#and I know this is very ‘but lemon it’s Tuesday’ of me

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎, 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which a lifetime is lived in a year, but remembered forever

part two - part three

You first see her on a Tuesday. Early spring. The Dallas heat hasn’t kicked in yet, and the air carries that kind of quiet stillness that only comes when the morning rush has passed and the lunch crowd hasn't yet begun. The restaurant is quiet—just the way you like it.

Your place is small, intimate. You didn’t open it to impress critics or chase stars. You opened it because food felt like the one thing you could always count on to make people stop and feel something. It’s tucked into the edge of a quiet neighborhood just outside downtown—equal parts cozy and stubborn. The kind of spot you have to find on purpose.

The door opens with a chime. You glance up from your prep station behind the counter, expecting another regular or maybe someone picking up takeout.

Instead, you see her.

Tall. Athletic build. Blonde hair pulled back into a low bun, a baseball cap tugged low over her brows. She wears an oversized hoodie that swallows her frame, sleeves tucked over her hands. And she looks… lost. Not in a dramatic, “I don’t know where I am” kind of way. More like the kind of lost that comes with new cities, long days, and aching homesickness.

You wipe your hands on a towel and step forward.

“Seat yourself,” you say, voice even but not unfriendly.

She hesitates for a second before sliding into the seat at the end of the counter—the one closest to the kitchen, where she can watch the food being made. You clock it. That choice. Curious eyes. Maybe a little shy.

You nod toward her cap. “You hiding from someone or just avoiding eye contact?”

She huffs a breath. You can’t tell if it’s a laugh or a sigh. “Both.”

There’s something familiar about her face, but you can’t quite place it. She's beautiful, in that quietly commanding way. Soft around the eyes, but not someone to underestimate. Still, you’re not one to pry. Instead, you hand her a menu.

“It’s not long,” you tell her. “We don’t do pages of choices here.”

“That’s okay,” she says, voice low but steady. “Makes it easier.”

You wait while she scans it, her fingers tapping lightly on the wood countertop.

“What’s your favorite thing on here?” she finally asks.

You raise an eyebrow. “Depends what kind of day you’re having.”

She glances up at you, just for a moment. Her eyes are sharp blue, thoughtful. “Let’s say...a tired one. Homesick. A little lonely.”

You tilt your head. “Comfort food it is.”

You walk back behind the counter and begin moving without asking more questions. You don’t need to. This is the kind of meal you’ve made a hundred times before—one of your own staples, something warm and heavy with memory, your take on garlic-butter chicken and creamy parmesan rice, served with charred broccolini and lemon zest. A plate you’ve cooked when you were sad, when you were in love, when you needed something to feel like home.

You plate it carefully. Slide it in front of her without ceremony.

She blinks down at it. Then looks up at you, slow smile creeping in. “You’re good at this.”

“I know,” you say, smirking.

She eats in silence for the first few bites. Then, without looking up, “I just got drafted.”

“WNBA?”

She nods.

“Which team?”

“Wings.”

You lean your elbows against the counter. “So, you're new in town.”

“Very.”

You don’t say anything. Let her eat in peace. But after a few more bites, she glances up again.

“You’re not gonna ask who I am?”

You shrug. “I figure you’ll tell me if you want me to know.”

Her smile twitches again—this time real, full of something that feels like relief.

“I’m Paige.”

You offer your name in return, nodding slightly. “Welcome to Dallas, Paige.”

Something shifts between you then—not dramatic or loud, just…quieter. Easier. You slide her a glass of hibiscus lemonade without asking. She thanks you. You ask how she’s liking the city. She admits she hasn’t seen much of it yet.

“I’ve mostly been in practice and meetings. Everything feels like it’s happening fast.”

“Let me guess. You haven’t found your ‘spot’ yet.”

“My spot?”

“Everyone needs one. That one place that feels like yours. Somewhere you can breathe.”

She glances around the restaurant. Small wooden tables. Mismatched chairs. A vinyl player softly humming old jazz near the window. The smell of rosemary and lemon hanging in the air.

“Maybe this’ll be mine.”

You don’t reply. Just offer a small smile and return to your chopping board. But later, as she finishes and slides her plate back with a quiet, “That was amazing,” you meet her gaze and say, “If you come back tomorrow, I’ll make something different.”

She tilts her head. “That an invitation?”

“That’s a promise.”

She stands to leave, tugging her hoodie tighter around herself. At the door, she glances back.

“Thanks for not...making it a thing.”

“Making what a thing?”

“My name. Who I am.”

You just shrug. “You’re a girl who needed a good meal. That’s all that mattered today.”

She leaves with that soft smile still on her lips.

The next day, she’s back.

Same hoodie. Different hat. This time, no hesitation as she slips into the same stool by the kitchen counter, elbows on the wood like she’s always belonged there.

You glance up from prepping onions and say, “Guess the food wasn’t that bad.”

She grins. “I considered eating somewhere else. Then I remembered how boring other places are.”

“You remember that halfway through the drive or halfway through the menu?”

“Halfway through a protein bar in my car.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Alright, homesick rookie. I promised something different.”

She leans forward. “Surprise me.”

You do. This time, it’s a coconut milk curry with roasted chickpeas and chili oil, something you only make for people you think might actually appreciate it.

You slide the bowl across the counter. “Careful, it bites back.”

“I like heat,” she says, grabbing a spoon.

You raise your brows. “Careful with statements like that around chefs. We’ll test it.”

She takes one bite, pauses, and then exhales slowly, eyes widening.

You watch her face, amused. “Too much?”

“No,” she says, mouth still half full. “It’s incredible. I just wasn’t ready for the flavor. That’s...layers.”

You smirk. “Compliments from Paige Bueckers. Gonna frame that.”

She freezes. “So you do know who I am.”

