then it still wouldn't be as amazing as the dynamics between all of you.

“No more kissing other people,” Semi rubbed your elbow, “You’re stuck to me now. Might as well stay with the one with the best dick.”

You nodded. Semi grinned, waiting expectantly.

“This is the part where you start listing off other good qualities about me.”

“Nope, I think you listed them all.”

Konoha stuck his tongue out and mocked Semi’s claims about genitalia.

After a copious amount of french fries, and enough jokes about everything that had happened the last few years, Semi and you walked hand in hand to his car.

“I got a new bass booster in my car.”

“Why exactly?” You buckled yourself, before reaching over and buckling Semi in as well.

“So I can blast our favorite songs while making you scream.”

There he was, your flirting, egotistical, arrogant, loving best friend. You nixed the best friend part in your head, writing ‘soulmate’ in place.

“Also, can you rescind the whole work-husband divorce claims?” He rested his hand on the back of your seat while backing up his car. Flexing his arm on purpose.

“Sure, there’s a few things you’ll have to do before I officially call you husband again.” You listed off chores, errands, and body parts.

Semi licked his lips, “I can do that.”

---

BONUS:

Playlist for all the music nerds out there: (aka my headcanon of 'Electric Guest's Latest Album)

"Max It Out" - Electric Guest --- The main song from this fic, Semi's confession fic. It was not the only confession song he wrote though. One day, all the lyrics he wrote became less about teenagerhood and fun and genuinely about love.

"Get Out" -Electric Guest --- Our main character's favorite song, it's about exceptionalism. If you can't handle the heat, don't play in the arena. Also about gambling and not going back to toxic people. MC is an icon for sure for having this as her favorite song (Max It Out is her actual favorite, but would rather die than tell Semi)

"This Head I Hold" - Electric Guest --- Matsukawa's favorite, he gets to start the song off with his keyboard. Also Matsukawa's favorite because it's about getting high. The druggie energy is strong with him.

"That's What Happens" -Kid Bloom --- An unreleased Semi song, depression hit him hard when he and Konoha had their heart-to-heart. He kept it locked away until this very specific album release. When he went into detail telling our main character about why he wrote the song, she had to wipe tears from the corners of Semi's eyes, give him love please.

"Window Pane (Pretty Little Thing)" - GSoul --- Hanamaki's favorite song off their newest album, mostly because he helped to write the lyrics, but he'll still love to sing "Lavender Sunflower" because no words sung will ever top "sexify" for him.

"Hold Me" - Hojean --- Futakuchi's favorite song from the new album because the drums are the most heavily featured at the core. And because the autotune is heavy enough to let him pretend Hanamaki isn't the one singing.

"Wake" - Jiwoo --- When Semi wrote this one, Konoha had spent hours trying to figure out who it was about. To Konoha's shock it was about his ex-girlfriend turned into lifelong best friend. Konoha almost got revenge by punching Semi and telling him that it had already been two years, and that someone would make a move soon. Semi then explained his idea for his confession. Konoha realized his friend may be an actual genius.

"Oh Devil" - Electric Guest --- Konoha's favorite song off the new album, he spent the most time in the recording studio practicing this one, he even picked up some additional instruments to help produce it to its highest potential.

"Basic" - Electric Guest --- Semi's hate-piece to the label and to other bands who had been calling out Electric Guest's unconventional style choices. The label thought this one would be the least streamed, jokes on them because it got TikTok famous (courtesy of Semi's newly shown off girlfriend making hot edits for each of the band members)

"Charismatic" - Hailey Knox --- Hanamaki's only duet with a woman. The singer loved what they were doing, and asked to be the main vocal on a b-side song. When all was said and done, Hanamaki and Matsukawa finally had another person to blow smoke with when listening to "Sex, Drugs, Etc."

[wakandas-vibranium]

Double ‘Taine || Part One

Pairing: Fontaine x Black Fem!Reader

Warnings: canon typical violence, use of the n word, aave use etc.

Word count: 4.4k

A/N: This is going to be a fun lil series! Not sure how many chapters just yet, but I hope y’all enjoy the story. Please comment, like, and reblog! :)

It was a gorgeous Memphis night. The weather was perfect and your life was going pretty well. You didn't have too many complaints. The aroma of apples and pumpkin always wafted through the air of your apartment around this time of year. Mrs. Towner, who lives two units down the hall from you, was always the culprit. Her grandson lived with her and loved baked goods and Halloween. You couldn't blame him; Halloween was one of your favorite holidays too, and it was only four weeks away. It was simply something about the smell of pumpkin and the crunch of fallen leaves under your boots that made your heart warm and made you feel like everything was going to be okay.

