#relevant to recent conversations

[oswednesday]

instead of getting mad at trans men relating to characters who are men and boys women should maybe become interested in characters who are women or girls, i think this might help, good luck out there

[hinamie]

you are a wizard with earrings. ears look so much cooler with you around!!

!!!!! i am so okay with accepting this title thank u very much i would like to thank the academy ,

((no fr tho im happy u think so ghfgdhsj i dont know when ears became a favourite feature of mine to draw but i do rly love them and piercing them is th cherry on top <3 )))

[orcelito]

Oh tho. Despite being at a concert at a bar with easy opportunity to have drinks. I looked at the menu as if I was gonna order anything, then thought to myself, "You don't drink anymore, hon" and went "Oh, right" then just got water.

So???? Given how matter of fact that thought was, maybe I really am fully sober from alcohol now. Interesting thought.

[sapphicmimikyu]

btw just know you can send an ask for anything; it doesn't have to be requests!

[gothicpaperback]

THE ART OF THE DEAL | harry castillo x you

{ part two: VALUATION ERRORS>>

wc: 6,7k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Harry Castillo x You | FALSE RELATIONSHIP

summary: you don’t believe in love. neither does he. that’s the only thing you agree on. after swearing off romance, you’ve built a quiet life in art preservation and avoiding anything resembling vulnerability. but when Harry Castillo, arrogant, infuriating, and stupidly rich, proposes you pretend to be his fiancée for the sake of getting his overbearing mother off his back, you’re thrown. but the money is good and with your detached views on romance and love, you make the perfect polished, commitment-free partner. It’s just a deal; cold, clean and temporary. but pretending to be in love with a man you can’t stand has a way of making you feel things you promised yourself you’d never feel again. especially when he starts looking at you like you're more than just a line item in a contract. And worst of all? You start looking back

the MC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely described physically aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: false relationship, mentions of materialists film, smut, enemies to lovers. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

THE ART OF THE DEAL | PART ONE | TERMS AND CONDITIONS

The restaurant is fairly quiet, the music playing in the back is dim. It's the kind of place that takes months to get into, but one mention of his name and his table for two is ready in an hour. It's a perfect setting for romance, for love 

Except Harry Castillo doesn't believe in love.

Not at his age. 

He couldn't, not after her.

Melissa. The girl he'd been slavishly devoted to his entire college experience. The one he overheard at a frat party months before graduation calling him pint-sized to a group of tittering girls. 

"But the sex is decent and he's loaded, so I'll put up with him." 

Put up with him. Like he was an annoying pet. He broke up with her that night, tears in his eyes, a hole in his heart and the engagement ring from his mother still in his pocket. 

When he told his younger brother the next morning over coffee at his apartment he'd just shrugged. 

"That's how it is for guys like us." 

And that was supposed to be a comfort? How? 

And as his date, a thirty year old art curator sits across from him now, rambling on about the things she'd seen recently at work, the people she'd talked to, the daily minutia of her life, Harry finds his attention drifting. 

Not to anyone in particular, that isn't his way of operating. He'd always been a one woman man his whole life. Relentlessly monogamous. But he's bored, the conversation manufactured as if she's reading from cue cards. 

His mind drifts to the kitchen with Lucy, the conversation, the admittance that he didn't think he was capable of love. 

"You will. It'll be easy," Lucy had said. 

This doesn't feel easy. But then again what did Lucy know? She didn't even know what she wanted. He shifts in his seat when he hears his name being gently cooed by the girl across from him. 

"Pardon?"

She fingers the stem of her wine glass anxiously. She's clearly worried she's doing something wrong. 

"I asked if you've been using Adore for long?" 

"I've never actually used a dating service before," Harry replies politely. "You're my first." 

Her cheeks tinge pink, eyes downcast, the very picture of demure supplication.  

"Hopefully your last," she says with a gentle smile. 

She's very soft. Everything from the fabric of her clothing to her voice is soft. 

He offers a low chuckle, a rich sound. He knows that he's a catch, a proclaimed "unicorn" from his matchmaker at Adore. He knows the looks he gets aren't just for looks, but for his sizeable bank account. 

And his mother has been very firm. She wants him to marry and he hates to disappoint her. 

"You're almost fifty, Harry. It's inappropriate to be single at this age." 

The woman across from him is traditionally beautiful, but what woman isn't at thirty? She has smooth unblemished skin, light voice. Botox at the forehead, lips plump from injections. 

It's all tastefully done but what remains is nothing of true interest, nothing that sets her apart from the millions of women he sees in New York every day. 

But she's smart, she's accomplished, she comes from money, she'd understand his world. 

"Would you like a second date?" He asks as he walks her to her front door later that night. 

His driver is idling at the curb, keeping the car warm against the New York autumn chill. 

She beams at him, eyes sparkling. 

"I would love that."

"He's perfect."

"No one is perfect, Gemma,” you remind her gently. Everything you do with Gemma is gentle because she's a gentle creature, long limbed, big dark blue eyes, auburn hair, like a doe come to life. "He's just a man." 

"A perfect man," she swoons, coming to stand opposite your desk. "Rich, six feet, amazing hair and body. Smart, kind." 

"And he's straight?"

"Ha ha." 

You smirk before going back to photographing the small miniature portrait in front of you on the desk. A new acquisition, a piece from the 1700's. A coup for the gallery. 

As the art preserver here at The Chapel Gallery you work in the back rooms of the gallery, in a part of the building the visitors never see. Back here the light is colder, whiter, and everything smells faintly of varnish, aging wood, and linen.

The floor is concrete, scuffed from decades of furniture being dragged across it. You’ve stopped noticing. There’s a tall window, but it’s been treated with a UV filter that dulls the sun to a diffused gray-blue haze. Still, it’s enough.

 You like the quiet of it. The way it catches in the dust floating over a stretched canvas. The hush. Your own breathing. The gentle hum of the fume extractor overhead.

Gemma is the exception. Bouncy, sweet, colorful. You like her in your space. Gemma showed up on her first day in heels too loud for the old gallery floors, holding a latte and a dozen questions about framing protocols, and you liked her immediately for admitting she could never do your job. There was respect in her voice when she said it. 

You'd bonded immediately over a love of Henry Ossawa Tanner and ethnical restoration. You moved quickly to lunches together, and then drinks after work and then a casual friendship that you appreciate in a city that feels cold. She loves to visit you in this space bringing coffee or baked goods, the two of you talking about everything from Rembrandt to The Real Housewives. 

And now she stands in front of you, phone in hand showing you a picture from what you can only assume is Google. 

"Isn't he handsome?" 

He looks like any other rich guy to you. They all start to blend into a mix of fancy watches and stiff hair after a while. 

"Sure." 

Your tools rest in their tray; scalpels in their tray, cotton swabs in jars, solvents labeled in your handwriting. Everything with its place. Everything under control. The paintings arrive with their wounds and histories, and you restore them with a loving hand. 

Gemma doesn’t interrupt, not exactly, but her presence changes the air. She’s lighter, glossier somehow. You hear the quick staccato of her heels before you see her. Always rehearsing the next exhibit, the next acquisition, the next donor she’ll have to charm.

 Her voice echoes through the storage corridor when she’s on a call, naming names you don’t recognize. Its collectors, old professors, gallery patrons who write checks large enough to get their opinions framed.

You prefer the paintings because they don’t perform. They don’t flatter. They don’t lie about what time has done to them.

Sometimes she asks what you think of a piece. You don’t always answer. When you do, she listens in that serious way of hers, her lips slightly parted, like she's memorizing the shape of your opinion even if she’s already decided on hers. It works, mostly. You restore. She sells and curates.

You move behind the canvas while she moves in front of it.

"What does he do?"

"Private equity." 

You hold in a groan. He's just like every other guy she's dated. All rich, all handsome, all in finance and all the most boring men on the planet. You can feel her eyes still on you and you know what she's going to say before she says it. You brace yourself. 

"When are you going to try dating again?"

"Never."

Your sweet, hopelessly optimistic co-worker leans on your work table, big eyes sad. "The divorce was six years ago. When are you going to try again?"

"When men stop being assholes so..." you put on a faux pondering look, "never?" 

She giggles, a bit nervous about her date, a bit tickled by your seriousness. "Don't you miss sex?"

You look over at her innocent face, amused. You're only a few years older than her but you feel like you've lived a lifetime in comparison. 

"I have sex, Gem. Sex isn't the issue. It's living with a man that doesn't appeal to me. And I'm not gay, though I wish I was, so romance isn't really an option anymore." 

You weren't always this way when it came to love. But it was a classic case of Boy meets girl. Girl falls for boy. Boy and girl get married. Boy cheats. Boy gets girl new pregnant. Girl moves on. 

You wish it wasn't such a fucking cliché. 

You think of you phone in your pocket. The message from earlier. You scowl. Gemma's phone beeps and she swipes to open the message, her face breaking into a beam. 

"He's here," she says, going on her tiptoes and bouncing. "He's coming down here to get me! You can see him!" 

She looks completely elated and there's a small, secret part of you that misses that. The excitement of a first date. Just then a gurgle sounds and she gets a strange look on her face, blanching before placing a palm over her stomach. 

"Oh fuck." 

Gemma has what she calls a reactive stomach. Which basically means that she has to aggressively empty her bowels when she gets anxious. 

"I'll tell him you're freshening up," you tell her, making a shooing motion. She casts you a thankful look before rushing off to the loo. 

You shake your head, mouth curled into a smile. She is ridiculous at times but you really do adore her. You go back to photographing the miniature portrait, excited to get to work on bringing the original color back from underneath all that grime.

The sound of footsteps grabs your attention. You glance up to see a tall man with dark wave hair that curls under his ears and large expressive eyes. He's dressed well and in one arm holds a large bouquet of pale yellow roses. 

"Hello." 

He smiles politely at you, plump lips curling under a perfectly manicured beard.

Harry Castillo. 