“I didn’t yesterday. I looked it up.”

She laughs, a little sheepish. “Had to check if I was famous?”

“No,” you say. “Had to check if I was about to be responsible for poisoning a professional athlete.”

She lets her forehead fall to the counter with a muffled groan.

“You’re brutal.”

You grin. “You’re in my restaurant. Comes with the territory.”

Over the next week, she keeps coming.

Always alone. Always to the counter seat.

Sometimes she shows up with a hoodie pulled over her head and stays quiet, watching you slice herbs or prep sauces, saying barely a word beyond “Hey” and “Thanks.” Other times, she’s talkative—telling you about practice drills that nearly killed her, about team bonding events where no one wanted to sing karaoke first, about how weird it is to have fans recognize her at gas stations.

You listen, mostly. Occasionally ask questions that pull her out of herself a little more. She starts lingering after meals. Finishing her food slower. Helping you clean up a few dishes without being asked.

“Is this your dream?” she asks you one evening after closing, as you’re wiping down the counter and she’s nursing a ginger beer.

You glance over your shoulder. “The restaurant?”

She nods.

You think about it. “Not exactly. But it’s something I built. And that makes it mine.”

“That’s kind of beautiful,” she says, quietly. “I’ve always had people building things around me. For me. I never really built something on my own.”

You dry your hands on a towel and lean against the counter beside her.

“Well,” you say, “if you ever decide to build something...I know a good spot to start. Great lighting. Strong coffee. Kitchen staff’s kind of a hardass, though.”

She bumps her shoulder into yours and grins. “I’ll take my chances.”

A few days later, she brings a book. Doesn’t say anything about it—just places it on the counter next to her plate while you cook. You catch the title: A Man Called Ove.

“Didn’t peg you for a reader,” you say.

“You’re saying that like it’s a dig.”

“It’s not. I just imagined you watching game tape or playing 2K on your off days.”

She shrugs, flipping the book open. “I do both. But sometimes… this is easier. Reading someone else’s mess instead of sorting through your own.”

You pause mid-stir, something about her tone catching you. Not sad, exactly. But faraway.

“Want dessert?” you offer.

She perks up instantly. “What kind?”

“You’ll see.”

You bring out a slice of brown butter banana bread—still warm—and watch her face as she takes the first bite.

Her eyes roll back. “You have to stop doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Making everything feel like a hug I wasn’t expecting.”

You laugh, quiet. “Is that a complaint?”

She shakes her head slowly, chewing. “Not even a little.”

One night, she stays past closing. You're both lingering—neither of you admitting it. You're seated on the floor behind the counter, back against the fridge, nursing a bottle of Topo Chico. She's on a stool above you, swinging her legs like a kid, talking about Connecticut winters and the way snow used to silence everything.

It’s comfortable. Strangely so.

“Do you ever get lonely here?” she asks, all of a sudden.

You pause. “Sometimes. But loneliness and being alone aren’t always the same thing.”

She hums. “That’s a good line.”

“You can use it if you pretend it was yours first.”

She laughs, gaze soft.

For the first time, you wonder what it would feel like to lean into her shoulder. To rest there.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

She becomes a part of the restaurant before either of you admit it.

It’s in the way her stool never gets taken, even when it’s busy. In the way you plate her food just a little differently—garnish with an extra sprig, a touch more drizzle. In the way her jacket ends up on the coat hook behind the counter without question. In the way she hums softly along to whatever record you’re playing that day, like the soundtrack was made just for her.

She always shows up right before the dinner crowd rolls in, when the light through the windows is golden and the kitchen is calm enough to talk.

“Long day?” you ask one Thursday, as she walks in with her shoulders heavy and hoodie unzipped.

She slumps into her seat like she’s collapsing into the only place she trusts to hold her. “I got elbowed in the face.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You start it?”

“Didn’t even touch her,” she says, defensively. “She just… had too much energy.”

You stifle a laugh. “You’re not exactly low-energy, Paige.”

“I’m controlled energy,” she counters, tapping her fingers on the countertop. “There’s a difference.”

You nod sagely, wiping your hands on your apron. “I'll make you a bowl of something comforting. And cooling.”

“Not the curry again,” she pleads.

“No promises,” you tease, and she groans.

You end up making her something light—cold soba noodles with sesame, cucumber, and a bit of lime. She slurps it down like she hasn’t eaten in days.

“This might be your best one yet,” she says, mouth full.

You lean on the counter, hand resting near her bowl. “You say that every time.”

“Because it keeps being true,” she says. Then, quieter, “I don’t think I’ve felt full since I moved here. Not like this.”

You try to smile, but it hits somewhere deeper than expected. The vulnerability. The truth. She says things sometimes that cut through you without trying to.

“You know,” she adds, picking up her chopsticks again, “people talk about how important it is to ‘find your people.’ I think that’s overrated.”

“Yeah?”

“I think it’s more important to find your place. A person can leave. A place stays.”

You consider that for a long moment, then glance toward the stove. “That explains why you’re always here.”

She doesn’t answer right away. Just chews thoughtfully, then murmurs, “I like how quiet it is here. Not quiet like...empty. Just…settled.”

“Like the restaurant isn’t trying to be anything?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Kind of like you.”

You feel your stomach tighten in a way that has nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with her attention. The way she notices. Pays attention to the pieces of you even you don’t name.

You change the subject before it can settle too long. “I made banana bread again.”

She perks up. “Do I get the edge piece this time?”

“Maybe.”

She grins. “You like me.”

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. “I tolerate you.”

She leans forward on her elbows, eyes teasing. “You like me.”

You place the banana bread slice in front of her—the corner piece, golden and crisped to perfection. You say nothing. She knows.

