#this isn’t really about anyone in particular

[paper-starz]

A very big analysis on the new Welcome Home update

HELLLOOOOO EVERYONEEEE I havent done one of these in a while, but omg the newest update was everything I ever hoped for and more!! So today, we'll be talking about EVERYTHING (+ lil theories here and there)

BIG BIG SPOILERS AHEAD

Julie Joyful, Insecurity, Pressure, and Toxic Positivity

This update really gave us some interesting insight to the star of this update, Julie.

Julie is a rainbow monster, and a very happy one as her name would imply. And yet, she's not really like the rest of her family. She looks different from them for instance.

Her brother Jonesy states that rainbow monsters 'stick with one color', which means that they only stick to one color and don't really wear other colors. Even Julie's bio states how different in appearance Julie is from her siblings.

Recent evidence has revealed that Julie’s family consisted of a "band" of rainbow monsters that were a monochromatic color palette rather than a full rainbow like Julie herself.

Sure, Julie does have pink in her color pallete, she also has an array of other colors! Her hair isn’t a shade of pink, it’s yellow. Her legs aren’t a shade of pink either, it’s blue and green.

Franny also states that while horns come in different shapes and sizes, the bigger the better obviously. Julie's horns however are very small compared to the rest of the rainbow monsters.

Not to mention that she seems to forget or miss valuable information about rainbow monsters and Franny has to keep correcting her over and over again.

"There's more than that, Julie!" and "Missing things again, Julie."

And unlike her siblings, she lives away from them, which is unusual for a rainbow monster, where they normally live in a band.

She also doesn't seem to have an instrument, as stated in the Springtime Salutations book, "Julie, however, is her own instrument."

Speaking of the book, she also woke up too early for springtime.

And while her siblings were kind enough to bring Spring early this time, that doesn't mean that Julie wasn't affected at all by this. She knows how different she is from the rest of her siblings, and she's insecure about this fact.

This all culminates with the black flower, the one flower that she cannot bloom.

Rainbow monsters have a responsibility during Springtime. Franny melts away the snow with the morning dew, Jonesy makes the grass grow, Bea makes the sun shine, and Julie makes the flowers bloom. That is Julie's job, her one job of the entire year.

If she can't do that properly, then she would be proving to her siblings that she is a faulty rainbow monster that cannot do things by herself, that she cannot function properly away from her familial support. Which is the reason why she's so adamant on not rejoining the band, despite her siblings best efforts to sway her.

FRANNY: (With a commanding tone.) Back to us- Julie, when are you going to finally join our band? JONESY: Yeah, sis- What’s a rainbow monster band without its dynamite drummer? BEA: (Wistfully said.) Just think of it, sister dear… A colorful quartet pushing the seasons! JULIE: (Nervous and hesitant) That sounds… (Pretends to be losing signal) Oop- Oh no! The sounds! We’re breaking up!- (Whispering harshly.) Hang up the phone, Frank! Hang up!

And that's not to mention that she feels insecure not only towards her siblings as a rainbow monster, but also in the neighborhood.

She states that while she gets along well with everyone in the neighborhood, she's not particularly close with anyone besides Frank. Barnaby and Howdy tease her which probably makes her feel even more insecure, particularly in her ability to make others laugh, which again, brings JOY to people.

While she likes Poppy, Sally, Eddie, and Wally, again, she's not particularly close with either of them. Frank seems to be her only form of support in the neighborhood.

And yet, this particular scene is interesting, because according to Julie in The Julie Guide to being Joyful, her relationship with Howdy and Barnaby in particular are different.

She seems like she's lying to Wally and perhaps to herself that she has a great relationship with EVERYONE in the neighborhood, she's Julie Joyful! She's happy all the time and everyone loves her.

And yet, Wally seems to call her out on this. Both in the storybook and in the /regardforgetfulnesssilence link.

"Did all that really happen, Julie?" He says, as if he knows that Julie is lying but wants her to tell the story again. Reword the story so that she's telling the truth, but she doesn't want to. It's easier for her to live in a lie.

Which is another reason why she doesn't want to go back to her siblings. She would have to leave, not the neighborhood, but Frank. Her only form of actual support.

(Said inside her head. It sounds like static. ) If I can’t make a flower bloom, if I can’t bring Springtime around- What would I do? Will I have to leave? Will I have to go back? I’d just-

While I do believe her siblings love her and Julie does love them back, again, they make her feel insecure as a rainbow monster. Her older siblings always manage to get their job right, they have monochromatic colors, their horns are bigger, and unlike her, they never wake up too early for springtime.

JULIE: Hi, Wally! And hello to my sweet saccharine siblings! FRANNY: Is that our youngest sister here? JONESY: She’s our sweetest too- BEA: Don’t forget our most colorful! Julie, what could YOU need help with? You’re one of us!

Ironic how Bea says this line. Julie doesn't feel like one of them. She doesn't feel like a rainbow monster. Her one job of the entire year is to make the flowers bloom and if she can't do that, then what use is she?

This is why she is so terrified of that flower. That one flower that she cannot bloom. Its a crack in the joyous facade that she created. Sure, its just one flower, but what if its two next Spring? 10 after that? Whole fields of wilting flowers, dead flowers? Because of one mistake of waking too early and bringing in Spring when the time just wasn't right?

Then she would have to leave Home, and leave Frank. And its no surprise that she holds Frank in such a high admiration. He's the smartest neighbor in Home and he's her only true friend. She's especially terrified of disappointing him in particular.

Because while I do think Julie sees Frank as her best friend, I believe that because of the Sweet Briar book, Julie sees Frank as some sort of prince in shining armor coming in to save her.

Note that she doesn't view Frank in a romantic light, when the scene came for Frank to awaken princess Julie from her slumber with a kiss, Julie just jumps from her bed and the kiss just never happens.

Frank is her only person in the neighborhood that actually supports her and her only true friend, thus, Julie sees Frank as someone that's saving her. Keeping her away from the dangers of leaving with her siblings and going away, thus losing Frank (and her support), and perhaps even away from the responsibility of being a rainbow monster.

"I'm doing the best that I can, but it's nice to let someone else lead."

As mentioned before, if Julie joins the band, she'll be the drummer. However, Julie is her own instrument, she marches along to the beat of her own drum lol.

The drummer's role in a band is to provide the rhythmic foundation of the group, providing a steady beat and tempo. A drummer's role is pretty strict, if they mess up (like if they come in too early or if they become off-tempo), that messes up the entire song.

Julie already knows that she's not that great of a rainbow monster, she messes up constantly, forgets facts that a rainbow monster should know, wakes up too early for Spring, and can only make MOST of the flowers bloom. If she goes back to her siblings, joins their band, and becomes their drummer, then she's not only risking messing up her job of making the flowers bloom, but also the rest of her siblings' job. What if she misses just one beat? Would that jeopardize everything? What would her siblings say if she messes up and makes them mess up too?