"Gemma just went to freshen up," you tell him with a motion to one of the desk chairs. "She'll be back any second."

"Great." 

He doesn't move to the chair. Instead he moves deeper into your workroom, eyes casting from one piece to the next. He places the bouquet onto one of the empty tables before surveying the exhibit you just finished restoring. 

He stops in front of a small, clay pot, clearly taken with it. Despite it being behind protected glass you wince when his face nears it.

"Do you mind stepping back from the artifacts? Everything here is incredibly delicate." 

Harry nods unbothered, hands behind his back. "Understood." 

He finds himself intrigued by what you're photographing with such focus. His legs carry him to the side of your desk. You're so invested in the task at hand you don't even hear him near. 

"Rosalba Carriera." 

You almost drop the camera. "What?"

"That's a Rosalba Carriera isn't it?" Harry looks puzzled. "I'm sure of it. My family owns several." 

You hold in a scoff of disgust. Of course his family would buy up art and keep it for themselves. You stare over your shoulder at him, your expression cold. Men like this make you want to scream. Money, looks, arrogance. He has it all in spades. 

"I love pastel painting," Harry continues, thrown off by your muted response.

He thought you'd warm to him and his art knowledge. He's been told he's charismatic, but the longer you derisively stare at him the more he's concerned he's been lied to all his life. You're like a cat; back arched, claws extended. Everything about you screams back off and so he does, eyes trained on yours. 

"Yes," you finally offer when he stands on the opposite side of your workspace. "It is a Rosalba Carriera. One of her earliest." 

Harry can see that the entire portrait is grimy with age. The edges torn in spots. He can't imagine taking something like that and making it beautiful again. 

"Restoration and preservation seems like such tedious work," Harry hums. 

He winces when he sees your jaw tic. He said the wrong thing. Fuck. Tedious wasn't the word he wanted to use. He'd meant labor intensive and exhausting with having so many hours spent over such detailed pieces. 

But he feels out of his element, trying to appear in control of the conversation. But the way your eyes dig into him has him feeling exposed. 

You don't even lower your camera when you reply. 

"No more tedious than telling rich people how to spend their money." 

That's an arrow to the gut. Despite being good at his job there is always the lingering thought that what he does is frivolous. That all the money in the world can't make him a good person. 

He can change his legs, his clothes, his home, but at the end of the day he's still that awkward boy overhearing his girlfriend saying she put up with him.

You put him back there, back to the party that smelled of stale beer and hairspray. The night his life changed, where he changed, where he saw the ugliness in perfection. 

And for that, he immediately dislikes you. 

He frowns, irritated by this serious woman behind the desk and the way she turns her attention back to the portrait, as if he's nothing, as if he's not even good enough to glance at. 

You want him gone. He wants to be gone. 

"I'm ready," Gemma announces with a flustered laugh, coming around the corner in her flouncy dress. You and Harry exhale in relief. 

"Great," Harry says extending an elbow. He can't wait to escape this suffocating space. 

He can't wait to be away from you

Your apartment is on the smaller side, but it does its job. You make decent money. Not enough for some penthouse at the top of a skyscraper but it's got a cozy vibe, something that makes you feel settled. It's a third floor walk up and by the end of the day you're usually exhausted. 

Above everything, you love that it's yours. You picked the paint, the decor, the pillows. Every part of this space is you. 

Not him.

You toss your bag onto the hook by the door and start the toaster oven. You worked late and you have a real craving for that shitty lasagna from the supermarket that you grew up on. 

You grab it from the freezer, Popping ventilation holes into the plastic and pop it into the oven. As you set the timer and heat you laugh to yourself when you realize how different your meal is from Gemma's this evening. She's probably throwing back lobster and farm to table veal. 

With Harry.

What a stupid fucking name. 

You can't help but be annoyed by his presence today, but if you're honest your bad mood started this morning at work after receiving a text from an old friend. Well, not a friend deal, more and emotional vulture. 

I hope you're doing okay. 

Huh? 

I saw the pregnancy announcement on J's timeline. I'm so sorry hun xx

You hadn't even bothered writing back. 

Harry had just been an additional irritant. Bad place bad time. Reminding you of the lifestyle Jarrod always aspired to.  

You used to own a nice place outside Manhattan with your ex-husband Jarrod. A place with quiet neighbours and tall ceilings. A place that he furnished saying that he had an eye for home design. 

He made decent money, but it was never enough. You both worked and he loved to live lavishly. When he found out about your secret account that has been the beginning of the end. 

And the irony is his new wife doesn't even work. But she's young and shiny and maybe that's what he really wanted all along, he just wasn't honest about it. 

But if you're honest you were checked out that last year of your marriage. How could you forgive him after his reaction to-

The ding of the oven catches your attention. You go to pull out the lasagna, hissing when the lip of the grill catches your wrist and the entire container goes toppling over onto the floor. 

Sauce pools over the mushed meal of cheese and pasta. You swear, throwing the pan into the sink with a frustrated cry. 

Today fucking sucks. 

Dinner is delicious. Better than the last time Harry was here with Lucy. Or the time before with Bianca. Or the time before that with Gretchen. It's his favorite steak house and he always rents the back room out when he dines here. It's quieter that way, the service more dedicated. 

Harry watches his date delicately eating her salad. But his mind is still back in that gallery basement, back on the woman who irritated him. 

What was her problem?

Harry dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. He speaks lightly, eyes down as he adjusts his cuff. 

"I'm glad we could do this again." 

"Me too." 

Gemma stares at him with the practised air of a woman that was born beautiful, who went to an Ivy League, who comes from money and expects the best. 

She's a good match. And he's so tired of looking. 

"Tell me more about your job," he insists after another sip of wine. 

"It's not very glamorous," she replies sweetly. Again that picture of demure innocence that's starting to grate on him. "Not like your job." 

"I assure you private equity is pretty dull." 

"I suppose it's similar to your job in that we both act as bridges between consumer and creator. But I've taken on some curating as well. That's my real passion. I love it because it's shaping what people experience when they walk into a gallery or museum."

"That doesn't sound boring."

Gemma looks delighted by that response, her eyes sweeping across his forearm, watching the gold ring he wears tapping against the glass. 

"I guess not. Right now I’m working on curating a show on post-war artists who were overshadowed in their time, mostly women and artists of colour. It's the new piece my co-worker is photographing. She'll be busy pouring over that for the next few months." 

Harry nods, not particularly interested in hearing more about you. But Gemma is on a roll, comfortable with the topic of you since nothing else is coming to mind.

“I'm worked about the funding though,” she says, delicately spearing a piece of endive, “my co-worker says not to worry about it, but I can’t help it. I’m a worrier.”

Harry nods, smiling with practised warmth. The kind of smile reserved for clients and vaguely familiar faces at weddings. 

“Your co-worker seems…” he lets it drift, then adds almost idly, “focused.”

Gemma nods, chewing quietly. “She is. Especially when a new piece comes in. She’s been handling a lot lately. We lost funding for her assistant, so she’s doing everything herself.”

“That sounds unsustainable.”

“She doesn’t really complain,” Gemma says, smoothing her napkin. “But I think it’s been wearing on her. She hides it well.”

“She’s lucky to have you, then.”

Gemma smiles at that, pleased by the compliment, even if it’s only adjacent.

“She’d never say it, but I think she appreciates the support.”

Harry feigns a moment of thought, fingers absently trailing the stem of his wineglass. He can't agree. You seemed perfectly passionate enough to insult him the second after meeting him. 

“She was a bit aloof,” he murmurs. 

Gemma gives a small, quick laugh. “She’s not always like that. She’s very funny, very blunt. She just doesn’t warm up to people easily. Especially not people who act like...well....”

She catches herself and Harry lifts an eyebrow, amused. "Act like what?”

“Like they own the room.”

He smirks. “Guilty, I suppose.”

“No,” Gemma says quickly, almost apologetic. “Not you exactly. It's just, she’s careful with new people.”

Harry leans in slightly, voice low. “You two are close?”

Gemma lowers her eyes, just for a second. “We work well together. She’s so funny and so brilliant. And yeah, a little intense. But she makes the gallery better.”

He nods, slow and thoughtful. There’s something in the way Gemma speaks about you. Respect, yes, but also a sort of nervous admiration. He files that away.

“And she said not to worry?” he prompts gently, circling back.

“Mhm,” Gemma says, dabbing the corner of her mouth. “She always says that. About donors, pieces, my love life…” she trails off, laughing a little.

“Oh?”

“She doesn’t really believe in matchmaking,” Gemma adds. "Honestly, I don't think she believes in romance anymore full stop. But she told me that worrying will just make it worse and that I should enjoy the ride." 

That doesn't surprise Harry in the least. The scraps of information presented to him about you paint the picture of a woman invested in her work. He saw no wedding ring and judging by the late hour he came to retrieve Gemma and you working away, he can only surmise that you likely don't have a partner waiting at home. 

"But I worry about her sometimes. She hasn't dated anyone since her divorce and it's like she's given up." 

Harry lifts his glass, his voice flat. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Gemma says, gently setting hers down. “I worry that she doesn’t believe in love anymore. I mean she told me as much. Since her divorce, it’s all been very cynical.”

That catches. Just for a second. Something shifts behind Harry’s expression. It's something small, almost imperceptible. But Gemma, watching, mistakes it for amusement.

“She calls dating a mutual performance of delusion,’” she adds with a grin, hoping he’ll laugh.

He doesn’t. Not really. He smiles, but it’s distant. His fingers are lightly tapping the base of his wine glass. “She said that?”

“Mhm.”

“And what do you think?”

Gemma blinks, caught off-guard. “I think she’s been hurt. And when people get hurt badly enough, they try to feel superior to what they’ve lost.”

Harry nods, but he’s not really nodding. His mind’s moved. You’re in it again, your sharp voice, the disinterest that wasn’t just rudeness, but something colder. Something he recognizes in himself under all the pretense. 

“Interesting,” he murmurs.