You were currently in your luxury apartment, venturing back and forth between the kitchen and the dining room, setting the table for four. While you were busy setting up the apartment for your guests, your boyfriend, Fontaine, was out picking up dinner. You usually cooked, but Slick suggested earlier this week that he was craving Indian food, and you hadn't had it in a long time, so you ordered it and sent Fontaine to pick it up from the best spot downtown. Thursdays turned into dinner dates with Yo-Yo and Slick Charles. 

You met Yo-Yo about four years ago. She strutted straight into your law firm, carrying the brightest smile and one of the sharpest minds you'd ever seen. You two hit it off right away. You supported her with everything she needed, and she is now a paralegal with your firm.

About six months in, she finally introduced you to her eccentric boyfriend, Slick Charles, who never failed to make you bust out laughing, and her other roommate, Fontaine, who you instantly took a fancy to. Your firm had become quite busy, and Yo-Yo stressed to you that Fontaine was going through a difficult time, so it took another half a year before the two of you started dating. Now you were in the best relationship you'd ever been in, and you couldn't be happier. 

Sure, Fontaine kept a lot of things bottled up, and it was like pulling teeth to get him to talk about them, but you wouldn't trade him for anything. You loved that man. 

Actually, you had the impression that all three of them were hiding some information from you. You didn't know much about their past because they didn't tell you much. They told you that they had moved to Memphis from the Glen and that they had no plans of returning home. That was pretty much it. 

You had an inkling there was a lot more to the story, but you never pushed that button.  If they wanted you to know, you would know. 

As soon as you had the apartment set up to your liking, you poured yourself a glass of Stella Rosa's Moscato D’Asti and relaxed on the couch, waiting for your beloved to return. 

The door knob was twisted twice before there was a heavy knock on the door. You hurriedly downed the rest of your wine and dashed over to the entrance, figuring Fontaine could use help opening the door since he had the food in his hands. 

“Hey baby,” you greeted as you opened the door and saw that he didn’t have the food, but instead two large bags and a backpack. “Did you forget your keys?”

He didn't answer you; instead, he gave you a pointed look and strolled into the apartment. You scratched your forehead because you didn't know what the fuck was going on. You could've sworn he left 20 minutes ago with different clothes on….and why didn't he have the food?

He lingered in the living room, glancing around the apartment as if it were his first time seeing it. You shut the door and took timid steps toward him. Your eyes widened as you tried, but failed, not to gawk at him. When did he have time to change? 

After what appeared to be him assessing the room, his gaze finally settled on you, and he looked you up and down.

“Why you lookin’ at me like that?”

You scoffed as you threw up your hands,“You were supposed to go get the food…”

“…Oh…” he said, tone revealing that he didn’t give a single fuck about dinner. 

“Yeah, oh,” you rolled your eyes at him and he just shrugged his shoulders at you.

What the fuck was his problem?

He stood there with his back against the wall. In a defensive position. As if he knew shit was about to hit the fan. Bags still in his hands, and an orange backpack still on his back.

“Fontaine, is everything alright?” you asked, taking a cautious step towards him. 

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure?”

He gave you another pointed look and you raised your hands. 

“It’s just…you’re acting weird and you look pissed the fuck off right now, babe. Please tell me what’s going on?”

He uncrossed his arms and started to speak, but the jingle of keys and the opening of the front door stopped you both in your tracks.

In walked Fontaine with dinner in his hands.

WHAT IN THE ENTIRE FUCK?

Fontaine took one look at the both of you before slamming the door shut and fixing you with a chilling look.

“Baby, back away from him.”

“Man, I ain’t gon’ hurt her.” Fontaine number two huffed, rolling his eyes at Fontaine number one. 

You took a cautious step back anyway. The tone of your boyfriend’s voice was more than enough to have you on edge.

Your boyfriend placed the food on the dining room table and shoved you behind him as he faced the other Fontaine.

Or at least that’s who he looked like…

Who was this guy? And why did he look just like your man? You thought you were seeing double. 

The apartment was deafeningly silent. Those two didn't utter a single word as they sized each other up.

Those two may have been comfortable standing there in silence, but you weren't. You wanted to know just what in the fuck was going on.

“Umm,” you blurted, breaking the silence, “I thought you said your brother was dead? And that he was younger than you?” 

You thought that maybe the other man was his twin or something. Obviously they had to be related. 