What will happen to Springtime? Will the grass and flowers die? Will the sun never shine? Will the rain never come to wash away the snow? Will she trap the entire neighborhood in an endless winter?

It's a risk that Julie just doesn't want to take. This is why she starts getting more and more aggressive towards the black flower, because it's jeopardizing her stay at the neighborhood, and threatening her to leave everything behind.

Which leads us to the ending of /tearsremembranceinstability, Julie gets more and more agitated towards the flower. Flat out threatening it when it's not going to be blooming anytime soon.

"You won't be around for much longer--" "I'll never see you again, no one will, no one will ever know you were here--" THOSE SOUND LIKE THREATS!

Which leads me to believe that Julie did something awful to that flower. Either she forced that flower to bloom, or she killed it.

What ever she did to that flower, Frank witnessed it. And Julie knows what Frank saw.

But then, something strange happens.

This weird little bug flies in at the end and stares at us, the viewer.

And we have seen this bug before! On the miscellaneous section!

Opening the image under a new tab reveals that this toy is called a 'buggle'.

While it is a cute little toy, it seems out of place for this thing to just pop out. It feels random.

But ah! It is NOT random dear viewer!

Taken from the awayfrompryingeyes.net site.

'Buggle' sounds like a mix of the word 'bug' and 'beagle'. AND CAN YOU GUESS WHICH NEIGHBORS HAVE A CONNECTION TO THE WORDS BUG AND BEAGLE????

Frank, Barnaby, and Howdy! Three neighbors that have had an impact on Julie's insecurities.

Both Howdy and Barnaby make Julie's insecurities worse. They constantly tease her, with Barnaby in particular saying that he doesn't find Julie's jokes all that funny and Howdy saying that she better get some new material.

Frank on the other hand alleviates those insecurities, making him a huge source of comfort, but to the point that she's terrified of disappointing him.

The buggle seems to be a manifestation of Julie's insecurities and anxieties, manifesting itself during Julie's lowest point.

Which concludes to this. What will the next update be about?

Because our guy W definitely has some ideas...

Perhaps the buggle is foreshadowing, either the next update will be focusing on either Frank, Barnaby, or Howdy!

But i suppose only time will tell.

[jeonscatalyst]

https://x.com/funnyjimin1/status/1911855287507595613?s=46

I hope this doesn’t come off like I am trying to be messy but I always wondered why Jk was seated right next to Tae but had to ask Jimin seated at the front to help him with his speech preparations. Wouldn’t it make sense for him to ask anyone seated closest to him? Or am I overthinking it?

Hi anon,

No, don’t worry about it. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with asking questions when you’re curious about something you’ve observed. Moments like this and many others like it just continue to show us how complex and nuanced human relationships really are.

For those who have been paying close attention to Jikook over the years, this is actually very on-brand for them. In this instance, we see Jungkook seated next to Taehyung in the back seat. When he needs help preparing his speech, he doesn’t take the more expected route of asking the person sitting right beside him. Instead, he chooses to reach out to the person sitting in front of him…Jimin. It naturally makes you wonder why. But of course, it’s not because he dislikes Taehyung or because they aren’t close. In fact, we know Jungkook and Taehyung are among the closest pairs in BTS. And yet, Jungkook doesn’t feel the need to turn to Taehyung….he goes straight to Jimin.

I believe this is because Jimin has always been a reassuring presence in Jungkook’s life. He’s someone Jungkook sees as an emotional anchor …someone who supports him, understands him, and knows how to calm his nerves in specific situations. In that moment, it wasn’t about convenience for Jungkook ….it was about connection. During vulnerable times, like preparing an important speech, he’s not thinking logically (“Who’s closest to me?”). He’s thinking, “Who can help me feel okay?” And for him, that person is almost always Jimin, even when he’s physically further away.

We’ve seen this same pattern over the years. One particular moment comes to mind: Taehyung and Jimin were seated together on a couch, and Jungkook, feeling down about his performance, wanted comfort. Even though there was more space for him to sit next to Taehyung, he chose to squeeze himself into the small space beside Jimin because it was Jimin’s comfort and reassurance he needed in that moment, not Taehyung’s. Again, this speaks to the emotional connection they share. It shows that even in a room full of people, when it comes to certain things, they only seem to need each other.

We see something similar in AYS. There are multiple moments where Jungkook is seated next to Taehyung during meals, yet his interactions are primarily with Jimin. When he speaks, he looks at Jimin. He constantly asks if Jimin likes the food, and his attention is more focused on Jimin even though Taehyung is sitting right beside him.

I’ve always said that Taekook seems to have a more physical closeness than an emotional one. Jungkook and Jimin could be seated far apart, but when it comes to certain emotional needs, they instinctively reach for each other. It’s the same for Jimin too. We have seen so many moments of Jimin running into Jungkook’s arms when he feels embarrassed or shy. Even sometimes during the ending ments on stage while making his speeches, it isn’t hard to see that his eyes are usually fixed on Jungkook. We saw him constantly only keep his eyes on Jungkook during his speech at the UN when he was a nervous wreck. On the other hand, Taehyung and Jungkook could be seated right next to each other and still wouldn’t naturally reach out to one another for emotional support. That’s just the nature of their dynamic….it’s not built for vulnerability in the same way.

Jungkook doesn’t operate based on physical proximity. He moves toward whoever he feels emotionally safe, understood, and supported by in that specific moment. That’s why he reaches for Jimin…. not because Taehyung means less to him, but because Jimin means something deeper in that moment.

[ciderbird]

academic bias is so funny because you’ll be reading about the same historical event and one person is like “Despite the troubles that befell his homeland and near constant criticism of the court King Blorbo remained strong in the face of adversity” and the other one is like “after letting his people carry the brunt of his cringefail decisions Blorbo the Shitface refused to listen to any reason and continued to be a warmongering piece of shit. Also he was ugly.”

[corpus-incorporated]

I’ve been thinking about entropy. Everything must dissolve. Eons end not with a bang but with a whimper. There was a time that I couldn’t wait to get rid of you, your friction irritating against my skin. I blinked and you were gone. My constellations are going out and I am a sailor without a compass.

Which way is north? (who am I?)

Who are you? (which way is south?)

Loving you is like a subscription I can’t cancel. I don’t love you. My body pays the fine. I know your old address by heart even though you don’t live there anymore and I’m scared if I forget the structures that hold reality in place will crumble. You’re important to me. I don’t care about you. I love you because I loved you but l don’t love you anymore. Do I even know you?

Who are you?

(the number you are trying to reach is no longer in service)

Who am I?