Gemma brightens slightly, mistaking it for approval of her. “But I still believe in something lasting. I mean, why else go to all this trouble, right?”

He looks back at her, as though just now returning to the conversation.

“Right,” he says, softly.

As if just realizing they've devoted the last ten minutes of their date to talk about her co-worker, Gemma turns coy. 

"But enough about that. Tell me, what is your family like? You have a brother, any other siblings?"

Harry smiles again, this time slower. Something has become very clear to him and like anyone working in private equity he knows he needs to conduct a little due diligence before moving forward. 

"Everything was delicious, the most delicious steak I've ever eaten!" 

It’s three days later and Gemma is regaling you with her latest Harry saga and you're fighting to show even passive interest. The two of you are having coffee at the cafe across from the gallery, your favorite place to relax. 

"He kissed my hand. My hand! Like something out of a romance novel." 

"Cute." 

"And he was so sweet; he took me to Central Park and did the whole carriage ride thing." 

"Fun." 

"Didn't you think he was handsome?"

"Sure." 

You offer the odd word, knowing that she's barely even registered you're there. To her you're just a willing audience 

You barely registered the man if you're honest. He seemed haughty, walking around your workplace as if he owned it. 

"And he really knows his artwork," Gemma continues. "I didn't expect someone in finance to be so knowledgeable about more obscure artists."

"Mhm." 

You remember his tailored presence, the faint perfume of old money and self-assurance. The way he looked at you like not with interest, but a kind of calculation.

"He rented out the whole back of the restaurant. We had private servers, a special menu." She's practically floating. 

"So he's new money," you say acerbically. It comes out more bitter than anticipated. "Old money is quiet, new money is loud."

"For your information he is old money," she says giving you a pointed look. "His parents started the family firm."

"So he didn't even earn his money or position himself."

"Obviously there's no winning with you today. Why are you being so shitty about him?"Gemma asks, cheeks pinking in irritation. 

'I'm sorry," you answer, feeling embarrassed. "I've just never been really comfortable with people that have that kind of money. You are, you grew up like that and it's what you want in a partner."

Gemma is in a snit now. "So now I'm shallow?"

"Not at all," you insist truthfully. "If you were ugly, do you think Harry would have asked you for a second date?" 

She's quiet and blushing further. "No. I guess not." 

I nod. My point exactly. 

"You are just two people coming together who want something from the other. It's as pure and honest as any part of a functional relationship."

The two of you are quiet, fingers tracing the lip of the plate from the scone the two of you shared.

"Well, I hope we go out again," Gemma says with a bright look. "I mean, if I'm honest, I didn't feel a huge connection, but he's so good on paper. Handsome, rich, tall, charming." 

"But do you actually enjoy his company?"

Gemma looks at you as if you've sprouted a second head. "What does that have to do with anything?" 

"Gemma," you admonish, "you're always telling me about how you want to find love and be swept off your feet." 

"I do," she insists, "I just think we have a choice in who we love and my choice should take certain things like looks and money into account. I’m thirty, I want kids, and I want stability." 

You want to tell Gemma that she’s capable of having all of those things on her own if she really wants. But you know that it’s not just that. She wants the cache of a partner up the social ladder.

“Well, then I hope this works out for you,” you say sincerely. “And if not, trying to find someone who knows about art preservation.”

By the time you reach your apartment your stomach is rumbling. You skipped lunch to work on some of the finer detailing on the portrait.  You think of the all night deli across the corner and its beckoning croissant sandwiches and make your decision quickly. You throw your sketchbook into your bag. 

The night is chilly and you pull your jacket to your chin. In true New York fashion you don't smile at anyone, you keep your head down; you ignore the fact that you're still upset about the memory of Jarrod.  

You duck into the deli, cheeks and nose chilled. The place isn't busy, not at this hour. A few night owls linger at some of the tables, tapping away on their laptops, a tired man behind the counter raising a nod your way over their phone. 

"A number two and a coffee."

You take a number and a seat, bringing out your sketchbook as you wait. The music playing is rhythmic, quiet, but relaxing. You should thank the serious looking man behind the counter for his choice in tunes. 

The door opens behind you as you debate the menu. You've been curious to try the avocado turkey on rye. 

"Number two," you tell the man with confidence. "And a coke. Thanks." 

"That’ll be $8.66."

You reach into your pocket for your wallet but an arm has come around you to place a fifty on the counter. 

"I've got it." 

The man at the till takes it without question but you whip around, shocked at the random act of kindness. Familiar brown eyes swim into view and your surprise turns to irritation. 

"You."

Harry gives you a dimpled smile. "Good Evening.”

The man at the till tries to give Harry his change but he just shakes his head, a light lift of his hand and the man pockets his large tip. You know you're scowling at this pathetic display of charitable giving. It's easy to give away money when you have so much of it. 

"I can afford my own dinner."

"I know," Harry says.

You think about paying the amount you were going to, but the man at the till is heading over to another customer to answer a question. Harry continues standing there looking at you with interest. That same calculating look you've seen in him before. 

Fine. If this idiot wants to pay for your sandwich you'll let him, considering his appearance has now dampened your mood. 

"Thanks," you mutter his way, taking a table number and slinking away into a nearby booth.

You open your sketchbook, dutifully ignoring the annoying Harry still at the counter, speaking with the man behind the till.  

You're shocked when you hear the guy laugh, a low chuckle. You've been coming to this deli for months and you've never seen the guy crack a smile, let alone laugh. 

Probably hoping for another big tip. 

You hold in an eye roll and begin to sketch lightly. Your mind is driven to darkness today. Black spiky limbs reaching for the sky. 

A can of soda is placed on the table by your elbow, accompanied by a low voice.

"Forgot this."

Fuck. You sigh lightly before taking the can from him, murmuring your thanks. When he lingers, watching you pop the tab you attempt to be cordial. This is Gemma's potential boyfriend after all. 

"This doesn't really seem like your scene."

You're not looking at him when you speak. You're taking a sip of the fizzy drink, nose wrinkling a moment when the carbonation tickles your nose. 

Harry stands next to the booth like an awkward waiter, holding an espresso on a saucer. He's dressed in slacks and a charcoal sweater, a tweed jacket over top. He went to an effort, not that you’d know because you're still not looking at him. 

"I like sandwiches as much as the next guy." 

What he doesn't tell you is that his driver was pulling up to your apartment building when he saw you exit, looking agitated. When you walked into the deli he thought it was a perfect excuse. Much better than his original idea of just showing up at your home with a proposition. 

"Okay."

Harry looks amused, not offended by your cold reception. He was ready for it He watches you go back to your sketching, letting the moment stretch. You don't seem to be upset by his presence. 

The sandwiches arrive, both placed unceremoniously onto the perpetually stained tabletop. Harry motions to the chair opposite you at the table. 

"May I sit?"

You raise your head from your sketches, casting an eye around the fairly empty deli. "There are lots of open tables."

Harry looks amused, not offended by your cold reception. Almost like he was ready for it. "It's not a matter of space, more the company." 

He watches you wrestle with this before lifting one arm in a casual shrug.  

"Knock yourself out."

He suppresses a grin, sliding into the booth opposite you. He can't remember the last time - if ever - he was in a tiny eatery like this with its cheap menus and yellowed floors. 

He watches you take a bite of the sandwich in one hand, the other still furiously sketching away. He watches you for several moments and eventually you feel those big brown eyes on your face and you glance up to see his sandwich untouched. Why is he here?

Harry glances down at the greasy sandwich, hiding a sneer. He wouldn't feed this to his worst enemy. 

"Do you need something?"

You're looking at him with anticipation, as if you're scared of what he might say. 

"I wanted to know if you'd be interested in an exchange of services," he says coolly. "A barter." 

This is how he is in the boardroom; this is how he commands the people he works with. Blunt, forward, confident, charming when he needs to be, but ruthless he just as easily. 

The pencil stills on the page, your nose wrinkling. "With you?"

"Mhm."

He watches the way you blink at him, head tilting slightly. 

"I don't need financial advice and according to Gemma you could buy out the entire gallery, so I don't really get what you want from me."

You feel strangely trapped by him here in the booth. You could slide out and run but would you make it? As if sensing your unease, Harry shakes his head slowly. Fingers lifting from the table briefly.  "You don't have to say yes." 

"I probably won't."

He smothers a chuckle. Gemma was right, you are blunt and you are funny.

"My mother wants me to marry," Harry tells you. "The sooner the better."

"And you're a Mama's boy?" 

He smirks. "Maybe a little." 

"Gross." 

You lean back to take a sip of coffee, eyes peering at him over the rim. "I thought you had a matchmaker?"

He shifts in his chair. "I do." 

"So then why are you here talking to me?"

The eraser of your pencil taps on your sketchbook, tap tap tap. Harry shuffles, one arm over the back of his chair affecting casual interest. 

"Because I want to hire you. I want you to pretend to be my girlfriend for the next several months because I believe it would be mutually beneficial to us both." Harry takes a sip of his espresso now, secretly amused when you drop the pencil.

"Excuse me?" You blink rapidly, lashes fluttering. "What the fuck are you talking about? You're dating Gemma."

"I went on two dates with her."

"She likes you."

"She likes my status, not that I begrudge her for it. But after two dates it’s clear that she wants a husband who will cherish her, who’s every waking thought will be about her. That's not me."

You're quiet because you know he's right. As much as Gemma liked his money, the things she liked most about her dates with Harry was the places he took her, the romance. How he held her hand on the carriage ride, how he listened about her job. Little, beautiful moments. 

Harry takes advantage of your stunned response. "Gemma is a lovely girl, but not a good match for what I need."

"And you think I'm what you need? I don't even like you." 

You stare at this man with his expensive watch and clothes and haircut. He even smells expensive. 

"You're intelligent, confident, attractive," Harry lists these things not with the affection of a lover, but an appraiser at an auction. 

"So is Gemma."

"Yes, but she's also looking for a true relationship, for love. And I can't give that to her."

"Why not?"