“He is,” your boyfriend replied, taking his eyes off of the other man for a brief moment to glance back at you. 

“Then who the fuck is this?” you pressed, gesturing wildly at the Fontaine lookalike. 

“Nobody.”

“Nigga, I’m you,” Fontaine number two said. 

“I ain’t tryna hear that.”

“Well, you gon’ hear it tonight, nigga.”

They went back and forth with each other, bickering for what felt like an eternity until you couldn't take it anymore.

“Fontaine!” 

They both turned to look at you.

“Somebody better open they fuckin’ mouth right now and start explainin’ before I start swingin!!” you threatened. 

While your boyfriend heaved a sigh of aggravation, the Fontaine lookalike smirked at you with a mischievous gleam in his eye.

“Where that nigga Slick at?” The lookalike asked, ignoring you. 

“You came all the way to Memphis for Slick?” Fontaine questioned, tone heavy with irritation. 

“That nigga knocked me out and duck taped me to a fuckin’ chair!”

What the fuck? Why would Slick do something like that? 

“Yeah, for a reason.”

And your boyfriend knew about this shit all along? What else was he keeping from you? 

“I got somethin’ for his ass!”

“Wait a minute—why would Slick tape you to a chair?” you asked the lookalike, taking a step closer to him. 

“Ask yo boyfriend,” he quipped. 

“I will, but first tell me who you are,” you demanded, staring him right in his face. His hair, his deep brown eyes, the golds in his mouth was all too familiar. This man was the spitting image of your boyfriend.  

But how? 

“I’m Fontaine,” he finally said, looking you in the eyes, silently daring you to disagree with him.

“That’s impossible,” you chuckled nervously as you backed away from him because clearly he was out of his mind, “There can’t be two Fontaines.” 

“Baby,” your boyfriend sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose, “He’s tellin’ the truth.” 

“We’re both clones,” the lookalike admitted. 

Your boyfriend's shoulders stiffened so much that you worried they'd become stuck.

You were about to accuse them both of fucking with you, but the pained look on their faces was enough to convince you that they were being serious.

You plopped down on the couch, head in your hands, trying to make sense of what was being said, but your chest felt tight and you couldn't quite catch your breath.

So…clones were real. 

Your boyfriend was a clone and your boyfriend also had a clone. 

So there were two Fontaines. 

Were there more than two Fontaines?

Who did this to them?

With each passing second, a new question flooded your thoughts.

What happened to the original Fontaine?

Who else was the government cloning?

What other states and cities were they operating from?

Was Fontaine safe?

Were you safe?

Shit really hit the fan once Yo-Yo and Slick arrived. 

You had to confiscate Fontaine number two's gun after he pulled it out on Slick twice. Then you had to hold him back because he charged the retired pimp with such ferocity. Your boyfriend definitely had his temperamental ways, but this Fontaine was a bit more volatile.

Thankfully, Yo-Yo was there because Fontaine number one and Slick Charles were useless. They didn’t even try to help diffuse the situation. 

After a half-hour of squabbling, everyone calmed down and sat down to eat dinner.

“So, y’all niggas couldn’t have included me on the plan?” Fontaine number two asked the others at the table. 

You sat between both Fontaines, gulping your wine as you willed yourself not to freak out anymore than necessary. Yo-Yo and Slick Charles sat across from you.

“Hell no! We ain’t have time to break it down for your hotheaded ass,” Slick Charles said. 

Fontaine number two shot Slick Charles with such a hard glare that you worried you'd have to hold him back again.

“Uh, I’mma just eat my samosa before Fontaine number two beats my mothafuckin’ ass,” Slick Charles grumbled before shoving his mouth with more food.

You nodded, “I think that’s a good idea, Slick.” 

“How’d you find us anyway?” Yo-Yo asked.

“Biddy.”

“Biddy?!” The three of them murmured. 

You couldn’t do anything but eat your food and drink your wine as you watched the four of them converse. You felt like a stranger in your own fucking home.

“I gave that pink bitch a hundred bucks and she told me y’all moved to Memphis.” 

You didn’t even bother to ask who Biddy was because you knew you wouldn’t get a straight answer. The rest of the evening went pretty much like that. As the four of them caught up, you tried to make sense of the information at your disposal. You eventually tuned them out because you were becoming irritated.

After a while, Fontaine number two asked where the bathroom was, and you got up to show him the way.

Surprisingly, he thanked you before closing the bathroom door, and you retreated to the kitchen, searching for more wine. You needed more booze to deal with this fucked-up situation, and unfortunately, the wine you already had just wasn't cutting it. You scoured the refrigerator and cabinets but came up empty. 