That weekend, a family comes in with two screaming toddlers. One throws a spoon, and it hits the back of Paige’s chair. You rush over, but before you can say anything, she turns to the kid and gives him a high-five.

The mother looks horrified. You expect Paige to be annoyed. But she just laughs and says, “Good arm, little man.”

After they leave, you hand her a warm cookie on the house.

“What’s this for?” she asks, biting into it.

“Not every customer would’ve handled that so well.”

She shrugs. “I was a walking tantrum for most of fifth grade. I get it.”

You lean your chin in your hand, watching her. “You’re different than I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

You hesitate. “I don’t know. More... guarded, I guess. More closed-off.”

She lifts a brow. “You’re saying I’m easy?”

You smirk. “Emotionally.”

She grins. “Still feels like a compliment.”

One night, you're closing up later than usual. Paige is still there, legs tucked under her, sipping tea you made just for her—jasmine and honey.

Outside, rain taps gently on the windows.

Neither of you says much. The silence feels sacred.

“Can I ask you something?” she says after a while, voice barely above a whisper.

You look over. “Of course.”

“Why a restaurant?”

The question surprises you, even though it shouldn’t. You've talked about your past in passing, but not much about the why.

You rest your hand on the counter, fingers tracing a water ring.

“I think… because food is one of the only things that makes people stop. No matter what kind of day they’re having, what they’re going through—when they eat something good, they’re here. Right now. In it.”

Paige is quiet for a beat. “That’s how I feel when I play.”

You nod. “Same drug. Different medium.”

She smiles, soft and slow, like she’s storing that phrase away.

When she leaves, it’s almost midnight. You walk her to the door like you always do. She pauses with her hand on the knob.

“I like talking to you,” she says, without looking at you.

“I like feeding you.”

She glances over her shoulder then, and there’s something in her eyes you haven’t seen before.

The door opens. 

Then closes.

She’s gone again.

But for the first time, you catch yourself wondering when she’ll come back—not if.

The first time Paige sees you outside the restaurant, it’s by accident.

It’s a Sunday morning, early, and you’re at the farmer’s market near White Rock Lake, sleeves pushed up, tote bag over your shoulder, two kinds of basil in one hand and a half-drunk coffee in the other. You’re reading a produce sign when you hear—

“Well, well.”

You turn. Paige is standing there in joggers and a hoodie, sunglasses perched on her head, a grin tugging at her lips.

You blink. “You… go to farmer’s markets?”

She shrugs. “I jogged here. I wanted a juice. But now I feel like I’ve caught a celebrity in the wild.”

You snort. “I don’t jog. I chase tomatoes.”

She falls in step beside you without being asked.

You don’t stop her.

You walk through the stalls together.

She asks questions about vegetables she doesn’t recognize. You explain the difference between French radishes and watermelon radishes, between heirloom tomatoes and the sad ones in grocery stores. She listens with that soft focus you’ve come to recognize—the kind she wears in games, you imagine, when she’s about to make the smartest pass on the court.

“You’re different here,” she says at one point, as you sample plum slices from a vendor.

“Different how?”

She thinks. “Quieter. Less sharp. Like you’re… off-duty.”

You consider that. “The restaurant is where I perform. This is where I breathe.”

She nods. “I get that.”

You end up sitting on the edge of a fountain eating warm cheese pastries. You don’t say much. She taps her fingers against the stone. You brush crumbs from your shirt. It’s easy.

It’s so easy, it scares you a little.

Later that week, you close the restaurant early—rare, but necessary.

Your landlord left a voicemail about a pipe leaking in the apartment above yours. Something about potential damage, something about needing to assess it immediately. You go home annoyed, tired, and not in the mood to talk to anyone.

So of course, your phone buzzes the second you step inside.

Paige: No dinner tonight?

You sigh. A pause.

You: Had to close early. Apartment trouble.

Paige: Want company?

You stare at the message for a minute.

No one’s ever asked that. Not like that. Not someone who doesn’t expect something in return.

You hesitate.

You: Sure. Door’s open.

She shows up twenty minutes later, holding a paper bag.

“I panicked and grabbed Thai,” she says, stepping inside.

Your place is small—bare bones, minimalist. Cookbooks stacked on windowsills. Plants on every available surface. The scent of herbs lingers in the air like it’s soaked into the walls.

She kicks off her shoes. “This is exactly what I imagined.”

You raise a brow. “Barely decorated and perpetually under renovation?”

“No,” she says. “Warm. Lived in. Like your food.”

You blink at that.

She shrugs and sets the bag on the table. “Too much?”

You shake your head, voice quieter than you expect. “No. Just… haven’t had anyone describe it like that before.”

You eat together on the couch. Feet up. Movie on in the background—Chef, fittingly. You both laugh at the same scenes.

At one point, you glance over and catch her looking around your space again. Not snooping—just noticing.

“Can I ask you something?” she says, echoing what she’d asked you once before.

“Yeah.”

“Why don’t you talk about your family?”

You pause. Not defensive. Just… pulled back.

“They’re far,” you say eventually. “Emotionally and geographically.”

She nods. Doesn’t push.

You appreciate that more than she knows.

“You?” you ask.

Paige smiles faintly. “Tight-knit. My mom and I are really close. My brothers, too. It’s… loud when I go home.”

You try to imagine her in a house full of chaos and warmth. It fits. But then again, so does this version—the one who falls into your quiet like she’s meant to be there.

“Thank you,” you say, without knowing why.

She glances over. “For what?”

“For showing up. And for not… poking too hard.”

She bumps your knee with hers. “You do the same for me.”

After she leaves, the apartment feels different.

Not empty. Just… touched.

Like she left something behind that’s still hanging in the air.

You don’t mind it.

Not at all.

It’s raining again.