"I don't think I'm capable of it." He regards you with a tilt of his head. "I'm selfish, I like my job, I enjoy my own company, I'm driven and I'm not very romantic."

"You're very honest," you say, almost impressed. Almost. 

"I find it saves time to be direct." 

He watches your eyes survey him, appraising him like you would a piece of artwork needing to be restored.  

"Gemma said you took her to dinner at Mastros. Then to central Park for a horse drawn carriage ride." 

"I did."

"And that didn't seem romantic to you?"

"I know it was romantic," he replies. 

"Then why do you say you're not romantic?"

Harry leans back in the booth, drink forgotten. He points at your open sketchbook. "You know how to draw. Are you DaVinci?"

"Obviously not. No." 

"No," Harry agrees with a nod. "But you know enough about art from study. You know proportions without thinking about it. If someone random asked you to draw them a cow you could do it."

"Sure."

"It would mean nothing to you, but it would look like a nice image of a cow at the end. The person would walk away happy with their picture. But you wouldn’t feel attached to the sketch nor the process. It’s no different than how I approach romance. I know what it looks like, I’m happy to give it.”

You fall quiet, arms crossing. You've never thought about romance like that. So route. 

"I've already spoken to Natalia at Adore," Harry continues. "She's setting Gemma up with two of my friends I talked into joining. They're younger and richer and hopeless romantics. Gemma will be just fine." 

You don't know how you feel about that, the way he speaks about it makes it feel like something akin to prostitution. 

"She wants romance and love along with status," Harry reminds you. "Both of those men fit the bill and either one of them would die to date a woman like her." 

"But not you." 

"No. Not me." 

The eraser of your pencil taps on your sketchbook, tap tap tap. "What's in it for me?" 

"You'd be paid very well." 

He sees the hesitation in you now. The way your eyes jerk to the side as you digest his offer. 

"How well?"

Harry takes a piece of paper folded from his pocket. He came prepared. He slides it across the table, biting back a grin when your eyes bulge open. 

"You're not serious." 

"I am." 

Anyone else would have used computer paper, but not Harry Castillo. He used heavy card stock; the amount written in thick black ink with what you're sure was a fountain pen.

"How long would this charade go on for?"

"Six months." 

"Six entire months?" You make a disgusted face. "No. No chance."

You go back to your sketching, the subject clearly closed for you. You toss the piece of paper towards him, forgotten so easily. Harry sucks in a sharp breath of air through his teeth. Rejection always stings. 

"I'll double it." 

Your eyes rise up to his. "What?"

"The amount on that paper. I'll double it." 

Harry watches the way your eyes round, lips parting. He can't deny he enjoys shocking you. He watches you slump into the booth, your eyes darting back and forth between the table and the amount on the page.

"There must be other women you could ask." 

"None that don't want love or commitment."' Harry takes another sip of his espresso before it clinks back into place on the small saucer. "Gemma told me your views on romance and that's when I knew this would work." 

You sit for several moments debating the exorbitant sum on the paper and the year of your life you won't get back. But this kind of money is life changing. 

You look at Harry, really looking at him. "Don't you want to find a girlfriend? A real one?"

"I thought I did," Harry shrugs. "I attempted it. But I don't think it's something I really need. And from what I gather, that isn't what you desire either." 

He's right. But still you hesitate, fingering the thick paper.This could be a lucrative venture couldn't it? A chance to erase debt and start a life you've only dreamt about? And it's only a year. A year could go by fast. 

But a year of secrecy, of false affection. 

"Are we... Are we allowed to find company outside the fake relationship?" 

He raises a brow. "Company?"

"Sex," you state flatly. "Unless you think this amount means I'll be your personal concubine?"

It's almost endearing watching his cheeks flush. "I don't need to pay for sex." 

"Just for a fake girlfriend." 

You watch the twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smirk. Touche. 

"Sex is not required, of course. I would only request that company outside our arrangement be as discreet as possible." 

"That seems fair." 

Harry raises a brow, intrigued. "So you're agreeing?"

"I'm thinking about it." 

Harry nods, standing and buttoning his dark blazer. You have a lot to think about and he doesn't want to rush you. He needs commitment not a lukewarm agreement. He slides over his business card. 

"My number is on the back. I'll wait for your decision, whatever it may be." 

He sticks his hand out like it's a business deal and you take it with a little smile, amused. You shake briefly and he stands the purpose of this meeting over. He gives you a dimpled smile.

 “I hope to hear from you soon.”

He knows he will.

[friendlyneighbourhoodelf]

@anakachow

Foggy trail

[hoe4hotchner]

Hello, my 18th birthday is on the 13th and I was wondering if you had time for a request by then if not it’s fine and if you’ve already done the idea and I haven’t seen it I apologize. The request is hotch x actress reader where they meet her because she somehow involved in the case ether her director is a suspect or the unsub is obsessed with her or something and she a big actress but she keeps her private life hidden well I think I’m asking for a request in the right spot :) if you can do this thank you sm!

In the spotlight | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Actress!reader | WC: 1.2k | CW: Fluff, mention of stalker ish unsub, not really any case related stuff.

A/N: Welp…… a little late, but better than never. I've honestly been so busy the past couple of months. Also I'm procrastinating a lot and doing everything except for studying

The BAU wasn’t typically in the business of celebrity encounters, but when a string of murders pointed toward a high-profile Hollywood set, the team found themselves in unfamiliar territory.

“You’re sure she’s involved?” Morgan asked as they walked through the grand double doors of the studio lot.

“Not directly,” JJ replied, flipping through her tablet, scanning the reports that had made her pick up on the case. “But the unsub has a fixation on her. He’s left notes at each crime scene referencing her movies.”

Hotch had dealt with cases like this before – obsessive fans, delusions manifesting into violence – but something about this case had his instincts on edge.

Then he saw you.

You were a household name. Hollywood’s best-kept enigma – an A-list actress who had managed to keep your personal life out of the tabloids way longer than anyone had anticipated, and still managed to do.

That was no small feat.

You stood near the edge of the set, engaged in conversation with your director. When you noticed them, you excused yourself and approached, your expression unreadable.

“You must be the FBI,” you greeted smoothly, your voice carrying just enough warmth to be polite but not inviting. Your agent had only just notified you of how serious the situation had become a few days before the arrival of the team. “I appreciate you coming. This is terrifying.”

“Agent Hotchner,” he introduced himself, his usual stoic demeanor in place. “These are Agents Jareau, Morgan, and Reid.”

Your gaze flickered over each of them before settling back on Hotch. “I wish I could say I’m surprised, but I’ve been in the industry long enough to know obsession breeds danger.”

“We believe the unsub is escalating,” Reid interjected. “Each victim has been found with items linking to your past films, suggesting a deep personal attachment to your career.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “Fantastic.”

“We’ll need to go over any recent threats you may have received,” Hotch said. “And we’ll be assigning protective detail.”

Your eyes narrowed slightly, though not out of defiance – more out of frustration. “I keep my personal life locked down for a reason. If word gets out that the FBI is babysitting me, the media will have a field day.”

“I understand,” Hotch replied, his voice softer now. “But your safety comes first.”

Something in his tone made you pause. The unreadable steel in your gaze softened just a fraction.

“You’re different from the other agents I’ve met,” you murmured, more to yourself than anyone else.

Hotch raised a brow, having heard you clearly. “How so?”

You offered a small, knowing smile. “You actually care. I'll have my agent send my relevant details to your team.”

Despite your initial reluctance, you allowed the team to dig through the threats you’d dismissed over the years. It was a pattern, Hotch realized. You had become so accustomed to being watched, desired, and obsessed over that you had learned to ignore the warning signs.

Not this time.

Late one evening, after hours of combing through evidence, you found yourself sitting beside Hotch in your trailer, an untouched cup of coffee in your hands.

“You don’t talk much,” you observed.

He glanced at you. “I talk when there’s something to say.”

A smile ghosted over your lips. “That must be refreshing for your team.”

“They’re used to it.”

You exhaled, eyes flickering toward the pile of letters on the table. “I should be more scared, shouldn’t I?”

“You’re handling this well.”

“I think I’m just tired of it,” you admitted. “The industry, the expectations… the fear. I worked so hard to keep my real life separate from my public one, but it doesn’t seem to matter.”

Hotch studied you for a moment before speaking. “You’ve done everything right. This isn’t your fault.”

You met his gaze, something unspoken passing between you. You had spent years being seen but never truly known. And yet, in just a few days, this man had managed to break through the carefully constructed walls you had built.

He stood then. “We’re going to find him.”

When the unsub was finally apprehended, the weight you had been carrying lifted, but something unexpected lingered, an attachment you hadn’t anticipated.

As the team prepared to leave, you found yourself standing beside Hotch, the energy of the set swarming around you.

“If you ever need anything…” he started, trailing off as if unsure how to finish the thought.

You tilted your head, a playful smirk creeping onto your lips. “Are you offering me your number, Agent Hotchner?”

A rare, almost imperceptible smile crossed his features. “Strictly for emergencies.”

“Of course.”

But you both knew this wasn’t the last time you’d see each other.

As he walked away, you found yourself staring just a little longer than necessary.

Even though the case had ended, Aaron Hotchner lingered in your thoughts long after the BAU had left Los Angeles. You weren’t sure what to make of it. In your world, people came and went, drawn to the fantasy of who they thought you were, but Hotch had never, although you'd know him for mere moments, treated you like a spectacle. He had looked at you, really looked at you, and seen more than just an actress.

You weren’t sure when you’d see him again – until you did.

It started with a call. Late at night, after a particularly strenuous day on set.

“Hotchner.” His voice was calm, although he sounded tired.

You sat up in bed, your heart picking up its pace. “Is this an emergency?”

A pause. “Not exactly. But you told me once that if I ever needed to talk, I should call.” A slow smile tugged at your lips. “And here I thought the FBI didn’t take personal calls.”

He exhaled a quiet chuckle. “We don’t. Not usually.”

That was the beginning.