With a heavy sigh, you leaned against the kitchen island and went over the events of the last hour or so. You still found it difficult to comprehend the gobsmacking fact that the love of your life was a clone.

It all made sense now why your boyfriend was so guarded. Look at all the shit he’s been through. Still, you couldn't help but feel a heavy pang of hurt because the three of them kept this from you. They were the closest people to you. You've grown to love them so much, and they couldn't even bring you into the loop.

You strolled back into the dining room and observed the three of them crowded together, talking in hushed voices.

Slick Charles spotted you approaching and motioned for the other two to stop chatting.

“And just what are y’all over there whisperin’ about?” you asked, raising a curious eyebrow. 

“Nothing.”

“Nothing important, baby.” 

“Just discussin’ the weather.” 

The three of them lied through their teeth and went back to eating as if they just weren't having a private conversation. It took all your might not to lash out at them in frustration. At the very least, Yo-Yo looked guilty. You knew she wanted to tell you more, but her loyalty to Fontaine surpassed her loyalty to you.

“Right,” you scoffed at them as you grabbed your purse off the counter. “I’ll be back.” 

“Where you goin’, Y/N?” your boyfriend asked as he stood up. 

“To the liquor store,” you said through gritted teeth. 

“Mind if I slide with you?” Fontaine number two asked as he ambled down the hallway. 

“No, I don’t mind.”

“Nah,” Fontaine number one shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Well, I’m goin’ anyway, nigga.” Fontaine number two retorted as he stood next to you. 

You shot your partner a sidelong glance before turning around and heading outside. Fontaine number two was right behind you.

“Y/N,” Slick Charles called after you. “Bring me back some vodka and orange juice please!” 

Fontaine number two slammed the door shut before you had a chance to respond, and you fought back a chuckle. That dude was obsessed with orange juice.

Together with your boyfriend's carbon copy, you made your way silently to the parking garage.

“Oh shit,” he exclaimed as he watched you open the car door to your silver Genesis. “You drive a G90?!”

“Yes,” you chuckled as he gawked at your car, his brown eyes briefly flashing with childlike admiration. Just like your Fontaine when he first saw it. The man truly did love his cars. It only made sense that his doppelgänger would too. 

“This is a nice ass ride,” he complimented, caressing the car door with his fingers as he walked around the vehicle. 

“You wanna drive?”

“You for real?”

“Yeah, the other you drives it all the time.” 

You tossed him the keys before walking over to the passenger side and hopping in. 

He excitedly clambered into the car, gently closing the door, before cranking up and taking the opportunity to look around.

After marveling at and feeling the smooth cream interior for several seconds, his gaze ultimately settled on you.

You paid close attention to his features. He may have been a clone, but now that you were actually looking at him, you could tell he wasn't your boyfriend.

Your Fontaine always looked at you as if he knew you inside and out, which he did, but this Fontaine solely looked at you as if he wanted to have a chance to get to know you that well. Everything else about the two was remarkably identical. This was a peculiar yet intriguing situation.

You were going to ask him what he was staring at when he blurted, “Y’all fucked in here yet?” 

“Fontaine!” you gasped, whacking his arm in admonishment. 

You couldn't believe he would ask you something like that, but then again, your Fontaine wasn't one to shy away from asking questions. No matter how invasive they were.

“What? I know me, aight? Ain’t no way in hell I’d pass up fuckin’ my fine ass girlfriend in this sweet ass car.” 

The compliment was not lost on you, but you chose not to react to it.

You remained silent, blinking at him in disbelief, until he raised his eyebrows impatiently, still waiting for you to answer.

“Yes, nigga,” you muttered, “we’ve fucked in here before.” 

“How many times?”

“Why do you care?”

He said nothing, just stared at you with an amused expression.

“Four times, damn! Can we go now?”

For a split second, his eyes darkened with a burning desire. He didn't say anything, but it was clear he wanted to be the one to partake in a fifth time.

Under his piercing gaze, you squirmed in your seat. You knew that was a thought you wouldn’t be able to come back from, so you cleared your throat and turned to stare out the window.

You heard him let out a puff of amusement before he put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking spot.

“What type of shit you do for work?” he asked once y’all were out on the open road and out of the parking garage.

“I’m a lawyer,” you said proudly before pointing to the upcoming street. “Make a left at the next light.” 

“What kind of lawyer?” he questioned as he turned left. 

“Corporate.” 

“Mmm, smart and pretty.” 