Late Friday night, and most of Dallas is tucked away indoors. But the restaurant is softly lit, warm against the thunder rumbling outside. Jazz hums low on the vinyl player, the scent of roasted garlic and rosemary still clinging to the air.

You’re cleaning up after a slow dinner service—only a few regulars tonight. It’s the kind of night you half-expect Paige to miss. She had a game earlier, an away one, and you assume she’s wiped.

But just as you’re wiping down the espresso machine, the door chimes.

You glance up.

There she is—hood soaked, hair a mess, shoes squeaking slightly on the tile.

You blink. “You’re drenched.”

She pushes back the hood, rain dripping from her lashes. “I left my car three blocks away. It was the only spot I could find.”

“You walked here? In this?”

“I missed dinner.”

You freeze.

Something about how she says it. Quiet. Like it was never really about the food.

You grab a towel from behind the counter and toss it toward her. She catches it, rubs at her hair half-heartedly.

“I can make something quick,” you offer, already moving toward the fridge.

She doesn’t answer.

You glance back. She’s standing there, towel in hand, staring at the counter. Her stool. Her place.

“Paige?”

She looks up.

And that’s when you notice it.

She’s not just tired. She’s unraveling.

The eyes that always meet yours with dry humor and spark now look...frayed.

You walk over slowly, meeting her where she stands.

“What happened?” you ask, softer now.

She opens her mouth. Closes it again. Then sits.

She doesn't look at you when she says it.

“I played like shit tonight.”

You wait.

“And it wasn’t just that. I could feel everyone watching me. Like I wasn’t allowed to mess up. Like the second I did, they’d start thinking maybe I wasn’t worth the hype.”

You sit across from her, elbows resting on the counter. “You’re allowed to have a bad night.”

She shakes her head. “Not when you’re me. Not when people expect greatness. Every minute. Every play.”

There’s something jagged in her voice. You’ve never heard it like this—never heard her let herself crack.

You don’t say anything for a moment.

“You want something warm or something cold?”

She blinks. “That’s your response?”

You nod. “Because I can’t fix the noise in your head, but I can fix your blood sugar and maybe calm your nervous system with the right bowl of food.”

A small laugh breaks out of her. She scrubs a hand over her face. “You’re so weird.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

She looks up at you.

And for a heartbeat too long, neither of you look away.

You end up making her lemon ginger soup with rice noodles and sautéed mushrooms. It’s light, calming. The kind of food that says you can breathe again.

She takes one bite and exhales like her body forgot it needed to.

You sit across from her in the dimmed light, both of you listening to the rain drum against the windows.

She eats slowly.

“I didn’t mean to come here looking like a drowned opossum,” she mutters eventually.

You smile. “Opossum’s a little harsh. Raccoon, maybe.”

That earns a snort.

“I just…” she trails off, then pushes her spoon around the bowl. “I needed to be somewhere that doesn’t expect anything from me.”

You nod. “This place doesn’t. I don’t.”

“I know,” she says. And then, voice low, “that’s why I came.”

You reach for a napkin and slide it across the counter without a word.

She takes it. Doesn’t use it. Just holds it like something grounding.

“I think I’m scared,” she admits.

You look up. “Of what?”

“Letting people in,” she says. “Because then they can leave. Or worse, they can stay and watch you fall apart.”

You lean your forearms on the counter, eyes steady on hers.

“I’m not here to watch you fall apart,” you say.

Her throat works as she swallows. “Then why are you here?”

And the air between you stills.

Because you don’t have a clever answer this time.

You don’t say it’s just the food. Or that you like the company. You don’t say anything for a second too long.

“Maybe I just like the way you are here. Not out there.”

She breathes out slowly, like that answer both hurts and heals.

“I don’t know what this is,” she whispers. “But I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You’re not,” you say. “Neither am I.”

Silence settles again. But this time, it’s not heavy.

It’s… hopeful.

Before she leaves, you hand her a paper bag.

“What’s this?”

“Banana bread,” you say. “You didn’t ask for it, but I knew you’d want it.”

She stares at you for a moment.

Then she says, voice uneven, “I think this place is my favorite thing about Dallas.”

You meet her eyes. “You’re welcome here. Always.”

And when she leaves, you realize the air still smells like her laughter and rain.

You’re standing in the cereal aisle of a nearly empty grocery store when your phone buzzes.

Paige: You off today?

You stare at the screen. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz a little too loud. Your hair’s up in a messy knot, sleeves rolled to your elbows, and your cart contains exactly one bottle of oat milk, a box of strawberries, and frozen dumplings you have every intention of eating straight from the pan.

You: Yeah. What’s up?

The dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

Paige: I’m outside.

You freeze. Look down at your hoodie, your old sneakers, the stain of flour still faint on your jeans. You glance toward the automatic doors. She’s there, through the glass, standing beside her car, hands in her pockets like she’s nervous.

You push the cart toward her.

The doors slide open with a whisper.

“Do I need to file a restraining order?” you ask dryly, stopping a few feet away.

She smiles—small, sheepish, almost unsure. “I just… I didn’t know where else I wanted to go today.”

You pause. “You knew I wasn’t at the restaurant.”

“I was hoping you’d still let me see you.”

Your chest tightens. Not painfully. Just enough to remind you that this—whatever this is—isn’t casual anymore. If it ever was.

You gesture toward her car. “Well, I’ve got frozen dumplings and no real plans. Wanna commit to bad decisions together?”

Her smile grows. “I thought you’d never ask.”

You end up back at your apartment, bags of groceries on the counter, the TV humming something in the background. You’re both barefoot now—Paige curled up on the couch with her legs under her, watching you move around the kitchen with quiet awe.

“Do you ever stop?” she asks.

You glance over. “Stop what?”

“Moving. Doing. Feeding. Fixing.”

You rest your hands on the counter. “I do when I’m with people who let me.”