Over the next few weeks, the calls became more frequent. Sometimes they were brief, check-ins disguised as polite conversation. Other times, they stretched into the late hours, with you learning more about the man behind the badge. His job, his son, the way he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. You shared pieces of yourself in return, opening up in a way you rarely did.

It wasn’t long before one of those calls ended with a whispered confession.

“I miss you,” you admitted, voice barely above a breath.

Silence hung between you, thick and charged.

Then, softly, “I miss you too.”

When Hotch finally saw you again, it was different. He wasn’t there for a case. He was there for you.

You met in private, away from prying eyes, and for the first time, there was no pretense, no agent and actress, no investigation or security detail. Just two people drawn together.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” you murmured as he stood in the doorway of your home, looking every bit as composed as always, though there was something softer in his expression now.

“I wasn’t sure either.”

You stepped closer, tilting your head. “But you’re here.”

He nodded. “I am.”

You didn’t overthink it. Instead, you closed the space between you, your fingers skimming the lapels of his coat before you leaned in, pressing your lips to his.

Hotch responded without hesitation, his hands finding your waist, pulling you against him in a way that left no room for uncertainty.

When you finally broke apart, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“This isn’t simple,” he murmured.

You smiled. “I don’t need simple. I just need you.”

And for once, Aaron Hotchner allowed himself to believe that maybe, he could have something for himself, too.

[hazydusks]

ask game for fanfic writers! 18+ / nsfw questions below the cut.

feel free to tag others to join and participate! if you're mentioning anyone in your responses, make sure to check their dni / byf criteria first.

thanks to @/dotcie and their ask game for inspiring this one!

__φ(．．) : do you have any writing goals this year? for instance, is there anything you want to try out or experiment with?

(´｡• ᵕ •｡`) : talk about the fic that you enjoyed writing the most! and don't forget to link it in your response if it's published!

o( ❛ᴗ❛ )o : is there a trope / au you'd like to write more for?

(☆ω☆) : what's the word count of your longest fic to date? how long did it take to write that fic, and would you write another piece of that length (or longer)?

(*¯︶¯*) : is there an author that you wish would receive more attention? tell us their url, and rave about them!

(๑˘︶˘๑) : do you write with or without music playing in the background? if you do, which artists / songs do you recommend?

o(≧▽≦)o : which fandom(s) are you most involved in? which character(s) have you written the most for?

(ノ*°▽°*) : how do you go about characterization? any advice on how you go about character analysis and interpretation is appreciated!

(☆_@) : have you experienced imposter syndrome? if so, write down 3-5 things you enjoy and admire in your own writing!

Σ(°△°|||) : what's the sweetest inbox message you've received from a reader?

(ノωヽ) : what do you use to write – paper and pen? in your notes app? gdocs or ellipsus? directly in your tumblr drafts?

(っ˘ω˘ς ) : go through the reblogs on this ask game, find a new author that you haven't come across before (make sure to check their dni / byf criteria!), and read one of their fics – highly encouraged to leave comments, tags, and reblog their fic!

(°ロ°) ! : how do you get in the mood for writing? do you intentionally set time aside on your calendar or rely on sheer bursts of motivation and hyperfixation? do you have any pre-writing rituals?

(｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ : what makes you immediately fall in love with a fic?

〜(＞＜)〜 : share one of your nsfw fics, and explain the inspiration behind it!

(＃￣ω￣) : what's your biggest struggle when it comes to writing smut?

☆⌒(>。) : what are you like when you're writing smut? are you turned on or contemplating very seriously? do you have a pokerface, or are you a flustered mess?

┐(￣∀￣)┌ : what are 1-3 kinks that never fail to arouse you? what are some that you wish were used more in fics?

ヾ(。＞＜)シ : have you ever written smut in front of others? if not, would you write smut in public for $10? assume that if someone paid attention, they would be able to catch glimpses of your screen / notebook / etc.

(□_□) : any advice on how to describe sex positions without explicitly using terms / names?

(◎ ◎)ゞ : have you ever masturbated to a fic before? and if you have... share the goods... if you'd like...

(づ◡﹏◡)づ : can you write porn without plot, or is plot a necessity? and more generally, if you do write porn with plot, how do you balance the two?

(_ _)> : what do you think are characteristics of a great smut scene / fic? conversely, what might ruin a smut scene / fic for you?

(=`ω´=) : drop a nsfw fic that you read recently. make sure to include any relevant warnings!

[honeytonedhottie]

decentering men and recentering urself⋆.ೃ࿔*:･💅🏽💓

the secret to decentering men and not having ur entire world revolving around them (bcuz it should be revolving around you, duh) is having a fulfilling life. it makes me ICK so bad when im watching a video or reading a post and im rly loving it, and then it'll find SOME way to make it revolve around men. like can we not?…💬🎀

WHY WE CENTER THE OPPOSITE SEX ;

a lot of people find themselves centering their lives around the opposite sex in an attempt to fill a void within themselves. they do it because they aren't happy with themselves or their lives, or maybe its learned behavior. whatever the reason is, its NOT hot.

some things that someone who centers men might think are "oh my life is so boring, maybe it would be spiced up if i got with a man" or "maybe it'll bring some excitement into my day" like EUGHHH. obviously the solution is to find ways to make our lives fulfilling but how do we do that? and how do we get to the root cause and squash this self sabotaging behavior?

SELF AWARENESS ;

if u have nothing going on for u, ofc ur gonna be energetically desperate and accepting anything and EVERYTHING. practice self awareness and try to get to the root cause of why u center men through things like shadow work, therapy, or just straight up having an honest conversation with urself cuz i swear it helps.

when you make the conscious effort to build ur dream life you'll notice that people that are on the same mindset as you will vibe with the REAL you. the need to fake/adjust urself to fit in with other people will dissipate because ur fitting into ur own standards and ur connections will be more meaningful because of it.

TAKE UR POWER BACK ;

no ones actions should ruin ur day or make u upset for more then a day (even less) cuz its YOUR world. 💕🍰

make time for YOU, doll. plan self care routines for urself every week. doing face masks, journalling, vision boarding, WHATEVER U LIKE TO DO. making time for urself reminds u that ur the main character of ur life so u dont have to settle for crumbs.

stop giving that power to someone else and dictate how u feel, NOT the actions of a significant other or the opposite sex or anybody. the reason why its important to make sure that ur the center of ur own life is so that you can be happy and fulfilled regardless of if there is a man or if there isnt a man present. so the objective is to decenter men -> and then put yourself at the center

GET A HOBBY ;

find something to make ur life fulfilling. pursue ur OWN interests and try out different hobbies if ur unsure of what ur interests are yet. cultivate ur world to the point where it GLEAMS with perfection and then do a little extra. build a life that u love so much that whether u get male attention or validation doesnt even matter cuz their opinions have little to no relevance 💀

challenge yourself: next time you catch yourself thinking, ‘would a guy like this?’ flip it and ask urself "hey, do i like this?" start checking with yourself first instead of checking with others.

MAKING THE DECISION TO DECENTER MEN ;

decentering men simply means that ur deciding to no longer think, feel, act, dress, or plan ur life around a man or for the validation of any man…💬🎀

relationships will actually get BETTER when u decenter the opposite sex. cuz ur not looking for someone to compete with and ur whole on ur own. this sets the stage for balance and mutual respect and THATS hot.

you can be in a relationship and still decenter men. decentering men simply means that you are the priority, not the relationship. how can we tell if we're decentering men or not? here are a few questions to help you know if u are ->

if i did not care about looking good to the opposite sex what would i actually like to wear?

if i did not get married, how could i create the best and most abundant life for myself?

what hobbies/interests do i have that dont involve being around men/have male attention as a component of it?

[vampirebriar]

@barely-gettin-bi

warning ⚠️

[bloomness]

⋆˚࿔ capes and crayons

turns out the mha boys make pretty good fathers.

— includes: kirishima, kaminari, sero & shinsou (in that order)

contains: f!reader, established relationship, fluff, pet names, kids LOL

authors note: i missed writing these

word count: around 450-570 for each

⋆˚࿔ e.kirishima

“i love you.” your husband whispered, placing a kiss on your neck. it was nothing sexual, rather something similar to a relevant secret shared through the wind’s breeze. 

you giggled, hands combing through his hair as his breath ghosted over your skin. it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary to wake up this way. your husband lips on your skin, whispering sweet nothings in your ear in a way that recharged you more than eight hours of sleep could.  

“can’t we just stay like this all day?” he muttered. his grip on your hips tightened as he leaned closer to your body. you could feel the smile on his lips against the crook of your neck. 

you ruffled his rose dyed hair and sighed, “eiji, baby, you know we can’t. the gir—”

and like most mornings, your moment of bliss was cut short. “MOMMY! DADDY!” a shrieking voice exclaimed from the near distance. 

eijiro peaked up at you and you shot him a knowing look back. 

before either of you had time to move your bedroom door creaked open and in came mei and hana; your four and seven year old daughters. 

“DADDY!” mei, the younger of the two, ran up to the edge your queen bed, hands splayed over your covers as she attempted to lift herself up. 

eijiro peeked himself from you and sat up. he immediately picked her up, large hands on either side of her torso as he lifted her high. “good morning my beautiful girls!” mei giggled as eijiro brought her close, drowning her face in affectionate kisses.

hana followed close behind her, arms crossed as she found a spot on your side of the bed. “were you guys kissing?” she asked, face displaying a not-so-pleasant expression.

your eyes widened momentarily before you hooked your arm around hana’s and pulled her close. “what? of course not.” you laid a firm, cradling hand on the back of her head and tilted her head down, placed a sweet kiss on the crown of her head. “how’d you two sleep?” you redirected the conversation, giving your husband a playful sideway glance before bringing your focus back to the young girls. 