And that's pretty much how the trip to and from the liquor store went. You two getting to know each other. Surprisingly, the lookalike was easy to talk to. He reminded you too much of your man. You were going to start getting whiplash. You didn't ask him about his life back in the Glen. You wanted your boyfriend to trust you with that information.

You both walked back into the apartment carrying bags of booze. Fontaine number one, Yo-Yo, and Slick Charles were still conversing at the dinner table.

As a peace offering, Fontaine number two handed Slick Charles his vodka and orange juice. At least he was trying, you thought. 

You five settled on the couch with your drinks and watched the first two Bad Boys flicks. Yo-Yo fell asleep against Slick Charles halfway through the second film.

You were once again seated between your boyfriend and his duplicate. Your feet eventually wound across your man's lap, and he rubbed soothing circles into your ankles.

After twenty minutes, Yo-Yo began to snore, so Slick decided to call it a night, waking her up and helping her to her feet. They were really sweet to each other when they wanted to be. 

"Baby, I'mma walk them out," your boyfriend stated as he pecked your lips before strolling to the front door. "I'll be right back," he called over his shoulder before shutting the door, leaving you alone with Fontaine number two. 

Your brow furrowed in confusion. He never walked them all the way out. Then it dawned on you that he wanted to have another private conversation with them when you were not around. 

You slumped on the couch, tucking your foot beneath you as you grumbled in frustration.

“Aye, you good?” Fontaine asked as he took his eyes off the tv screen to glance over at you. 

“I’m good,” you lied as you turned to look at him. “You ready for bed?”

“You gon’ let me sleep here?” he asked, surprise clear in his voice. 

“Well, duh Fontaine,” you huffed. “Unless you got some other friends in Memphis that I don’t know about?”

What did he think? That you were going to toss his ass out with nowhere to go?

“I don’t think yo boyfriend gon’ be cool with that.”

“I don’t give a fuck what the other you has to say at the moment,” you sneered, “do you want to stay here or not?” 

“Yeah, I do.”

“Then it’s settled,” you dismissed.. 

“Can we finish the movie first? This one is my favorite,” he nodded towards the tv.

“Sure.”

Fontaine wandered back into the apartment about fifteen minutes later, scoffing at the two of you laughing on the couch.

“And where is this nigga stayin’, Y/N?” he blurted, attitude rancid as fuck. 

“Here with us,” you said brightly, stating the obvious. The credits began to roll so you grabbed the remote to turn off the tv. 

“Oh, hell nah,” he complained as he rolled his eyes at the both of you. “Why he gotta stay here with us?” 

“Where else is he supposed to stay? With Slick and Yo-Yo?” You folded your arms against your chest, kissing your teeth in annoyance. Fontaine number one and Fontaine number two were going to have to get along sooner or later. This hostility shit between them wasn’t going to fly. 

“He can stay at—“

“—Just let him stay, baby,” you interrupted, throwing up your hands as you stood up from the couch. 

What was the goddamn problem? It made sense that everybody should stick together. Maybe only to you. 

“Aight, fine,” he grunted, stomping off into the kitchen. 

“Dramatic ass nigga,” Fontaine number two mumbled under his breath as he stood up too. 

You shook your head at him in amusement, fighting back a giggle. This situation was so bizarre that you had to take it lightly or else you'd lose your fucking mind. He shrugged at you and scooped up his bags. You motioned for him to follow you into the guest room down the hall.

You helped him with unpacking and began hanging his clothes in the closet. You chuckled to yourself since his wardrobe was identical to your Fontaine's. The two men were obviously quite the same, but there were one or two physical variances that you chose to keep to yourself. 

“Why you bein’ so nice to me?” he blurted, taking a small step towards you.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you replied, eyes narrowing as you leaned back against one of the closet doors. 

He took another step towards you, pausing to look you up and down before fixing his gaze on your face.

“I ain’t him, you know?”

But you kind of are, you thought. 

“You think I’m only bein’ nice to you because you share the same face as my boyfriend?” 

“Yeah, pretty much,” he admitted, shrugging his shoulders. 

You sighed deeply and looked out the window, gaze focusing on the shining full moon. "I'm bein’ nice to you because you're a human being who's been through a lot of unfair shit." You turned your attention back to him, eyes locking with his. "I think a little kindness is the least you deserve, don't you?"

He didn't respond, taken aback by your kind words, and after several seconds of stillness, he nodded his head so slowly you'd have missed it if you hadn't already been staring at him.