[letthesunshinein]

I love Adam Parrish in almost every form but I can’t stand classically handsome blond angelic curly haired Adam?? Like Adam is beautiful and uncanny and delicate and has high cheekbones but also dusty and a little weird looking? Like yes, he is blondish but dusty! dirty! There’s no way this boy can afford a good haircut or product!! I can deal with some wave or even some curls if it’s messy. And yes he would want to look Presentable at all costs when he’s at school but there is only so much one can do when you get four hours of sleep and cut your hair yourself? And yes he is strong from boyds and from being a teenage dude but also this child is malnourished!

So anyways the football bro bone structure and build with the square jaw and the blessed angel golden blond curls need to stop…

[aimfor-theheart]

men love to try and tee me up for their next relationship while they’re still dating their current gf and i am never interested. NEVER.

[babsvibes]

Me: And here’s the tag for the ship week! It’s on all the graphics, it’s posted in the FAQ/guidelines, I’ve been using it on my posts. Just please use this tag so that I can easily find your work

Y’all, every ship week, without fail:

[noctilionoidea]

“why don’t you donate you piece of shit!!” I have no legal control over my bank account. Like you guys know that’s a thing right?

[cartoonchaos]

i let these slide with only a clarification in the replies back when i first made this post because it was an inevitable joke. but now that this post is picking up steam again and everyone is making this exact joke again, can i just say that this is such an unfunny thing to circle back to on a post explicitly about a character being not just literally aroace but having aromanticism and asexuality be a fundamental part of their character. it’s not a creative or interesting bit, you know what i meant by “untumblrsexifiable” and it very clearly isn’t “i’m against old man fucking” do you even know how much billford i reblog. I am extremely in favor of fucking that old man. that’s not what i’m talking about though. stop doing this.

shoutout to michael from the good place for being a fanciful powerful silly childish demon character in the body of an untumblrsexifiable goofy old man. shoutout to him and janet for at every turn implying the concept of a potential love interest would be ridiculous and even unthinkable. shoutout to making up the concept of soulmates as a torture method because you think it’s stupid. shoutout to “kissing is disgusting, you’re just mashing your food holes together. that’s not what they’re for.” shoutout to forgiving the evil in your nature only to realize there is no evil or nature and your change is your own. shoutout to “the reason is friends.” shoutout to all the “humans are horny overcomplicated flesh puppets” characters that longed so desperately for that flesh and those complications, and shoutout to the one that made it. shoutout to the honorary human that could.

[100vern]

just finished reading the yoongi fanfiction you wrote - what do you look like when you lie and ohmygod. i need to know if he regrets royally messing up the way he did, if he is still in love with y/n, if they will ever reconcile, if he thinks about her and feels the same pain that she does . i need to know i have so many thoughts i absolutely loved it 🩷🩷🩷🩷

hi, tysm for reading!

i think he regrets the way it ended, but not necessarily that it ended. the guilt would eat away at him for a while (mostly because i think most people wouldn’t want to believe or acknowledge they were capable of hurting someone to that degree) but after a good amount of time and space things would become more clear.

no, he doesn’t still love her anymore, and no, they don’t ever reconcile. all of this happening in 2018, right before they really, really blew up… honestly, if he did think about it, it’d be half “look at where we are now—it wouldn’t have worked out anyway,” and half “i regret the way i acted and that i hurt someone, but it was still inevitable that it ended.”

all of this isn’t to say he’s heartless. i think the guilt of his actions and losing a good thing would cloud his judgment for a bit. it’d be something that kept him up at night in the future a few times a year and he’d probably consider reaching out to apologize before realizing he only wants closure for selfish reasons.

but when it was good, it was real.

[malachitezmeyka]

I cannot believe I’m making an OC whose appearance is based on my mom’s blorbo. How did I end up here

[marvelstoriesepic]

Creamy or Crunchy

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Bucky hovering; Bucky knowing his favorite people; little bit of protective!Bucky

Author’s Note: I don’t know what this is but I was in need of some silly fluff. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

He’s been trailing after you since you left the tower, stuck to your side.

Not in an obvious way, not in a manner that would draw stares or second glances, but in that ever-present way of his - like a second shadow or an old instinct that never really shuts off.

You’ve barely gone five blocks to the nearest grocery store, and Bucky has stuck close the whole time, keeping pace without a word.

It caught everyone off guard when he volunteered to come with you.

He had been slouched in his usual spot at the kitchen counter, cradling a cup of coffee he never seemed to finish, and looking like he had nowhere in particular to be. So when he had straightened, eyes trained on how you pulled on your shoes and muttered a gruff “I’ll come with you,” there was a moment of pause in the conversation between Natasha, Steve, Clint and Sam lounging on the couch in the common room.

Even you had blinked at him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.

Still, you didn’t argue.

Normally, grocery shopping isn’t something that interests anyone in the tower. It is a mundane, civilian thing - something of a life most of you had long since left behind.

There are people who handle it, services that deliver whatever you need at the touch of a button. But you aren’t looking for efficiency. You are looking for something real - something that can make you feel like a human being again.

You’d just gotten back yesterday from a month-long solo mission in Vorkuta, Russia. It was rather harsh. You spent those weeks in the cold, in silence, every step a deliberate calculation, every breath rationed as if you weren’t entirely sure when you’d be allowed another. You operated alone, only allowed to talk to Tony once a week for updates. It was the kind of quiet that made a person feel less like a person and more like an echo.

So you need something normal now. Something unremarkable.

No mission, no intel, no carefully rehearsed exit strategies.

Just a trip to the store, because you want to pick out your own food instead of eating whatever shows up in the tower’s stocked fridge. You want to grab things impulsively - maybe a bag of chips you don’t need or a carton of juice just because it looks good.

You want the simple, stupid pleasure of choosing something, just because. Of standing under the fluorescent hum of grocery store lights and deciding between brands of cereal and coffee creamers like it actually matters.

And Bucky, for all his presence, says nothing.

He just walks with you, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes darting between the sidewalk and the people passing by. He is relaxed, but only just. There is tension in the way he moves, like he is running an assessment every few steps, tracking details of things you don’t care about at the moment.

The doors to the store slide open with a mechanical hiss, spilling warm, artificial air onto the street.

Inside, there is that familiar smell of waxed floors and cold produce, the sounds of shoppers, the beeping of registers.

A cart squeaks somewhere to your left. A child giggles near the bakery section. A bored-looking cashier stares blankly at the register screen. A tired-locking employee is restocking shelves.

It’s nothing special. But it feels real and humane in a way you need.

Bucky steps in behind you, scanning the store out of habit, then looking at you as if waiting for direction.

You grab a basket and move forward.

He follows without a word.

You walk through fruits and vegetables in bright, and glassy colors, stacked in neat abundance. The air smells like citrus, earth, the scent of misted greens, and something fairly plastic all slightly overwhelming your senses after a month of smelling mostly cold air.

You extend a hand toward the lemons, fingers brushing the textured skin of one when you feel the weight of the basket shift.