“awesome!” mei’s hands shot up as she excitedly bounced in eijiro’s lap. you always wondered how that girl always had so much energy in the morning. “in my dream, daddy let us have ice cream before school!”

a breath escaped your nose as you tilted your head, “really?” you asked. 

you could already imagine the conversation the two girls had before entering your room: hana coaxing mei into asking for ice cream for breakfast, telling her to bat her eyelashes and give dad that sweet smile that she knew he always folded to. 

“yup!” mei chirped innocently. 

you held back a laugh and putting on a serious ‘mommy face’, your brows furrowed, ready to tell the girls that ice cream wasn’t something you eat for breakfast. but when you glanced over at eijiro, you only found a grin that mirrored mei’s.

“mommy, can we really have ice cream for breakfast?” hana asked, hand clutching onto your wrist as she also attempted to bat her eyelashes at you.  

“yeah, can we?” eijiro joined in, smiling face undeniably charming under the sun's morning glow.

you sighed, shaking your head. but there was a smile creeping up on your lips. “alright. what flavor do we want?”

⋆˚࿔ d.kaminari

“guys! we’re going to be late!” you shouted. 

it was a beautiful sunny day in musutafu, which wasn’t rare alone. what was rare was the fact that you and denki are both off of work. and it being a weekend meant the kids had no school. so, beautiful day plus no work and no school equals family outing!

but you wouldn’t be able to have a fun family outing if you couldn’t even leave the house on time. 

with your youngest son— kenji, who recently turned two years old —hoisted up on your hip, you walked over to your six year old twin daughters’, emi and mio, bedroom. 

the door was slightly open. you could hear soft giggles coming from one of the girls and the quiet murmur of your husband's voice. 

quietly, you pushed the door open. you are met with the familiar shine of your daughters’ sunflower painted bedroom walls— which was nearly blinding on a sunny day like this. there were a couple of articles of clothing scattered across the light brown wooden floor. 

denki was politely sitting in the middle of the room, legs crossed over each other and his back facing you. 

“i think kenji was wearing a blue shirt like this!” denki held up a light blue shirt to mio’s chest. it had a flying dolphin printed on the front and ruffles along it’s perimeter. 

mio grinned, hovering her hands over the shirt as her eyes glistened in admiration. “i like it.” her voice was soft, almost a whisper. 

emi on the other hand was bouncing on her bed without a single care for the dolphin decorated shirt. she hopped off her mattress and approached denki, “but mommy is wearing a pink shirt! i wanna wear a pink shirt too!” her face scrunched up, as well as her hands, as she stomped her foot.

mio glanced at her sister with a judging look and denki just laughed. he took both emi’s hands, unraveling her fist and squeezing her palms. “you can’t match with mommy because i’m matching with her.” i pointed at his light pink shirt unapologetically, “see?”

emi’s eyes grew wide and— “BU— BUT WHY CAN’T I MATCH WITH HER TOO?!” she cried out, tears welling up in her eyes and threatening to spill out. 

“denki!” you stepped into the room and your husband immediately whipped his head around, guilt written all over his face. he jolted up as you walked past him and to emi. you crouched down to her level, and using the hand that wasn’t holding up kenji, you wiped the single tear that had fallen down her cheek. “hey, hey,” you shushed. “you can wear pink to match with me, okay? don’t listen to daddy.” 

emi’s expression was quick to change, “yay! i’m matching with mommy! i’m matching with mommy!” she cheered and ran to the dresser, already looking for a shirt to replace the one denki had previously picked out for her. 

you smiled and turned to pat mio’s head, silently thanking her for behaving, before standing back up to face your husband.  

you adjusted kenji on your hip and brought your eyes up to denki’s golden ones. “really?” you prodded.

“what?” denki smirked, slipping a sly hand on your hip as he leaned close to your ear. “you’re still mine, right?” 

you scoffed as he placed a kiss on the outer shell of your ear. 

⋆˚࿔ h.sero

you pretended to not hear the soft click that came from the front door of your house as you silently finished drying off the dishes. maybe if you stayed quiet enough he wouldn’t notice; he wouldn’t pester you about it. 

but you knew better. 

“babe? where are you?” hanta called out. you listen as you hear the telling sounds of him taking off his boots, then his jacket, and finally putting his duffel bag down.

you remain still and silent. 

“y/n? baby?” he calls again. after a second he finds his way into the dimly lit kitchen where you were standing. immediately, his voice drops from the sweet tone it was previously dripped into something more serious. “y/n.” he deadpans. 

your body stiffens as you hear him step toward you. “i can explain…” you bite your lip as hanta comes up behind you, head falling onto your shoulder. 

he hands climb up to your stomach, caressing the eight month old bump that laid heavily attached to your body. “explain why my very pregnant wife is doing the dishes when i specifically told her i’d take care of it?” his tone is low. he isn’t mad but it was clear he wasn’t joking either. “come on sweetheart. doctor says you shouldn’t be doing this stuff. that’s what your husband is for.” he murmured, rubbing his nose against your neck. hanta was unable to hide his affection for you, even when he was ’upset’.

you titled your head back in his direction, accepting his warmth. “but hanta, i can’t just sit here and do nothing.” you whined, “it’ll kill me.” 

it was true. laying in bed all day made you feel uncomfortable and stiff; your legs aching, and your back hurting. 

the only thing that could keep your mind off the pulsing pain was work. but of course hanta didn’t agree with that. 

“you’re killing me.” hanta whined back. he lifted his head, placing a kiss on the back of your head before saying, “come on, let’s get you two to bed.” he caressed your belly once more and you sighed. 

“fine.”

“don’t get all moody with me.” he teased and gave you another kiss, this one being sloppier and on your cheek. “want a foot rub ma?” he asked.

“god, yes. please.” you falter. 

“come on then.” he takes you by the shoulders and guides you towards your shared bedroom. 

when he flicks on the lights, rina— your four year old daughter —groaned softly. after a second she flipped over and sighed, seemingly falling back asleep.

“she’s been out since ten.” you whispered. 

“yeah?” hanta nods as he seats you down on the bed. he moves to your closet to change into his pajamas. 

you push the loose strands of hair laid on rina’s forehead back. her hair has been in dutch braids for two days, hanta having done it during a family movie night after endless pleading. and because she had asked politely and ate all her vegetables, hanta complied. (but you’re sure if she didn’t do either of those things hanta would still do it)

hanta appeared at the foot of the bed, tapping your foot. you position your legs on top of his lap and he lets out a content sigh as his hands move to message your feet with slow and intricate motions that were so full of love. “she’s so well behaved. we got lucky.” he says quietly. 

“or maybe she got it from me?” 

hanta lifts your leg up to kiss your ankle. “yeah, probably.” he smiles. “but this one?” his eyes fall on your bump and it’s as if his eyes are reflecting a sparkling night sky. “he’s gonna take after his daddy.”

you laugh at your husband's reference to himself as ‘daddy’ and let your head fall back onto the pillow as he pressed small circles into the soles of your feet, feeling the most comfortable you have all day. 

⋆˚࿔ h.shinsou

“hey babe, did you buy food for kumo?” you yelled from behind the kitchen counter. you bend down, searching through the grocery bags that were scattered throughout the kitchen floor.  

hitoshi emerged from the bathroom, rubbing his wet lavender hair with a towel. “‘course i did. what kind of father would i be if i didn’t?” he titled his head as he focused on drying one side of his head. 

“the same father you were last week.” you said through gritted teeth, rolling your eyes as you stood up. 

he scoffed. “can’t find it?”

you shook your head.

hitoshi dropped his towel onto his shoulders and walked into the kitchen. he crouched down, skimming through the bags like you had been moments earlier. 

he searched through one bag, then moved to another, then another. you watched with your hands on your hips, an amused expression painted on your face. 

then hitoshi coughed, “hey— uh, y/n?” he hands slowed down, but didn’t stop. 

“yeah?” your brows furrowed at his unsure tone. “what? don’t tell me you forgot it.” you squatted down besides him to help look again but before you could touch the bag hitoshi spoke. 

“no, no. it’s not that. i know i bought it.” he shook his head. “it’s.. something else.” 

you were more confused now. “what is it?”

hitoshi sucked in a breath through his nose and looked at you. “can we.. have another one?”

your mouth immediately fell open. “what?“

“look. i know we said we’d only have one, but kumo is lonely. did you know that? she practically cries every night for company.”

“babe that’s— i…” being too dumbfounded to form a proper sentence, you closed your mouth and thought. 

“please?” 

it wasn’t normal for hitoshi to get like this, all pleading and desperate. 

“toshi… can we really handle that right now?” you said cautiously. you didn’t want to get his hopes up, but seeing the way he was so persistent and seemed to mostly want this for kumo’s benefit, you couldn’t shut the idea down just yet. 

“why not?” his brows raised in reason. there was a glint of something in his eye, something that showed that he knew he’d already won.

though before you could confirm your decision, kumo crawled into the kitchen. she stopped at the bags near the archways threshold, sniffling them before skipping to the bags near the oven. she smelt the bag, then pawed at it. the bag folded under the weight and out rolled a can of cat tuna. a low purr rumbled from kumo’s throat. 

“kumo, you’re a genius.” hitoshi shuffled towards the oven and opened the can of tuna, letting kumo eat straight from it as he pet her. “great older sibling material.” he pointed out, glancing towards you briefly as he continued to pet her spotted head. “kumo! you're getting a little sibling!” he crooned, taking both his hands to run her hands over her ears and then scratch her chin.

you swore there him and his cat antics would be the death of you.

[writingbuckets]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞: 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝐢

paige bueckers x influencer!reader

wc: 1.7k

synopsis: Y/N and Paige’s relationship evolves from a slow burn to a deep, committed love as they navigate the complexities of their careers and dreams.

warnings: emotional tension, angst, jealousy, explicit sexual content, fluff, relationship growth

a/n: here's part 1 to my influencer!reader fic based on the poll i posted a few days ago. i took a few days to write out the first few parts to this storyline, so i shall see yall in a few days <3

Sitting in the studio, you shuffle through the day's notes as you wait for Taylor, your partner and co-host, to get ready. You glance around at the familiar setup: soundproof walls, the big red “ON AIR” sign, and Taylor’s mic with her distinctive bright blue pop filter across from you. The Hot Take has come a long way since you and Taylor first started recording episodes in a makeshift studio in your apartment.