She tilts her head. “Do I let you?”

You meet her eyes. “You’re trying to.”

She doesn’t look away. “I want to.”

There’s a pause that doesn’t feel awkward. Just… honest.

Then she looks down at her lap and murmurs, “I think I’ve been trying to figure out a way to ask you out for weeks.”

Your heart skips. Literally skips.

You keep your voice even. “And?”

“And this isn’t me asking.” She looks up. “Not yet. I don’t want to ask you until I’m sure I can be what you deserve.”

The air thins.

You could say a dozen things. You could deflect. You could joke.

But instead, you say, “I’m not looking for perfect, Paige. I’m just looking for real.”

She takes that in like it’s a promise.

And maybe it is.

You end up on your fire escape that night, sharing a blanket and a bowl of slightly overcooked dumplings. The city stretches out in front of you, golden and humming and alive.

She’s quiet beside you. But not in a distant way. In the way that feels full.

You ask, eventually, “Why today?”

She turns to you, blinking slowly. “What do you mean?”

“Why show up now?”

She hesitates. “Because last night, after I left, I couldn’t stop thinking about you wiping down that counter and telling me I wasn’t falling apart alone.”

You stare at the skyline. Your hands itch to hold hers, but they stay in your lap.

“I guess,” she says, voice softer, “I just wanted to be where you were. Not where people want me to be. Not where I’m expected.”

Your voice is barely a whisper. “You wanted to be with me.”

She doesn’t answer with words.

She just leans her head against your shoulder.

And stays there.

For a long, long time.

It’s midweek, late afternoon, and you’ve just pulled the last tray of brown butter cookies from the oven when the door chimes.

You’re closed.

You know you’re closed. There’s a sign on the door, chairs flipped, lights low. But somehow, you’re not surprised when you look up and see her—standing just inside, rain-damp again, her shoes squeaking faintly on the tile like a bad habit.

You blink. “You’re getting good at breaking in.”

Paige lifts her hoodie hood off, rain-speckled strands of hair falling around her face. “It wasn’t locked.”

“Still feels like trespassing.”

“I brought flowers,” she says, stepping forward and holding out a crumpled paper-wrapped bundle. It’s not roses or anything traditional. It’s herbs—fresh mint and lavender and thyme. The kind of thing a chef might keep in a vase instead of water.

You take them, fingers brushing hers. “These are oddly specific.”

“You’re oddly specific.”

You smile despite yourself.

“You hungry?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

She nods. “Always.”

You gesture to the stool, the one that’s unofficially hers. She sits without hesitation.

You plate two cookies and pour her a glass of oat milk because she made a face at regular milk last time and said it tasted “suspicious.”

She picks up a cookie. Takes one bite. And groans.

“If you ever wanted to trap someone forever, this would be the bait.”

“I’ll add it to my seduction plan.”

She snorts, nearly choking.

You both laugh.

And then, without warning, it fades.

Not awkwardly. Not abruptly.

Just… slows.

The laughter lingers, but her eyes hold something else. Something like a thought she hasn’t dared to say out loud.

“You okay?” you ask, tilting your head.

She looks down at the counter. Traces a ring of moisture left by her glass.

“I had a weird day,” she says.

“What kind of weird?”

“The kind where everything feels fine on the outside, but inside you’re just… off.”

You nod. “Those are the worst.”

“Practice went okay. Press wasn’t bad. But I kept looking around and wondering if this—” she gestures vaguely at the ceiling, the world, “—was going to be it. Just game after game, city after city, until one day it’s over and I don’t even remember who I was outside of it.”

You lean forward on your elbows. “You do know who you are.”

She meets your gaze. “I feel like I do… when I’m here.”

The air shifts again.

She doesn’t say it like a line. Doesn’t say it like she wants something.

She says it like a confession.

You wipe your hands on your apron and take a slow breath.

“Do you know why I like it when you show up?” you ask.

She shakes her head.

“Because you don’t ask for anything. Not really. You just are. You come in, sit down, exist in this space with me like it’s normal. Like you don’t need me to perform.”

She watches you. Eyes open. Honest. So, so blue.

“Maybe I don’t know what this is yet,” she says quietly, “but I think I’m starting to know what I want it to be.”

Your pulse stutters.

You should say something.

Instead, you look away. “That scares me.”

She leans closer, voice even softer. “It scares me too.”

And there it is.

That nearly.

The almost.

The invisible thread pulling tight between you.

Neither of you cross it.

Not yet.

But she doesn’t leave for a long time.

And when she finally does, her hand grazes your arm on the way out.

A touch that says, I’m here.

Paige: You awake?

It’s nearly midnight. You’re on the couch in sweatpants, flipping through a book you’re not reading and sipping wine you’re not tasting. The day was long. The restaurant was busy. You haven’t spoken to her since she left two nights ago, and the silence has been louder than you expected.

You: Yeah. You okay?

Paige: Can I see you?

You meet her twenty minutes later.

She’s waiting outside your building in a hoodie and joggers, hair down, hands stuffed into her pockets. No car. Just Paige, standing under a flickering streetlamp like she doesn’t know where else to be.

“You walked here?” you ask, stepping outside and closing the door behind you.

She shrugs. “Didn’t want to think. Just wanted to move.”

The street is quiet. A soft breeze curls around your ankles. You tug your own hoodie tighter and fall into step beside her.

You don’t ask where you’re going.

You just walk.

Block after block. Your arms never quite brush, but you’re aware of every inch of space between you.

Paige breaks the silence first.

“I used to go on walks all the time back in Connecticut. Especially in the winter. When the air hurt and your nose went numb.”

You smile. “That sounds… miserable.”

“It was,” she says, chuckling. “But it made everything else feel warmer after. Like you earned it.”