Of course, this Fontaine had trust issues as well. You couldn’t really blame him. He was keeping it together much better than you would have been in his shoes. 

“Alright,” you sighed, taking one last look around the room before smiling softly at him, “anything else you need before I go to bed?” 

“Yeah,” he nodded as he plopped down on the bed, “can I get my gun back?” 

Hmm, you thought. You didn’t see why not. Slick Charles was gone and the situation seemed diffused for the time being. 

As you approached him, you carefully removed the weapon from your waistband, holding it in your palm. 

You held out your hand to him, and he reached out to take it, but you pulled it closer to your chest and said, “As long as you promise to keep it away unless our lives are in danger.” 

“Aight.” he agreed, reaching for the gun again, but you tightened your grip on the steel. 

“I’m serious, Fontaine.” 

He rose slowly, towering over you while peering down into your eyes. You took a much-needed step back since you could hear every breath he took and smell the sweet tang of his cologne.

The corners of his mouth turned up in a sly smirk as you took a step back from him. He cleared his throat and gave you a look, indicating that he was being serious. 

“I promise,” he whispered, reaching for the firearm for a third time and this time you let him take it.  

After ensuring that Fontaine number two was settled in, you closed his bedroom door and shuffled around the apartment, switching off all the lights and checking that the entrance and windows were locked.

You entered the bedroom you shared with your boyfriend and gently closed the door behind you. Fontaine was already in bed, pretending to be sleeping. 

“So, what? You gonna pretend like today ain’t happen?” you asked, folding your arms over your chest in annoyance. 

“Y/N,” Fontaine groaned, pulling a pillow over his head to drown out your voice.

“Don’t ‘Y/N’ me, ‘Taine! We have to discuss this,” you walked over to your dresser and began to undress, pulling a drawer open to grab a set of pajamas. 

“I ain’t in the mood to talk about this shit, aight?” 

“Were you ever goin’ to tell me about all this wild shit that happened to you?”

He tightened his grip on the pillow, pressing it down even further over his head, ignoring you.

You tossed your clothes in the hamper and finished buttoning your pajama blouse before marching over to the bed, flipping back the covers, and snatching the pillow off his head.

“Fontaine!” 

“What?!” he fumed, sitting up as he glared at you wildly. 

“You can’t ignore this! Not this time. Why didn’t you tell me this happened to you?”

“What was a nigga supposed to say?! Hey baby by the way I was made in a fuckin’ tube,” he scoffed then shook his head.

“Wait, so you think me findin’ out about you bein’ a clone would make me love you any less?” you asked, your frustration dissipating as you noticed the petrified look in his deep brown eyes.

“You don’t get it…”

“Then explain it to me,” you urged.

“Nah. I’m goin’ to sleep,” he said, turning his back to you and settling under the covers. 

You weren't sure how much more of this you could take. You were used to Fontaine shutting down amid difficult conversations, which you understood to some degree, but it was becoming painfully obvious to you that he didn't trust you at all. Most likely, he never did. It's unfair to you because you've never given him a reason not to trust you.

What’s a relationship without trust?

You switched off the lamp on your bedside table, let out a deep breath, and slid beneath the covers. It took some time, but Fontaine's soft snores eventually lulled you to sleep.

[artstennisracket]

need a challengers suits AU so bad. ill take anything. mike is patrick: the never went to law school turned lawyer with cocky attitude and photographic memory, reader is rachael: the best paralegal in nyc at a top law firm who’s always dreamed of going to law school, tashi is jessica: the first black woman to become senior partner in nyc. or even mike is patrick, art is rachael, and tashi is jessica. OR harvey is patrick, mike is art, reader is rachael, and tashi is jessica. i don’t even really care what variation it is. i don’t care who plays what but I NEED it yesterday

[pr3ttylittleslutt]

💋 Get to know me 💋

Basics

Name: Adira but u can call me addi

Age: 16

Birthday: 04 October

Height: 5’3

Race: black

Sexuality: bisexual

Nationality:Caribbean

Ethnicity: Jewish, french and Hispanic

Languages: first: French, second: English, third: Spanish (not good tho 😔)

Favs

Color: pink

Drinks: pina colada, Dr Pepper, chai lattes and pomegranate juice

Tv shows: never l have I ever, beauty in black, 13 reasons why, monsters, all of us are dead and squid games

Movies: A dog’s purpose, Deadpool n Wolverine, Tangled, Barbie (every movie n show), Look both ways, The avengers series, To all the boys I ever loved, Saltburn, Mean girls, corpse bride

YouTubers: Sturniolo triplets, Larray, Quenlin Blackwell, Mai Pham, Nathaly Cuevas, Vinnie hacker, Sam and Colby, Tara Yummy, Jake Webber, Jacob Macias, Ha sisters, Nutstar, Nicole Laeno, Miranda Rae, Deb smikle, Haley Pham, Courtrezyy, Nailea Devora.