Bucky’s hand curls around the handle, pulling it from your grip and holding it himself.

Your gaze snaps up to him, but he isn’t looking at you. Not directly. His eyes are fixed on the rows of produce in front of you, his brows drawn together just slightly, his mouth set in that endearing little frown.

He stands close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that, if you shifted just an inch, the fabric of his sleeve would brush against yours.

It’s not intentional, this proximity - it’s more like a habit. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, doesn’t notice the way his presence expands to fill the space between you until there’s almost nothing left.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly, eyes sweeping the fruit display as if it’s something to be figured out rather than casually shopping through.

His metal fingers whir slightly as he flexes his grip around the basket handle.

“This is a lot,” he murmurs, almost absently.

You keep glancing at him. It takes you a second to realize he is speaking at all, his voice being so quiet, a thought that accidentally made its way out.

“What?” you ask softly.

His eyes fall to you briefly, then back to the fruit. His mouth tightens, jaw working, debating whether to explain it or just let it drop.

“Back then,” he says, still not quite looking at you. His eyes scan the apples, the oranges, the rows of neatly stacked avocados and kiwis and papayas flown in from places he never got to see. “You had your basics. Apples. Pears. Some oranges, if you were lucky. But this?” He tilts his head slightly. “This is a lot.”

He doesn’t say it with wonder. He says it with assessment, categorizing this excess, measuring it against whatever memory of the past lingers in the spaces of his mind. Like he is trying to decide if this abundance is a good thing or just another shift in the world that changed without him.

For a second you wonder, if he is talking to you at all - or just thinking out loud, caught between time periods, a man stretched across decades that won’t quite line up.

Your fingers brush the lemons again, grabbing one and carefully putting it in the basket Bucky is holding. “Well,” you mumble, keeping your voice light. “You should see the cereal aisle.”

Bucky huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, something genuine and his eyes land on you again.

You move and pluck what you need. Apples, zucchini, a handful of bright bell peppers. A bundle of fresh basil, its scent still on your fingertips - something Wanda has been asking for. Some mangoes, ripe and golden, the kind Sam offhandedly mentioned craving the other day.

Bucky watches.

He doesn’t reach for anything himself, just keeps his grip on the basket as you fill it and trails closely after you.

His eyes track every motion - the way your fingers test the hardness of an avocado, the way you turn a tomato in your palm, the way you pause just a second before deciding on a bunch of grapes.

He simply observes.

You step over to the plums.

Their deep purple skins glisten under the lights, some nearly black, some streaked with dusky red. You pick one up, pressing it lightly with your thumb, feeling the faint give beneath your touch. Satisfied, you reach for more, slipping them into a paper bag one by one.

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

But you feel him.

The attention he gives you.

His face is unreadable, expression carefully neutral, but there is something behind his eyes - something considering, something caught between memory and recognition.

You don’t know if he realizes you are getting them for him.

You don’t know if he remembers, or if it is just something subconscious, some buried instinct nudging at him in a way he can’t understand.

But you remember. You remember the way he stared at the heap of plums on the kitchen counter weeks ago, the way his fingers had twitched with a want to take one, but he hadn’t. And the way he watched Wanda as she used them to make a pie he didn’t end up eating.

“Do you want some more?” Your voice is casual, warm. And when you glance up at him, he is already looking at you.

Then, almost abruptly, he clears his throat, dropping his gaze. The fingers of his metal hand flex once around the basket handle. He shifts his stance slightly but does not move away from you. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost careful, almost bashful.

“S’ fine.”

But you catch the almost-question in the way his eyes move around, how his fingers tighten and release.

So you grab a handful more and drop them into the bag without a word. Then you fold the top down and place it into the basket.

Bucky doesn’t look away this time.

And he continues wandering along with you through the aisles.

The plums sit among other products and you catch him glancing at them once or twice.

You reach for a carton of eggs when there is a shift.

Not in the air, not in the store itself, but in Bucky.

His posture tightens, his grip on the basket adjusts slightly. You don’t immediately know why, but then you turn your head and see a man standing a few feet away, watching you.

It’s not overtly threatening, not enough to draw attention, but something about his gaze lingers too long, too deliberate. His eyes trace the shape of you, moving slow, assessing. He isn’t leering, isn’t smirking, but the way he looks makes your skin prickle.

He seems to debate if he should say something. Waiting for an opportunity.

You barely have time to move away before Bucky does.

He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t say a word, just shifts seamlessly into place - between you and the man.

It’s not a dramatic gesture. No sudden motions, no confrontational stance. Just his presence - him planting himself in the way, broad shoulders squaring, jaw setting, scowling.

That man takes his brown eyes away from you and meets Bucky’s gaze, and whatever he sees there - whatever lives behind those icy blue eyes - is enough to make him rethink his interest. He looks away, scratching the back of his head, shuffling back a step, and seems suddenly far more interested in bread.

You exhale softly. Bucky doesn’t move.

He stays right where he is, a silent wall between you and whatever attention you haven’t wanted. His scowl lingers for a second longer before he glances back at you, eyes sweeping over your face as if he is making sure you are fine.

You tilt your head, offering a small, gentle smile. “Everything good?”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to form those words.

“Yeah,” he mutters, swallowing.

But his stance is still slightly stiff, his fingers can’t stay calm around the basket handle. And he glances, just once, in the man’s direction - making sure he stays gone.

Something warm fills your chest.

You missed him, while you were gone.

He’s always such a grounding presence at your side.

You missed his dry, reluctant commentary whenever the team does something ridiculous.

You missed walking into the common area with him brooding in his usual chair, pretending not to listen to conversations he’d eventually grumble his way into.

He was there when you stepped off the jet yesterday.

It wasn’t necessary for him to be there, it was six in the morning, after all, but he was.

He hadn’t said much - he never says much - but his eyes ran over you in a way that told you he had been waiting. That there was something heavy underneath that furrowed brow and the almost too casual nod he gave you. Something like relief. Satisfaction. And something much more profound.

You remember how he was when you left.

Standing off to the side of the hangar, arms crossed, jaw pressed tight as you made your final checks. It also wasn’t necessary for him to be there, but, again, he was.

He said goodbye briefly, wished you luck, but in the way you felt him watch you board the jet it seemed there was more he wanted to tell you.

And when the engines had roared to life, when the ground beneath you had begun to shrink, you caught the last glimpse of him - standing stiff, pensive, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Now, he walks beside you, trailing just a half-step behind, his grip steady around the basket that should be in your hands, watching you more than anything you’re planning to buy.

Maybe that’s why he came with you.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t strayed, why he hovers close, why his eyes find you like he is memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose track of again.

Maybe he missed you, too.

He is not grumpy, but there is still a tension in him. Something wound too tight in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way he glances at you like he wants to say something and then doesn’t.

You can’t have that.