You walk a little further before she says, “You ever think about what you’d be doing if you hadn’t opened the restaurant?”

You consider it. “Maybe I’d have a food truck. Or I’d be working in someone else’s kitchen. But I think…” You trail off. “I think I still would’ve found a way to feed people. It’s just part of me.”

She hums. “That’s how I feel about basketball. I don’t know how not to be in it.”

You stop at a crosswalk and look over at her. “Is that a good thing?”

Her breath catches. “Sometimes.”

The light changes. You both cross.

“Paige?”

“Yeah?”

You hesitate. “Why did you come tonight?”

She stops walking.

You do too.

“I was sitting in my apartment,” she says, eyes flicking up to yours, “and I kept thinking about that night we sat on your fire escape. And I realized that I didn’t want to be anywhere else but with you. Not talking. Not even doing anything. Just… you.”

Your throat tightens. Not with surprise—but with the way it makes you feel seen. Like she reached right inside you and found something you hadn’t offered out loud.

“I don’t know what this is,” she says, voice softer now. “I know I keep saying that. But it’s not because I’m unsure of you. I just… I don’t want to mess this up by naming it too soon.”

You step a little closer. She doesn't move.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

Her voice is just as quiet. “Promise?”

You nod. “As long as you don’t run.”

“I’m not good at slow,” she admits.

“You’re doing fine.”

And maybe it’s because it’s late. Or quiet. Or because the streetlamp above casts just enough light to make the world feel smaller.

But her fingers find yours.

And she doesn’t let go.

You walk the rest of the way like that. Side by side. Hands clasped. A silence full of everything unspoken.

And in that moment, it doesn’t need a name.

It’s already real.

There’s a knock on your door.

No text. No warning.

It’s late—just past nine—and you’re barefoot, a dish towel over your shoulder, a pan warming on the stove. There’s music playing low, something acoustic and aching. You’re halfway through chopping shallots when the knock comes again.

You wipe your hands and open the door.

Paige stands there holding a paper bag, biting her lip like she’s not sure if this was a mistake.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says quickly. “You didn’t answer my text earlier and I just— I brought pasta?”

You blink. “I didn’t get a text.”

She pauses. Pulls out her phone, glances down, then groans. “I never hit send.”

You smile. “Well, now you’re stuck with me.”

She exhales, relieved. “Good.”

The two of you end up in the kitchen.

It’s not a big space—barely room for two. But Paige moves through it like she’s memorized the layout from watching you so many times at the restaurant. She doesn’t ask where the pans are. She just grabs one. She doesn’t ask which knife to use. She takes the second-sharpest one without hesitation.

You boil the water. She preps garlic.

At some point, you switch places—her taking over the sauce while you slice bread, the two of you moving around each other like music, never once bumping elbows.

“I like this,” she says quietly, stirring butter into a pan.

“What part?”

“This. Us. Together. Not at the restaurant. Just… here.”

You glance over your shoulder. “You’ve been here before.”

“Yeah, but that was dumplings and sad jazz. This feels… closer.”

She doesn’t mean physically.

You feel it too.

You set the bread aside and walk to where she’s standing.

She doesn’t flinch when you reach for the spoon in her hand. Doesn’t move when your fingers brush hers.

“Let me taste,” you murmur.

She watches you try the sauce—like she’s waiting for approval, not just on the food.

You nod. “Perfect.”

She grins, but it’s a soft one. “High praise coming from you.”

You bump her shoulder. “Don’t let it go to your head, Bueckers.”

“I won’t,” she says, then adds—so quiet you almost miss it—“Unless you want me to.”

You look at her.

Really look.

There’s a moment where neither of you move. Where the steam from the stove curls up between you and the air is thick with could and want.

But you don’t kiss her.

And she doesn’t kiss you.

Instead, you turn off the heat and say, “We should eat before this goes cold.”

Her smile doesn’t falter. “Yeah. Good idea.”

You sit on the floor with plates balanced on your knees, her legs stretched out across your rug, her socked feet nudging yours every few minutes like a secret only she knows she’s telling.

After dinner, you clean up together. No questions asked.

You hand her a towel. She dries.

At the end of it, she leans against the counter, staring at your kitchen like it’s suddenly something sacred.

“This,” she starts. “This is what I want more of.”

You don’t answer.

Because you want it too.

And you’re scared of how much.

It’s the morning after the night you cooked together.

You wake to a text.

Paige: Are you working today?

You: Always.

Paige: Not tonight.

You pause.

You: What’s going on?

Paige: I want to take you somewhere.

She picks you up at seven sharp.

Not in her usual hoodie and joggers, but in black jeans and a pale denim jacket over a soft white tee. She’s wearing sneakers and nervous energy. You lock the restaurant door behind you and meet her at the curb.

“You okay?” you ask as you slide into the passenger seat.

“I think I might throw up,” she admits.

You glance over. “We’re going somewhere that bad?”

She laughs—shaky but real. “No. Just... something I’ve been thinking about for a while. Don’t want to mess it up.”

You reach across the console and tap her hand gently. “Then don’t.”

She drives you to a park on the edge of the city—one neither of you have been to before. The sun’s just setting, the sky streaked in watercolor pinks and soft indigo. There’s no one else around.

“I didn’t want an audience,” she says as she kills the engine.

“For what?”

She looks at you. “Come on.”

You follow her up a grassy path, then out to a little overlook where the city sparkles in the distance like a held breath. She turns to face you, backlit by fading gold.

“Okay,” she says, exhaling. “Here goes.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re not proposing, are you?”

She laughs. “Shut up.”

Then she’s quiet.

Her hands fidget in her jacket pockets. She rocks on her heels. “I know we’ve been… something. More than friends. Less than official. Floating somewhere in the middle.”

You say nothing. You want her to finish.