Artists: Billie Eilish, Chase Atlantic, The neighborhood, Melanie Martinez, Dominic Fike, Sabrina Carpenter, NF, Tate McRae, Russ, The weeknd, Glorilla, Latto, SZA, Megan thee stallion, Cardi B, Kehlani (name twin), Lil skies and Frank Ocean.

Books: Aggtm, striker, they die at the end, confess and ugly love

Season: summer girly til the day I die

Fun facts

Aesthetic: a mix of coquette y2k and streetwear

Personality type: isfp

Zodiac: Libra

Current hyper fixation: Billie Eilish

Dream job(s): Real estate agent, paralegal, dental technician and nurse (probably wont bc I hate working for ppl)

Dividers by: @issysh3ll

[agir1ukn0w]

sometimes a found family is just a disabled lawyer, a Jewish henchman/manwhore turned sidekick turned paralegal turned malewife, a Black apothecary with all the wisdom and medical knowledge of the Islamic Golden Age, an elderly retired lawyer with cancer from Yorkshire, and a horny Catholic girly girl who domesticates the former manwhore and is also somehow smarter than all of them combined

[spiralsublime]

Lucy Manhattan nee Santangelo Headcanons

(by extension the Manhattans lol)

Lucy and Jack are highschool sweethearts. Lucy was the IT girl of the 80s, cheerleading captain and valedictorian. I think it is a nightmare situation of prom night pregnancy. This super genuine and childish love for one another that is suddenly forced to grow up. They are married the summer after graduation.

Lucy still graduated as valedictorian, gave her speech with confidence and announced her intention to go to law school with a smile. Jack joined the academy, I think he likely wasn't confident in his future and ended up falling into what their parents pushed for. Something stable and easy.

Lucy supported Jack as he got further and further into this new role, going from low tier cop to high tier wild card detective.

The beginning of their marriage is good, they are thankful to have one another. They struggle through Johnny's first year of life, but they both lived with one of their parents until they could afford an apartment. Vickie comes around soon after Johnny.

But then Jack gets busier. He gets this new partner.

Through it all there is Lucy, taking night classes to finish her law degree. She goes from receptionist, to paralegal, to lawyer.

Cosmo and Lucy become good friends actually, they get brunch together to cope with the grey hairs that Jack is giving them. Cosmo is a wonderful uncle to the kids.

Then Lucy gets kidnapped.

She starts training in self defense around it. Gets the kids into baby self-defense courses.

Then her babies get kidnapped for the first time. I like the idea that this would be her girlpower movie moment. Cosmo kicks in the door (Jack chasing after the main antagonist), to see Lucy already tying up her guards, hair in perfect place. Johnny is holding her hand, Vickie in her arms after. - Tiger Mom vibes.

Their marriage was on the rocks for a while.

But it was only after Cosmo ended his partnership with Jack that their fights got worse and Jack hid further into work. Took more risks. Johnny had taken off, got into some shit. Vickie had to watch up close.

Jack didn't even show up at Cosmo's funeral, likely drinking himself away. So it had been Lucy, Johnny, and Vickie, side by side in matching all black.

I think in such a sad way. Cosmo was what kept their marriage together for so long. He was the one that reminded her of how much Jack loved her. Then he took off. And it got harder. All her friends told her to leave. Vickie told her to leave. Then Cosmo died and Jack went fully off the rails.

In my heart, she cried when she got the papers made. She wept as she tried to explain why they needed to let each other go.

I would like to note that Lucy ran the fuck out of Jack when he was actually in the same room as her, the issue was how rarely he was around her in the end.

She moved cross country both to escape Jack Manhattan's legacy and to give herself room to breathe.

He never signed the papers and ended up in Her City.

She still loves him, but she has become so Aware of what their marriage is. Because this is an 80s movie, she ends up with him, he does a grand showing (like saving Johnny) and the movie wants us to forget that she was trying to move on.

BUT NOT ME.

I want her to have a girlfriend who treats her right. <3

[gatheringbones]

[“It can be difficult for people raised as girls to express rage when we’ve been taught from very early on that it is in our best interest to suppress our anger. It is culturally acceptable for women to be sad, not angry. In one study on gender, anger, and the workplace, the participants conferred higher status to sad female employees than to angry ones. For men the opposite was true. Men, particularly white men, are rewarded and forgiven for their anger, while women are penalized and blamed.