Your eyes scan the shelves as you walk further along, knowing that Bucky will follow.

“What kind of soup does Steve eat?”

Bucky’s brows pull together at your casual question, as if he can’t believe that’s what you asked. “Soup?”

You nod, dead serious. “Yeah. I mean, does he have a favorite? Chicken noodle? Tomato? Something tragic, like plain broth?”

Bucky exhales sharply, almost a laugh and something in him relaxes ever so slightly. He tilts his head back a little as if this is the most absurd thing anyone has ever asked him, but he humors you.

“Steve doesn’t eat plain broth,” he says in that low rasp that sometimes sends a shiver down your spine. Now is sometimes. “He’s got more sense than that.”

You hum thoughtfully, reaching for a can on the shelf, inspecting it like it holds the answer to some great mystery.

“So what is it, then? Something classic? Or does he secretly go for the weird gourmet stuff?”

Bucky steps closer, peering over your shoulder. The fabric of his jacket brushes against your back.

You glance up at him, arching your brow.

“You don’t know, do you?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his face is soft. The scowl has faded. There is a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I know.”

“Uh-huh.”

He huffs, reaching past you to grab a can from the shelf, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Clam chowder,” he utters. “There. Happy?”

You blink, genuinely caught off guard. “Wait. Really?”

Bucky smirks, just a little, just enough to be real.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a bit quieter. “Really.”

“Well, then,” you quip, taking the can off his hands and putting it in the basket. “He shall have it.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

You walk a little slower now, Bucky falls into step beside you. He seems lighter now, his face softened as he watches a little boy excitedly run off to a certain aisle while his mother calls out for him.

You plan on keeping him that way.

You spot a ridiculously, colorful display stacked high with an array of different kinds of peanut butter.

“Creamy or crunchy?”

Bucky blinks, turning to look at you. “What?”

You gesture toward the display like it’s obvious. “Steve. What kind of peanut butter does he eat? Creamy or crunchy?”

There is a beat of silence. Then, something seems to turn alive in Bucky’s expression. His lips twitch as if he suppresses a smirk and doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction.

“You serious?”

“Deadly.” You fold your arms, tilting your head. “I feel like he’s a creamy peanut butter guy, but I could be wrong.”

Bucky is hovering again, looking at the shelves like this is suddenly a debate worth considering. His arm brushes against your side, but he doesn’t move away.

“You’re wrong.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“He’s a crunchy guy,” Bucky says, reaching for a jar with his flesh hand and inspecting it like proof. “Says the creamy stuff’s got no texture. No character.”

You snort.

Bucky hums, still holding the jar, rolling it absently in his hand. He looks at ease. The basket dangles from his metal fingers as if it weighs nothing, even though it is filled with products.

You watch him.

The tension in his shoulders is practically gone and you know you should probably leave it there, but you don’t.

Because you want more.

More of this, more of him, more of that unguarded space where he forgets to be closed off.

So, you bite your lip and tilt your head at him before asking carefully. “What about you?”

Bucky glances at you, a small crease forming between his brows. “What about me?”

You gesture vaguely. “What kind of peanut butter do you like?”

For a moment, he just stares at you, like the question has never occurred to him before. Like no one’s ever bothered to ask.

You can almost see the gears turning in his head, his fingers tightening slightly around the jar. The hesitation is there. He doesn’t know how to answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know if he has a preference. Or it’s just been a long, long time since someone cared enough to ask.

You wait, patiently.

Finally, he lets out a cough, looking back at the display as if searching for an answer among the shelves. “…Crunchy,” he mutters. “I guess.”

You gin. “Yeah?”

He shifts his weight, looking rather uncomfortable but not in a bad way. Just unsure. This is unfamiliar ground for him, not knowing what to do with the attention.

You reach forward and pluck the jar from his hand before he can second-guess himself.

“Alright,” you say, dropping it into the basket with a decisive little thud. “Crunchy it is.”

Bucky observes you do it, something shimmering in his expression - something soft, a little hesitant, but warm. Like this tiny, seemingly meaningless choice holds a weight to him.

His jaw flexes slightly, as if he is about to say something, but he just exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

But there is no bite to it.

And this time, he is the one to start walking, making sure you come along, staying just a little closer than before.

You are nearing the checkout registers when Bucky suddenly stops walking. It’s so abrupt that you almost keep going, but the absence of him beside you makes you pause.

You turn, finding him standing in front of a shelf, scanning its contents with a strange kind of focus, considering something.

You wait, watching the way his eyes search the options, his brows furrowing slightly. There is no tension in his posture, no obvious reason for the sudden stop - just deliberation.

Then, without a word, he reaches out, grasps a familiar-looking package, and drops it into the basket.

A soft thud.

Your gaze falls down, and your stomach does something strange when you realize what it is.

Chocolate-covered almonds.

The ones you always grab when you’re wandering the tower’s kitchen late at night, mind still wired from a mission, too awake to sleep but too tired to focus on anything real.

The ones you mindlessly snack on when you’re curled up on the couch, half-listening to, half-joining a conversation, or watching a movie.

The ones you didn’t even realize you had a thing for until you see them sitting in the basket between his plums, Steve’s soup, and the peanut butter Bucky prefers.

Your lips part slightly, surprised, searching his face. “You- Why’d you grab these?”

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.

“Because you like them.”

Matter-of-fact. Simple. As if it’s obvious.

Just a fact.

Like it’s something he has known all along, something he has cataloged somewhere deep in that careful, quiet mind of his without ever making a big deal of it.

The realization unsettles you - not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that makes your chest feel suddenly too full.

You swallow, the corners of your lips twitching slightly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

“How do you know that?”

The words leave your lips lightly, bright with curiosity, playful in their demand. But beneath it, there is something you don’t quite let slip.

Something about the fact that he’s been watching.

That he’s noticed.

That he has paid attention in a way you didn’t think anyone has.

His grip on the basket adjusts for the hundredth time, but not because it’s heavy, he just seems to need something to do with his hands.

He schools his expression into something nonchalant, something careless, but it’s betrayed by the hint of warmth dusting across his cheekbones.

“You’re always munchin’ on ‘em,” he says, a teasing edge lacing his voice. He tries to sound smug, like it is an observation, just a simple fact, but there is something softer beneath it. Something like fondness.

You don’t even know if it’s been that obvious. If you truly eat these things out in the open that often.

Or if he just really is that observant.

That realization settles deep in your chest, warm and startling all at once.

So you just huff, pretending like your heart isn’t skipping beats, like his answer isn’t winding around something tender inside you.

“Well,” you remark, nudging his arm as you start walking again, “now I feel self-conscious about my snacking habits.”

Bucky lets out a soft chuckle. And when he falls into step beside you, he leans in slightly, voice just low enough for you to hear.

“Don’t.”

“The most sincere compliment we can pay is attention.”