“I’ve tried not to rush it. Because I know you’ve built walls. Because I know I have too. But I don’t want to wonder anymore.”

She steps closer.

“I want this. I want us. I don’t care how long it takes or how slow we go, but I need to know I’m not the only one standing on the edge.”

Your throat tightens.

She swallows hard.

“So,” she finishes, voice soft, “will you go on a real date with me? Like... a non-kitchen, outside-the-apron, you-and-me-without-an-excuse kind of date?”

You take a step closer.

You don't answer with words.

You reach for her hand.

She lets you take it.

Fingers laced. Easy. Natural.

“Yes,” you whisper.

She beams.

And then—only then—she leans forward and presses her forehead to yours.

No kiss yet.

Not quite.

But almost.

Almost, again.

Only this time, you both know it’s not the last almost.

Because now you’re moving forward.

Together.

You don’t dress up.

Neither does she.

It’s one of those rare Dallas nights where the heat finally breaks, the air soft and cool like early fall. Paige picks you up just after sunset, hair pulled back, black hoodie layered under a jacket you’ve never seen her wear before. Her smile is calm this time—no nerves. Just something like...peace.

“You ready?” she asks.

“I’ve been ready.”

She takes you to a place near the lake—not a restaurant, not a venue, just a little dock she found by accident one day while trying to get lost. She brought a picnic. Real plates. Two mason jars filled with sparkling lemonade. A playlist she made on her phone, soft and jazzy, just for this.

“I didn’t want the first one to feel like a performance,” she says as you sit down on the blanket. “I wanted it to feel like us.”

You look around—trees silhouetted in the twilight, the lake shimmering like glass, the quiet hum of crickets in the distance.

“It does,” you say. “This feels like us.”

She beams.

She made most of the food herself.

Roasted veggie wraps. Sliced fruit. Store-bought dessert, which she apologizes for profusely.

“I panicked,” she says. “I knew I couldn’t cook for you.”

You laugh. “You could’ve brought me microwave mac and cheese and I’d still think it was sweet.”

“You say that, but—”

“I mean it.”

You lean back on your hands. She does too. The stars slowly blink into view overhead.

“I like the quiet with you,” she says.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

You glance over. “You don’t get a lot of quiet, do you?”

She shakes her head. “Not the good kind. Not the kind that feels like stillness instead of… emptiness.”

You hum softly. “This isn’t empty.”

She turns her head. “No. This is full.”

After you eat, you sit side by side at the edge of the dock, feet dangling over the water.

She tells you about her first high school game—how she threw up twice before tipoff, then scored thirty. You tell her about the night your oven caught fire during dinner rush and you had to serve cold salads to a packed house.

She laughs until she leans into you, her shoulder bumping yours.

You don’t move.

She doesn’t either.

“Can I ask you something?” she says.

“You always can.”

She exhales. “What made you say yes?”

You don’t answer right away.

“The way you never asked for more than I was ready to give.”

She’s quiet.

So are you.

But you’re both here.

And then—so gently it barely feels real—her fingers find yours.

She doesn’t look at you when she says, “Can I kiss you?”

You look at her.

She’s already smiling.

You don’t say anything.

You just kiss her.

Soft. Slow. Certain.

The kind of kiss that says, We’re starting now.

And when you pull back, breath tangled with hers, she whispers, “One more kiss.”

And you give it to her.

Because after this?

There’s always one more.

You don’t talk about labels.

You don’t need to.

After that night on the dock, something shifts. Not suddenly. Not dramatically. Just enough that her hand finds yours more easily now. That she starts texting good morning without fail, and always follows up with what are we eating tonight?

The first week of dating doesn’t feel different. It feels deeper. Like something that was already true finally got to exhale.

Date two is spontaneous.

She shows up after practice with a bag of takeout and a sheepish grin. “Can we eat this at your place and pretend we went somewhere fancy?”

You light two candles. She makes a paper crown out of a napkin and insists you wear it.

“I don’t remember saying yes to royalty,” you tease.

“I crossed someone up today. I earned it.”

After dinner, you both sit on the floor listening to a soft vinyl while sharing a pint of ice cream straight from the container.

At some point, your head ends up on her shoulder.

At another, her lips find your forehead.

Date three is grocery shopping.

It’s not meant to be a date. But she walks every aisle with you, asking questions about sauces and cheeses, throwing cereal into the cart without permission. You catch her humming next to you at the register.

In the car, she says, “That was kind of hot.”

You blink. “The frozen foods section?”

“No. Watching you debate between three brands of olive oil like it was a matter of national security.”

You laugh. She grins.

You hold hands at a red light and don’t let go when it turns green.

Date four is a drive-in movie.

She picks you up with a blanket, a thermos of tea, and a giant bag of popcorn she admits she stole from the Wings training facility.

You lean against her chest in the backseat, her fingers tracing soft circles on your arm.

She doesn’t even look at the screen half the time.

Just you.

There are other moments.

Not dates, exactly. Just... shared life.

She starts showing up at the restaurant just to sit with you during your break.

You leave extra banana bread on her car windshield after hard games.

She starts calling you baby when she thinks you’re not listening.

You catch her humming a melody you made up while cooking.

One night, she falls asleep on your couch, head in your lap, and when you reach for the blanket, she murmurs, half-dreaming, “don’t leave.”

You don’t.

You never even think about it.

It’s not perfect.

She still disappears into her head sometimes.

You still shut down when things get too close too fast.

But neither of you run anymore.

And every day, it gets easier to stay.

It happens on a Saturday.

You’re wiping down tables after the lunch rush when your phone buzzes.

Paige: Wanna come to the game tonight?

You pause mid-swipe.

She’s never asked before. Not because she doesn’t want you there, but because you’ve both been quietly protective of the little world you’ve built—apart from cameras, headlines, speculation.