Ceci, the mestiza paralegal, now lives in Los Angeles with her husband, five-year-old son, and twenty-two-year-old stepdaughter. She described herself using the exact language of a woman who was taught by the culture not to value or express her anger: “I’m a people pleaser. I don’t rock the boat. I go along with everything, do what people tell me.” This is the path of being a good girl, a good woman, and eventually a good mother. Lifelong gendered learning teaches people raised to be women to push down anger and any feelings in the “sub-anger” ballpark, such as annoyance, irritation, and frustration. I imagine this emotional push-down like the carnival game whack-a-mole. Each time an uncomfortable or unpleasant anger-related feeling pops up—whack!—women automatically bang it with a big-headed mallet, sending it back beneath the surface.

Like the rage itself, this game of anger whack-a-mole is an international phenomenon for women. In Korea, there is a culture-related anger syndrome called hwa-byung. It translates literally to “illness of fire” and mostly affects working-class middle-aged housewives, who have chronically suppressed anger stemming from strict gender roles, gender-based inequality, and patriarchal family structures. In traditional Latin American folk medicine, it is believed that holding onto certain emotions can cause physical illness. In Northeast Brazil, the term engolir sapos translates to “swallowing frogs,” and is mostly used by women to refer to the suppression of anger and irritation, and the pressure to tolerate unfair treatment without complaint.

Cheryl, the Black civil rights lawyer who internalizes her mom rage, is practiced at playing whack-a-mole with her anger: “I’m good at repressing things. So, a little problem, I repress it, and it gets packed on top of all the other things that make me mad, until there’s no way to untangle it. It’s just this huge tangle of anger that I’m trying to disassociate from all the time.” In our present-day culture of busy, intensive motherhood, stuffing down unpleasant emotions can be a matter of practicality. Minutes are a precious resource, and airing every frustration is a time expense that modern mothers cannot afford. Emails must be sent, dinner needs to get into bellies, and bodies need to snuggle under covers. But the perceived time-saver of the Emotional Whack-a-Mole phase is a mirage. Every time a mom suppresses her angry feelings, as she’s been taught to do her entire life, she is pushing them onto an ever-growing pile of anger inside her. Eventually, the pile will topple.”]

minna dubin, from mom rage: the everyday crisis of modern motherhood, 2023

[ichore]

lawyer au. who is more likely to tease the reader under the table at an important meeting? or maybe she's in the middle and they're both next to her?

“Isn't it unusual for a judge to sit between the lawyer and the prosecutor of the case?” asks one of Hiromi's paralegals by one of Nanami Kento's people as the young woman is writing her notes on the white board.

“Everything is unusual about them. They're the most unusual triumvirate you'll ever come across in your whole career, for sure, so you best prepare for that if you want to work for Higuruma.”

“Less talking, more writing, ladies,” Kento tells them while playing with his fancy pen in between his fingers, his legs crossed under the table as his free hand rests on your thigh. He gently leans closer to you, his breath brushing against your ear in a whisper. “You see, everybody knows. We should just make it official already.”

“Make what official, Ken-Ken?” you roll your eyes as you wrap your hand around his wrist to remove his hold from your thigh, his fingertips refuse to leave your flesh. “How can you be this unprofessional?” you hiss.

“You're in no place to talk. Wearing no panties under a skirt like that during a debriefing can hardly be called professional, Your Honor.” his palm begins to rub your flesh in small circles before he expertly slides his touches under your clothing. A side of his lips curving into a downward smirk when he finds your wetness already pooling in between your thighs, and he uses it for lubrication before two of his fingers circle at your clit. Unfortunately, the wet sounds of his teasing would be too loud to continue, but the quickness of your breathing tells him that he managed to push all your right buttons. “So, where are your panties?”

As Kento lifts his fingers to his mouth, you lean back just enough that Kento can clearly see Hiromi's pocket bulging. You gently pull out a part of the black, lacy material to show Kento your evidence - which makes Hiromi shoot a mischievous smirk towards the other man before returning to his paperwork.

“So, how do you like the taste of dick, Ken?” you ask him when his first finger touches his tongue to lick it clean off your juices. You expect his face to twist into disgust, or to find the thick vein on the side of his head bulging - like it always does when he's angry or annoyed. But to your surprise, he continues his eye contact with you while beginning to clean his other finger.