- Walter Anderson

[maneskinwh0re]

sevika x brothelfemme!reader — “not your job”

cw: [n]sfw, dom!sevika, soft!sevika, mostly fluff :3

summary: thinking about having a long-term brothel contract with sevika. at the end of a particular booking when she has already made you cum like 3 times, she forgot to leave time for aftercare (actually forgot she was on a time limit, just lost inside you). so when she starts to apologize and frantically clean you up, you just kick her out SKDHAHDJA fic plot begins right afterwards…

∴.·:*¨¨*:·. ☙.·:*¨ ¨*:·.♡ .·:*¨ ¨*:·. ❧.·:*¨ ¨*:·.∴

��come on, i’ll walk you out,” you say as you smooth out your dampened lingerie and throw on a matching robe, shielding your figure from the cold as well as your client’s wandering grey eyes.

“that’s not in your job description,” sevika counters as she zips up the fly of her cargos. you step closer to button her pants as well as buckle her thick belt, a sentiment that means more to her than you know.

whenever sevika asks, you always imply that helping her get dressed is a favor in your contract (you both know it’s not) and then your defense is usually followed by a teasing remark about her missing left arm. in reality, you use the closeness as an excuse to continue the intimacy after sex, a further connection between you two, but the secret remains unspoken.

“you’re right, it’s not in my job description. and neither is changing the sheets, but looks like i’m doing that too since i’m too embarrassed to let poor harley do it.”

“isn’t that their job anyway?”

“can you just quit arguing with me and get your ass out?” you bicker with a laugh, knowing sevika is just stalling at this point.

“thought y’ liked my ass,” she smiles smugly and tilts her head as she looks down to you, her flesh hand teasingly trailing up your curves.

you were gonna really make her feel like shit about not leaving time for aftercare, you just like to rub it in. the two of you know it’s all jokes, and have had a bounded contract for a while now. sevika isn’t a regular for anyone else, and you’ve recently stopped seeing any other clients…

“ha ha. i like it when it’s obedient,” you purr with a giggle, giving her behind a soft swat. “let’s go— the laundry room ‘s at the end of the hall anyway.”

“hmph, alright fine,” she agrees with a pout that is so cute, it almost makes you forget about her dominant nature that made you scream and beg mere minutes ago… almost.

when you get to the door, your trusted head of security opens it for sevika, and only when her flesh hand leaves its place on your lower back did you realize the warmth that was there as you walked the dimly lit hallway. it’s the little things that keep you both so connected, even if you don’t think to control them consciously.

you lean against the doorway, one hand on your hip as you smile up at her. when she leans in for a goodbye kiss, you turn your head away.

“ah ah, y’ know you gotta pay for that,” you say with a smirk.

“i think i just did,” she replies with a quirked brow, a prideful smile revealing the little gap between her two front teeth.

you only stare at each other, a silent competition to see who yields first to give in for a kiss.

“i’ll see you tomorrow,” you finally break the silence with a sly smile and turn away to resume your shift.

“but i’m not booked for tomorrow…?” sevika thinks aloud, her eyebrows furrowing together as if her statement is a question.

you look back to her, your tongue running along the inside of your cheek and huffing as if trying to stifle a laugh. sevika staying away from you? yeah, right. like a moth to a flame.

“i will see you tomorrow, sevika.” you look up at her tall figure and place a hand on her chest to push her out the door.

in a quick motion, sevika shoves your hand to the side and pulls you in by the waist for a deep kiss. you reciprocate immediately— because how could you not? your hands grip her short hair and you feel the coldness of her labret piercing against your bottom lip. you can taste your earlier release on her tongue, recalling the lewd thoughts of when she-

“ahem.” the security guard’s lower pitched voice brings you back to the moment.

gasping for air, you push sevika off and wobbly move clear of the doorway. “alright, get outta here. before i call security.”

“oh, will you? i’m real scared,” she jokes, taking loopy, post-sex drunken steps down the stairs.

“i could kick your ass, sevika!” callum shouts into the cold night, then slams the heavy door shut before your patron could reply. you internally relish the sound of sevika’s deep laugh fading out on the other side of the metal entryway, indicating she’s finally walking home.

“thanks, cal,” you chuckle as you readjust your laced bralette.

“why don’t y’all do all ‘at off the clock?” callum turns to you, his tone is still light but with a tint of seriousness.

“what do you mean?”

“you know what i mean. that stupid smile will stick to your face the rest of y’r shift, hon. and it’s only ever there after your sevika is.”

you scold your coworker, waving him away before he notices your flushed expression. “oh my- s-shut the fuck up!”

‘your sevika’

…you could get used to the sound of that.

∴.·:*¨¨*:·. ☙.·:*¨ ¨*:·.♡ .·:*¨ ¨*:·. ❧.·:*¨ ¨*:·.∴

alexa play casual by chappell roan !

a/n: had the plot idea a few weeks ago, dropping this fluff and running back to hibernate bc kinda been going through it lately lol BUT WE DOING BETTER NOW TEAM DW found some inspo to write :3

harley and callum are two oc’s i might add to an ongoing fic bc i actually ended up kinda liking this :)

- 🐝

taglist: @audr3yyyyy @mirconreadzztuff22 @wizard-pdf @archangeldyke-all @nhaaauyen @inthebrainofalamb <3

[etaleah]

I think a lot about the fact that the real genius of Hbomberguy’s plagiarism video was not just the exposé aspect of it but the fact that it so effectively demonstrated WHY plagiarism is bad.

When teachers warned against plagiarism in school, they made it seem like the reason it was bad was because it got you out of doing work. Plagiarism was bad because it was lazy. And that is (1) not a very strong deterrent to students who are only taking this class and writing this paper because they’re forced to and therefore don’t care about the work, and (2) missing the real harm behind the action.

On some level, yeah, plagiarism is bad because it will prevent you from learning how to write well on your own. There’s a real fear that a generation of kids won’t know how to write (which means they won’t know how to think) because they’ll be so used to having an “AI” machine do it for them that they’ll be helpless without it. That is very much a concern. But it’s far from the only issue. Harry laid out the other problems really well:

1. Plagiarism is enshittification. When you have to reword stuff to hide that you’re stealing it, the writing will be clunkier, wordier, more awkward, and less natural-sounding. This makes the piece worse, which isn’t good for anyone. Who needs more bad writing in the world?

2. Plagiarism spreads misinformation. Again, stealing stuff usually requires having to reword things to get around plagiarism checkers. That can make it very easy to (accidentally or purposely) rewrite a sentence to now be false instead of true. This is made worse by the fact that hiding the source of the information makes fact-checking impossible.

3. Plagiarism is anti-educational. If the audience doesn’t know where something came from, they can’t go visit that source to learn more about the topic. They’re prevented from finding any additional knowledge, which makes research—and therefore progress—difficult.