Finally, Taylor takes her seat, grinning like she’s got a secret. You recognize that glint in her eye; it’s the same look she gives you right before she drops a bombshell on air. You chuckle, half expecting her to share some wild celebrity tidbit or throw in an off-the-cuff comment that’ll leave fans buzzing.

“All right, ready to kick things off?” she asks, sliding her headphones on. You nod, pressing record, and the familiar flow of the episode begins.

The conversation starts with your typical lineup of the week’s big pop culture and sports events. You trade opinions on a recent basketball draft, discuss an unexpected celebrity breakup, and riff on a few new album releases. Fans love the way you and Taylor can pivot from debating sports stats to analyzing the latest music trends—all with a laid-back vibe that feels like a natural conversation between friends.

As you move toward wrapping up, Taylor flashes you a mischievous smile, one that promises she’s about to shake things up. Before you can question her, she clears her throat, leaning close to the mic with a conspiratorial whisper.

“So, Y/N, we always promise full transparency on this show, right?”

You nod, slightly suspicious but playing along. “Right...”

She grins, eyes sparkling. “Well, I feel like it’s time I share something personal—a bit of a confession, if you will.”

You raise an eyebrow, curious. “Oh, really? Do tell.”

“It’s about my celebrity crush,” she declares, and you feel your eyebrows shoot up. Celebrity crush? That’s…random. But Taylor’s got that devilish glint, so you know she’s leading somewhere.

“Oh, please, Taylor,” you say, laughing. “Are you seriously bringing up your celebrity crush right now?”

“Of course! It’s relevant to sports, I promise.” She laughs, her voice dipping into an almost-reverent tone. “Because it’s Paige Bueckers.”

There’s a beat where you try to process that. Paige Bueckers—a name practically synonymous with college basketball greatness, a player with such raw talent and drive that her highlight reels are legend. Of course, Paige has the kind of skill and flair on the court that would make her anyone’s “celebrity crush.”

Without thinking, you roll your eyes and let out a laugh. “Oh, Paige Bueckers? Come on, Tay. Isn’t she a bit…overrated?”

The words escape before you have time to reconsider, and you catch Taylor’s jaw dropping in mock horror, her hand flying to her mouth. Her eyes go wide, as if you’ve just blasphemed on live radio.

“Overrated?” she exclaims, her voice full of exaggerated shock. “Y/N, you’ve officially crossed into hot-take territory. Are you serious?”

You shrug, leaning back in your chair as you play it off. “I mean, yeah, she’s good. She’s really good. But let’s be real—people act like she’s already the GOAT, and she’s, what, twenty-three? I think she’s talented, sure, but maybe the hype’s a little…excessive?”

Taylor shakes her head, laughing as she turns back to the camera, knowing your listeners will eat this up. “Listeners, you heard it here first—Y/N thinks Paige Bueckers is overrated. Prepare for the inevitable Twitter meltdown!”

You chuckle, figuring it’s all in good fun. You and Taylor are known for your candid takes; it’s what fans love most about the show. This will be just another talking point, something people can debate online. You wrap up the episode, signing off with your usual mix of humor and playful barbs, and end the recording.

**********

A few hours later, you’re back at home, scrolling through Twitter out of habit. Normally, after an episode drops, fans will post funny clips or start discussions around your and Taylor’s latest takes. You expect some buzz, but this? The reaction is way bigger than usual.

Your notifications are packed with tags, mentions, and—oh. There it is. A clip of your “overrated” comment has already gone viral. One account with a sizable following has posted it, captioning, “Did Y/N just call Paige Bueckers overrated?!” The clip has already racked up thousands of likes and retweets, with fans both defending and attacking your opinion.

Curious, you start scrolling through the replies. A lot of fans are indignant, passionately defending Paige’s talent and listing her stats, achievements, and highlights as if you’ve personally insulted them.

“Overrated? Y/N clearly hasn’t seen a game.” “She’s one of the best of her generation—how can you not see that?” “Bet Y/N wouldn’t last five minutes trying to guard her.”

But there’s also a crowd that’s rallying behind your comment. Some fans are laughing, glad to hear someone finally say what they’d been thinking. “Finally, someone not drinking the Kool-Aid,” one user writes. Another adds, “She’s great, but let’s not pretend like there aren’t other amazing players out there.”

The debate is heated, and the takes are piling up faster than you can read them all. A quick glance at Twitter’s trending page reveals that your name and Paige Bueckers are both climbing the ranks.

You sigh, amused but slightly annoyed. It’s one thing to have fans debating, but Twitter is practically ablaze, turning what you thought was a lighthearted comment into a viral controversy.

By the next morning, things have escalated even further. As you sip your coffee, you notice that your notifications have doubled overnight. And this time, it’s not just random fans. Paige’s teammates are chiming in too.

Azzi Fudd has posted a clip of Paige landing a flawless three-pointer, captioned, “@Y/N, this looks overrated to you?” Jana’s added her two cents with a subtweet: “We all have opinions, I guess. Can’t wait for the next episode.” And KK has dropped a classic response: “Hot takes are like free throws—not everyone hits.”

Each comment comes with thousands of likes and retweets, adding fuel to an already blazing fire. You find yourself chuckling, impressed despite yourself. They’re all coming to Paige’s defense with such witty precision that it’s hard not to admire the loyalty.

Yet, you also feel a prickle of defensiveness. Sure, Paige is good—great, even—but does that mean everyone has to agree that she’s the best thing in sports right now? You pride yourself on being honest and not falling for the hype, but as you scroll through the seemingly endless tweets, part of you wonders if you went too far.

Taylor texts you with a stream of laughing emojis. “Looks like you got the basketball world up in arms. Congratulations!”

You text her back, trying to stay cool. “All in a day’s work, right? Who knew Paige Bueckers had such a dedicated fanbase?”

“Did you really think people would let you get away with that one?” she teases, sending a gif of a player shrugging. “I think you just made Twitter history.”

You laugh, trying to play it off, but as the morning wears on, you can’t stop refreshing the timeline. More comments flood in from basketball fans, analysts, and even a few pro athletes. It’s spiraled into something you never intended—an opinion piece turned viral moment.

That night, you’re lying in bed, scrolling through the remnants of the day’s chaos when a new notification catches your eye. It’s a message request, from someone with a verified blue check. Your heart skips a beat as you read the name.

Paige Bueckers.

You hesitate, not sure what to expect. You’ve been in the public eye long enough to know that some people thrive off the chance to “clap back,” and you half expect Paige to lay into you.

You click to open the message, bracing yourself, but what you read is the last thing you anticipated. The message is short, her tone direct but surprisingly playful: “Overrated, huh? Bold opinion. Care to explain?”

For a moment, you just stare, processing the fact that Paige Bueckers herself has taken notice of your podcast—and your opinion. There’s something oddly thrilling about the attention, and you can’t help but wonder what this conversation might lead to.

With a smirk, you hover over the reply button. You know that a response could pull you further into this whole debate, maybe even turn the interaction into something bigger than a passing Twitter controversy. But there’s a thrill in it—this was Paige Bueckers, after all. The fact that she’d reached out, even playfully, meant you’d gotten her attention. For someone so used to being idolized and hyped up, maybe your perspective had struck a nerve.

Do I play it cool? Double down?

A few clever responses run through your mind, each one more sarcastic than the last, but you decide to keep it simple and direct. After all, Paige’s message had a vibe—she wasn’t attacking you. She was…what? Curious? Challenging you? Either way, it felt like an invitation, and you weren’t about to back down.

“Guess I’m just not a fan of hype,” you type, keeping it short but loaded. You hit send before you can second-guess it.

Not even a minute later, a new notification pops up.

“Fair enough,” she replies. “But if you think it’s all hype, maybe you’ve been watching the wrong games.”

You stare at her reply, feeling a flicker of competitiveness spark to life. She was biting back, not with hostility but with confidence—clearly ready to defend herself without missing a beat. Part of you is annoyed, but a bigger part admires the quick comeback.

So you respond again, more playful this time. “Guess I’ll have to tune in to one of your good games, then.”

A couple of seconds pass, then another message from Paige appears, this one laced with a challenge: “Tell you what—how about courtside seats to the next game? See if you still think I’m overrated.”

For a moment, you’re caught off guard. Was she…inviting you? To her game? This was turning into something more than just a Twitter exchange. The idea of seeing her play up close, watching her skill in real-time, fills you with a mix of intrigue and resistance.

You sit with her offer, fingers poised above the keyboard. Every instinct is telling you to throw a snarky response back, but curiosity gets the better of you. Before you realize it, you’re typing, accepting her offer with a short, “I’ll be there.”

[otrtbs]

saw a post recently describing the marauder’s era fandom as ‘the worst mass delusion since the dancing plague’ and i was wondering what u think of all that? i don’t think we give jkr more traction which is what the post accused us of so i was just wondering your take is. i saw so many ppl agree with it and i was so confused (i realise u prob won’t answer this publicly but i’m too scared to ask off anon and i’m sorry for polluting ur ask box with this sort of negativity) love ahb! it changed my life

hi!! you caught me at a time when i had my computer handy so we're gonna have a little chat. you are NOT polluting my inbox and i think that these are important conversations to be had, so i'm gonna do my best to articulate my thoughts under the cut <3

i haven't seen the post so i can't really get into the thick of what that person was saying, but based on the context you've provided me here, i do wanna hit a few points.

i definitely grapple with the fact that my participation in this fandom can/could/and does lead to more traction (increased relevance/visibility/revenue) for jkr inadvertently. i think that the very nature of being in this fandom, in whatever capacity, but especially for me as a fic writer, means that i cannot sever myself entirely from her views and actions and act as if i am operating in a sphere completely free from her influence and traction.

i can make my stance clear. i can denounce jkr and her views, i can take actions to counteract the harmful rhetoric and real violence she seeks to enact on the trans and other marginalized communities. i can use the power of my dollar to ensure that she never sees a single cent from me. not from merch sales, or theme park visits, or new book editions, or lego sets.

but, at the end of the day, i can't agree with the sentiment that "we don't give jkr more traction" because we do. and i see it happening all the time. people in the marauders fandom still go to the studios, still buy official merch, still give her money. and the part where i struggle a lot....is in the way that fics and fic reading has become more promotional in content w the rise of tiktok fandom spaces. which, inevitably, may (and does) encourage people who once liked harry potter to re-enter the fandom in a new capacity. and i can't control what they do and how they spend their money and where they go etc. all i can do is make my stance clear, and put my money where my mouth is.

but i am always aware of it. that i have a harry potter fic out there and it's an easy read and an au so not hard to get behind if you're new to the fandom. i'm not out here recruiting people into this space, but sometimes, with tweets and tiktok posts that anyone can view, i know that it happens. and if someone stumbles across my fic and gets into the marauders and decides to watch the marauders reboot??? that's not something i can control. but it IS something i think about. a lot. all the little ways that being in this fandom can lead to more jkr traction.

i would love to be like "no! fuck jkr and i wash my hands of it,,, i'm not giving her traction." but i think that would be disingenuous and superficial. just because *I* am not giving her money doesn't mean that the collective *we* aren't. because *we* are. and my fics may help that along in minute but unignorable ways. i do my best to mitigate and counteract the potential harm, i'm starting to add notes in my fics and on my navigation asking ppl to keep comments/thoughts/opinions in my tumblr ask box and ao3 comments only and off twt/tiktok/ect but i also cannot confidently say that my presence in fandom doesn't provide jkr any traction. i was talking to a friend abt similar topics a while ago (s/o rae) and they were like "in an ideal world harry potter fandom would be like a closed practice and die out eventually" and yeah. exactly. but as it stands today, it's not a closed practice, and i think it's important to be mindful always of the impact you're creating. i don't think most if any of us here sit down to "promote" harry potter or the marauders but obviously, with the reboot that's happening, there is some influence happening there.

i love writing in this space, i love writing in this fandom. i love this little corner of the internet that we've carved out, i love the friends i've made in it. the stories that are being created in this space are kinder and more diverse and more reflective than the source material, and the fandom has brought me and many others a lot of really great experiences. but that contradiction (i reject jkr and her politics but i still create fics/art/videos rooted in her works ... or even if you eschew canon and work strictly in au's you're using her characters from the original text) is always there. and there are always going to be ties back to her. and i don't think it negates the value of the stories we're telling, but i also don't think it's something we can just ignore and pretend to be be innocent/ignorant of either.

okay this was so long and rambly but those are my thoughts. i think the topic is messy to grapple w for me <- girl who is horrendous at being articulate but hopefully this lays it out somewhat?? <3 kk love you never feel bad abt sending me asks like this beloved <33

[jusiri]

@anhttydbookfan

Hear me out: cows have bacteria in their digestion that produce methane as a byproduct from eating grass, and it often escapes from their mouths. Methane is a very flammable gas. That being said, what if dragons just ate a lot of grass instead of people or animals or whatever, so they produced a lot of methane and could breathe fire from that? Then the reason people had beef with 'em was that they kept eating all the grass their cows couldn't. Fun fantasy concept

[yours-truly-q]

~ Your Eunoia ☆·*○.

☆ Synopsis - Does L care about how smart his partner is? (spoiler alert: he doesn't) ☆ Warnings! - a LOT of low self-esteem from reader, NEOT proof-read (I am very tired, pls don't judge) ☆ Pairing/s - L. Lawliet x gn!reader ☆ Notes - Trying something new style wise, tell me what you think! I've also just got back into Death Note (OH how I MISS YOU L ‼️) w/c - 1.1k

"Why do you like me?" You ask L bluntly, the previous silence being disturbed by your abrupt question. Your eyes flick between L and the coffee table, which had recent crime scene photos resting on it, like you couldn't decide what sight to let your eyes settle on. You were nervous, and maybe L could see that through your fiddling hands and body posture which has you curled into the sofa you sat on, like it could personally hide you from his deductive abilities. You knew better though.

L gives it a bit of thought, hands pausing over a photo at your words, before they continue their descent, fingers brushing the paper. You wonder what he thinks sometimes, how he can find a suspect by their body language and speech pattern alone, what clues he sees as relevant and what ones aren't worth looking at twice. He's so smart it makes you wonder why he would choose you in the first place. You're not particularly smart, you didn't do things he couldn't predict, if anything he sees what you're going to do before you even do it, so why you?

"You're simple and nice to look at." L states bluntly, his voice breaking you out of your thought process.

"Thanks" You roll your eyes playfully at his comment, but consider his words carefully, trying to understand this from L's perspective, what he could mean. 'Simple?' Your face scrunches up in confusion at the word, 'But why does he want that? Does he even want that? If he didn't, then why would he even point it out in the first place?' Your eyes glaze over as you let your head try to break down L's words, hoping that dissecting his reply will lead to a reasonable answer.

"...You're thinking about this too hard." L mumbles loud enough for you to hear, while his large black eyes glance over to you from the corner of his vision. He takes in your expression attentively, before going back to staring intently at two photos that lay side by side.

"Well, it's hard not too when I can't figure out if being 'simple' is a good thing or not." You huff out a laugh, one hand coming up to fiddle with the fabric of your shirt sheepishly. You look away from his form entirely, not sure what to make of this conversation at all.

"It is-" L starts as his index finger taps his lip in thought, no doubt about the case that was presented to him no more than 2 hours ago. "-You are easy to emotionally read, no matter how subtle or obvious your tells are, simple in thought process, so, predictable-" He continues while reaching over the table to grab a file, from the other end of the table, to scrutinise.

"WOW, just call me stupid why don't you?" You joke quietly with a silly smile slapped across your face. Though L makes a mental note to pick apart the emotional and mental connotations that that comment comes with, along with your expression, later.

"-, and, to me, accessible." L finishes, opening the file and taking in the information it presents him, though, before he starts reading, he stares at you with a prominent expression and says.

"You're simple, and that very thing is a quality I appreciate and look for in my environment when all I see is complexity." Then L looks down to his file, like he never said anything in the first place. He almost looks distracted, even though you know for a fact he is nothing of the sort, like he's not listening and you take a moment to admire him, as subtly as you can, in all his glory. The way his black hair shines in the white fluorescent light of the hotel room, how his finger brushes over his lip in thought and most of all, how his dark eyes scan over pages of facts and data. He's so pretty so it's not fair how he's so smart on top of all of that.

'What do you have to offer to him? What do you do for him? What makes him stay?' You look away from L as you let the thoughts quietly fester in your mind, because, they were right, weren't they? Even if what he wanted was simplicity and you were, apparently, that very thing, It's not like you were easy to interact with or be with as a partner. Insecurity lurked in every corner of your mind tainting each thing you said, did or even thought. No matter how far you ran from it, it would always find you and curl its sharp, venomous claws into your heart. So maybe you were simple, but you were in no way easy to handle, and you were just waiting for him to get sick of you and your constant self-doubt.

A small hum brings you out of your thoughts once more, before you notice L placing down the file he was reading, onto the table, and shuffling towards you. He crouches in front of your chair, in his typical L stance, while his eyes bore into your own with a certain intensity you've only seen very few times.

"Do not think that because you doubt yourself, that you are less deserving of my affections. Your value isn't determined by your flaws, nor your failures; nor is your worth in this relationship determined by how much you 'contribute' or 'bring' to the relationship. Your insecurities don't take away from the amount of fondness I harbor for you." His voice holds an air of unwavering certainty, like the mere idea that this could be a false statement was a crazy thought. L's normally deadpan face softened as you scanned his expression, eye brows, lips, nose, for any sign of deception. Then the moment you gazed into his eyes, you saw it, a warm tenderness that L unusually didn't show so freely, but here it was, just so you could confirm that he meant this, confirm how he felt. He was committed to you, and maybe this was his silent way of showing it.

"You will see your worth, for yourself, one day, but for now simply remember that, once again-" L leans in closer to you, chest almost brushing your knees to emphasise his words even more. "-your value isn't determined by your flaws, nor your failures." His voice carries a weight to it that you couldn't name if you tried, but his eyes tell you all you need to know. So even though you're uncertain, even though you don't feel that you're enough, you nod because you know that even if you don't feel worth the trouble, L does and maybe that, in itself, enough.

☆ Bonus!

"...so you like me because I'm stupid is what I'm hearing?" You joke again while leaning towards L in your chair. Whatever tension that had been building between the you two immediately dissipates as you let out small giggles.

"You know that's not what I mean, but if you wish to take it that way then who am I to correct you?" L reaches for his cup, but it can't hide that rare smile of his, that spreads across his face.

[copperbadge]

I recently read a research study that said something like "Talk therapy is a productive treatment for ADHD, but can be difficult because people with ADHD often struggle to stay focused during therapy sessions."

Having "bitch pay attention" disease really is the funniest. Best brain damage to have.

I do track stuff I want to talk about -- I have a Tasks list titled "Thurp" and I record brief thoughts there. But I've also had great success with just...making a slideshow for her. Creating a presentation in PowerPoint or Google Slides lets me construct a linear narrative of my week or my dilemma, including adding citations where needed (like a screengrab of a contentious text conversation, or the partial text of a post I've made here). When stuff stops being relevant I can take it out, too, so I never worry about putting too much in, it can all go in and get edited later, which you cannot do in a conversation. Once I've given the presentation, Therapist and I can discuss next steps or whatnot, or go back and review slides if she wants.

She's generally entertained and usually reacts positively when I'm like "Hey guess what I have for you, a presentation" because she knows shit's about to get wild. And then after I can share the document with her so she doesn't have to take notes.