4. Plagiarism makes it impossible for creators to earn a living, thereby making it impossible to create. Funnily enough, this means less material for plagiarists to steal from, so the whole scam is really just a snake eating its own tail. Like all scams, it can’t last long. When plagiarists can make huge profits by stealing and putting out content faster because they’re stealing, the real creators who actually do the work have no chance. They can’t compete because they can’t create as fast as a plagiarist can steal. So they don’t make as much money, which means they can’t live off their work, which in turn means they can’t create anymore. This keeps going until all that’s left is stolen garbage.

There’s a lot to love about that video, but this part in particular is my favorite by far.

[esote-rika]

the memory of your lips | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!Reader Category: Flangst. Summary: At the end of a great date, you have to deal with the realities of dating a BAU agent. Content: Mentions of alcohol, reader is tipsy and flirty and LOVESICK, Spencer is a gentleman, kisses, no use of y/n, reader is called angel. I had s3 or 4 Spencer in mind when I was writing, but it works for any season.  Word count: 1.4k A/N: Here’s the fic for the Lovesick by Laufey (listen to it right here, PLEASE I BEG!!!) poll I did a while back. I know I originally planned for it to have smut, but I opted out because it didn’t feel right with the tone??? Anyways, this was just really fun to write, and I hope you enjoy! 

Three dates are an embarrassingly short amount of time to have fallen in love with someone, but in your defense, you have not encountered anyone quite like Spencer Reid in all your years of dating. 

Never have you met a man so intensely focused and attentive, so intelligent without any hint of pretense. His arrogance is founded, but he never used his genius to make you feel less; instead, he’s committed everything you’ve told him to memory, from your favorite book to the throwaway comment you made about liking a specific shade of lipstick. Two dates and he’s already memorized you like a poem. It’s exhilarating. 

This third date had been the one to seal the deal. 

Sure, the anxiety is still there, and it might have caused you to have one too many glasses of wine over dinner, but still. Everything had gone so beautifully. A stroll around the art gallery where Spencer had eagerly shared the history behind the paintings. When you’d paused at a particular hallway, he stood right by a window and was hit just so by the golden afternoon sun that his eyes turned to the color of moss, you could have sworn you’ve forgotten the ability to breathe. You’re convinced you were the walking equivalent to the heart eyes emoji at that point, staring up at him with a starry gaze, all throughout the following dinner at an intimate restaurant, where you allowed yourself to indulge in some wine. 

Not that you needed it. At that point, you felt so relaxed and at ease with him that you were afraid you might float away. The alcohol only served to heighten the giddiness, casting the world in soft hues of sparkling gold. Like Spencer’s eyes. Which reminds you—

“You’ve the prettiest eyes,” You’re giggling as he walks you to your door, a lean arm firmly wrapped around your waist  to steady you. Head angled up, all of your attention is on him while you walk up the stairs, which isn’t helping your stumbling gait in the slightest. 

Despite his attempts to fight it, a small smile pulls at his lips. He’s obviously trying to seem stern, but his eyes look upon you with fondness. “I should have cut you off sooner.”

“Mhm, no, I wouldn’t have let you.”

“You’re gonna feel this tomorrow,” he warns as he stops at your doorstep, “Keys.”

You fumble through your purse, quickly locating them and pressing the keys into his palm. He slots it easily into the lock, and turns. 

He hesitates. Your hands shake as you wait.

“Can I trust you to make it to your bed in one piece?” he murmurs, fingers brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

“Probably not. You might need to help me out,” you whisper, even though you’re not really that drunk. It’s a (very thinly veiled) attempt to get him inside your apartment, in your bed. You’re not sure where you got the confidence.

But it’s Spencer, the sweet man who frequents the same bookshop in which you also spend a lot of time. The same man who’d been so shy about making a move that he decided to buy you a book and slip his number into the pages. 

So there’s no pressure, he had scrawled in messy, rushed letters. Embarrassingly, the note is in your wallet, kept as a memento.

It’s him, and the entire date has been a series of signs that simply validated the small (massive) crush you’ve had on him. You don’t want it to end yet. Or ever, really. If he’d let you keep him forever. 

Ever the gentleman, he nods and guides you inside. You stumble onto your couch with a low groan, an arm flung over your eyes as the harsh overhead light flickers open. Quick, shuffling footsteps, and then the couch dips beside you.

“Here, have some water.”

You accept the glass with a lopsided smile. The way his eyes linger on you would be enough to make you melt when you’re sober, but right now, with alcohol coursing through your veins, it’s downright cruel. “Your eyes are so pretty.”

“You’ve mentioned that already,” he says, urging you to drink, “Thank you. You have very beautiful eyes too.”

Once the glass is empty, he sets it on your coffee table and kneels down. With gentle hands, he eases the heels off of your feet, fingers pressing into the ankles carefully. 

“Come on,” he helps you to your feet, and you all but become deadweight in his arms as he walks with you to your bedroom. 

Spurned mainly by alcohol, you lift yourself to your tiptoes for a kiss. His surprise makes him pause, but he kisses you back gently, hands coming up to cup your cheeks. It makes you sigh, this tender way he likes to kiss, cradling your face as though it’s the most important thing he’s ever held. When your tongue sweeps across his lower lip, he pulls back.

“What—”

“You’re drunk,” his lips move to your forehead, “You need to sleep.”

“But Spence…” it’s childish to whine when he denies you, but it’s the only thing your dejected, alcohol-addled brain is capable of doing.

He chuckles, slowly walking you backwards onto your bed. “No, angel, it wouldn’t sit right with me.”

“I’m giving you all my consent right now.” you pout as he hands you a disposable towel from your bedside table. With a huff, you set on wiping away your makeup as he rummages through your drawers for pajamas. He finds some shorts and an old tshirt, and helps you out of your dress, shaking his head as you try (and fail) to seduce him into sleeping with you.

“Shouldn’t have had that last glass if this was how you wanted the night to end.” he says,  a teasing smile on his lips.

“You’re never gonna let me live that down, huh?”

He kisses your temple as a response, and gently pushes you to lay down. Chuckling, he sits on the edge of your bed, a hand on your knee. “I just don’t want you to be inebriated if we’re going to be physically intimate. Especially not the first time.”

You pout, “Boo, you’re too sweet for your own good.” It earns you a laugh from him, and it’s enough to wipe the pout off your lips, “Will you at least sleep over?”

He seems to consider it, running his hand up and down your thigh. However, it is as though the universe is conspiring against you, and his phone rings. You watch as his brows furrowed in concern as he checks whatever message he’s received. “I have to go in, we have a case.”

Your heart drops. The pout returns, “It’s Friday night.”

“I know, angel.” he leans forward and kisses your forehead again, almost in apology, “I’m sorry, I did tell you I don’t work traditional hours.”

Your hands close around his shirt and you pull him down. He surrenders to your eagerness this time, kissing you deeply, hands tangled in your hair, before he stops, breathing ragged. “I’ll make it up to you when I return, I promise.” he kisses you again, languidly, savoring the last few moments before he has to leave. 

You don’t have his eidetic memory, but you memorize the feeling of his lips all the same. “Stay safe,” you whisper when he finally pulls back, feeling oddly sobered up now that the reality of him leaving you is more present, “Text me when you can.”

“I will, angel.” he gives you one last kiss on your forehead before he stands up, “Drink lots of water tomorrow, okay? I’ll see you soon.”

You nod, and stare at his retreating back with a sad smile, blinking away the tears when you hear your apartment door click into place, signaling his departure. You try to tell yourself you’re being silly. It’s been three dates and you’re already acting so clingy. You chalk it up to the alcohol, twisting your feelings. Earlier, it had made the world seem effervescent, but now that he’s left, it only exacerbates your loneliness.

Is this how it’s going to be when you date him? He’d laid it out quite clearly during your conversations, that sometimes they get pressing cases that require them to drop everything else.  You aren’t sure you’re prepared to have dates be interrupted with one phone call. Morning afters without him beside you. With a sigh, you sink into bed, eyes closed, and only the memory of his lips to tide you through the night.

[irndad]

won't you be my sunshine-a.h.

a/n: runner!hotch x sunshine!reader !! sooooo fluffy, first hotch fic of mine so be gentle with me! lots of pining and happy end <3 happy to continue with these two in an au!

Aaron Hotchner is not a particularly emotive man. 

This is a skill he has honed, a cherished quality that was not born of luck or of natural ability, but a skill that he has honed down to a fine tip point. He needs to be, in this job. It’s cost him things, of course, but for the most part, Aaron is happy with his choices. He takes a firm line with people he works with, and does not always let up in his personal life.

The only time this sometimes causes a hitch, is in his romantic life.

Which isn’t to say that he has one. 

There is a woman who reads in the park every morning. Aaron affectionately thinks of this bench as her bench, as it is marked by wisterias and hyacinths on either end of it. It’s something of a ritual, after his runs, that they talk. 

It’s fun. He doesn’t have a lot of space for fun. He’d collapsed on the bench one day after siphoning his anger at a particular case into a difficult run. He’d crashed onto the bench, sweaty and exhausted and hadn’t even seen her there. Which is a bit impressive, as she’s hard to miss the sight of. It is also in equal measure embarrassing. It’s not every day you collapse in front of a gorgeous woman, disturbing her from what is likely a lovely afternoon in the park.

That’s how it started, anyway. She doesn’t run, so each break is punctuated by her company. He’s actually not sure if they’re flirting. He’s not very good at that- the last time he has to he was 17 and so full of unearned confidence, he lucked into a partnership. 

Now, he’s a bit older and a lot more scarred. She’s younger than him, not by much. She laughs with her whole chest at his dry, glib humor- and this is something Aaron had forgotten. The joy of a beautiful, wonderful woman’s company beside you. 

He feels a little out of place next to her. Romance is not something he does. Ever thought he’d do again, really. That’s not to say that this is romance. Their romance is almost entirely hypothetical. He thinks of her at work, which is a monumental development in and of itself. 

“So, how was the paperwork? I know you’ve been taking a little more on since your colleague had a baby. It’s so kind of you to do it.” She asks him on a beautiful August morning. 

He fights off a blush that she remembers what he’s done for JJ. He’s not big on mentioning his own good deeds. Aaron believes that this would cancel it out. Still, her praise is a warm balm to the exhaustion that plagues him. It’s hedonistic, the way he wants her to say more about him. He wonders absentmindedly if she knew everything about him that’s hard to love, she’d still paint him with such a light and warm glance. She’s bright enough, he’s tempted to tell her everything about him just because she asks. 

“It was…alright. My team is excellent. I’m lucky to work with people like them, it makes the process better. I couldn’t ask for more.”

She giggles a little at this, and there’s that roar of affection. 

He feels a sense of ease around her, one that is suspicious for him. He tries not to romanticize, but this connection is hard not to. She’s beautiful- this is obvious to anyone who meets her, a simple truth of her. But Aaron is trained to notice things little factors that show the truth of someone. 

He likes to watch her- it’s a pleasant thing, getting to be in her presence. It’s a little addicting, the way she looks at him. It makes him feel like all of the things he knows to be true of himself- his relative failures, the closed-off nature of his demeanor- are things that not only can be overlooked, but don’t seem to be in her line of sight at all. It’s an honor, to have her doe eyes rake over the sight of him, to meet him with gentle conversation. 

He tries not to notice that she is gorgeous. Aaron has been around beautiful women, of course- this is not something that should surprise him. But there’s something effervescent about her, something that his him wondering if it’s possible that she might feel the same way about him. He knows that he used to be a more attractive man, but now. Well, he’s a bit bruised, both metaphorically and physically. 

It feels odd to even think of this happening. She’s just got a warm, sweet tone and he replays what it’s like when she greets him. She smiles her brilliant grin and sometimes hugs him. It’s embarrassing how much he likes the feeling of it- soft curves against hard muscle and scarred skin. She always smells wonderful, and he wonders how nice it would be to have more of this. 

“I like your new shirt, by the way.” She smiles at him, and his heart jumps. It feels juvenile, but- she’s wearing a new lipstick, it seems. Her beautiful pout looks awfully tempting. 

“I like the lip color,” he tries to compliment back amenably, but that doesn’t stick. Instead, it comes out too earnest. He’s hyper aware of the fact that she’s right by him. She flushes, and Aaron feels a surge of pride. 

“Thank you,” she says, voice softer and flattered, and isn’t that a pretty sound? He’d love to do that for her, make her feel seen, make her feel like she’s as beautiful as she is, “I thought you might like it.”

It’s her directiveness that breaks the seal, he supposes looking back. Because she wore the lipstick for him. That’s just about the only thing it can mean, and he is struck with a particularly sensory fantasy of what it would be like to slot his mouth against hers- he gets the feeling it might be worth it even if he gets the color on his mouth. 

He’s a gentleman, though, he decides after a decidedly ungentlemanly amount of time spend staring at the gorgeous curve of her lips. 

“Would you want to get dinner with me?” He hears himself say it before he’s processed it, and then it’s out into the world. His heart is hammering and he’s blaming on the run, when god, it’s absolutely about how breathtaking she looks, the sunlight reflecting off her hair like a halo. When she beams back at him, she looks particularly angelic. 

It’s then, she leans over and kisses him on the cheek. 

“I thought you’d never ask.”

(Months later, when she is sitting on his kitchen counter and he is standing between her legs, gazing down at her with unabated fondness because he is entitled to that, he reflects on this moment and thinks god, how lucky am I, that I ran past that bench?)