You: Are you sure?

Paige: I’m very sure.

You: Okay. Where should I sit?

The reply comes quick.

Paige: With me. Before. In the tunnel.

She meets you at the loading dock hours later, hair braided back, Wings warm-up on, smile already soft when she sees you.

“You look good,” you say.

“I’m trying not to sweat through this shirt before warm-ups.”

“You look nervous.”

She shrugs. “I am.”

“About the game?”

“No.” Her eyes hold yours. “About letting you in.”

You don’t say anything. You just step closer and rest your hand against her chest, right over her heart.

“It’s safe with me,” you whisper.

She brings you through the tunnel, fingers brushing yours every few steps. Staff nods. Players glance. A few know who you are already—Paige doesn’t hide you, not really. But this is different.

This is with her.

She brings you to the locker room door, pauses, then says, “Come here.”

You step in.

She tugs you just to the side, where a taped piece of paper with her name hangs above a locker. Inside, her jersey. Her shoes. A single polaroid photo taped to the back wall.

You.

Laughing in the kitchen, a flour smudge on your cheek. Taken on one of those quiet mornings you didn’t think she was watching.

You blink at it. Then at her.

She shrugs, suddenly shy. “It helps.”

You reach for her hand. Squeeze it.

She exhales.

“Wait here?”

You nod. “Go warm up, Bueckers.”

You sit court side that night.

Not in the VIP seats. Not up in a box.

Right at the edge, where she can see you.

She glances over just before tipoff. Winks.

You feel it in your knees.

She plays like she’s on fire. No hesitation. No fear.

When she hits a fadeaway three in the second quarter, she turns, finds you through the crowd, and mouths, That one’s yours.

You don’t stop smiling the rest of the game.

Afterward, she pulls you into the tunnel before the press can flood in.

She’s sweaty, glowing, breathing hard. You don’t care.

You pull her into your arms anyway.

“You were unreal,” you murmur into her neck.

“I had a reason to be,” she breathes.

You pull back slightly.

She’s watching you like she’s memorizing your face.

And then she says it.

Three words.

Eight Letters.

Soft. Certain. No build-up.

“I love you.”

You don’t freeze.

You don’t flinch.

You just smile.

“I know.” And finally, “I love you too.”

She kisses you before the press can catch up.

And this time, neither of you hide.

It’s her idea.

She shows up at the restaurant on your day off, two coffees in hand, a duffel bag over her shoulder, and a smile you don’t know how to say no to.

“We’re going away for the weekend,” she says, setting the cups down. “No phones. No games. No responsibilities.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Where are we going?”

She shrugs. “Somewhere with stars. Somewhere you don’t have to wear an apron and I don’t have to lace up sneakers.”

You stare at her.

She stares back.

“Pack a bag,” she says. “Something soft. Something warm.”

It’s a cabin two hours north.

Wooden, tucked into the trees, perched near a lake that shimmers like melted silver under the late afternoon sun. There’s no WiFi. No TV. Just the hum of cicadas and the low whisper of wind in pine needles.

You step out of the car and breathe.

“I didn’t realize how much I needed this,” you say.

“I did,” she answers.

The first night, you cook barefoot in the cabin kitchen while she sets the table like a kid playing house. Everything is smaller here—tighter, cozier. The air smells like wood smoke and rosemary. The wine you brought is too warm but you drink it anyway, legs tangled on the couch, her head in your lap as you read aloud from an old book you found on the shelf.

“I didn’t know you liked poetry,” she murmurs.

You shrug. “Only the kind that hurts a little.”

She smiles. “That tracks.”

Later, you fall asleep in the same bed for the first time. No sex. No rush. Just tangled limbs and whispered laughter. Her arm around your waist. Your face buried in her collarbone. A warmth that settles deeper than skin.

The next morning, she wakes you with pancakes.

Terrible pancakes.

Burnt on one side, half-raw in the center, but she grins like she’s handing you gold.

“I tried,” she says, sliding the plate across the table.

You take a bite. Chew slowly. Then grin.

“This is disgusting.”

She throws a napkin at you. “You’re the worst.”

“You love me.”

“I do. Even when you insult my cooking.”

You lean over the table and kiss her, tasting sugar and smoke.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“For what?”

“For showing up. For knowing what I need before I do.”

Her expression softens. “You do the same for me.”

That night, you sit on the dock in silence, watching the sky unravel into stars. The lake reflects them like a mirror. Your feet dangle just above the water. Paige’s hand rests on your thigh, thumb drawing soft circles.

“I could stay like this forever,” she says.

You don’t answer right away.

Because you want to.

You want forever.

You want more.

But something inside you flickers—a strange fatigue, a dull ache in your ribs you’ve ignored all day.

You bury it.

Later.

You’ll deal with it later.

Right now, you have this.

Her. Here. With you.

You rest your head on her shoulder and close your eyes.

And for one perfect night, forever feels close enough to touch.

You don’t have plans.

No dinners, no reservations, no getaways.

Just a lazy Sunday in bed, sun pouring through the windows, the world moving somewhere far beyond the four walls of your apartment.

You wake before her.

She’s a mess of tangled limbs and soft breathing, her face buried in your pillow, one arm thrown across your waist like she’s been guarding you in her sleep. You watch her for a while. Not in the creepy way. In the I can’t believe she’s mine way.

You shift slightly, brushing hair out of her eyes.

She stirs, blinking into the morning.

“Staring is rude,” she mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep.

“You snore,” you counter.

She snorts. “Do not.”

“You do.”

“Lies.”

“You sound like a tiny, very angry baby bear.”

She opens one eye. “You’re just saying that because you drool.”

You gasp, scandalized. “I do not.”

“I have receipts.”

You swat her with the blanket. She grabs you. Tickles your side. You laugh until you're breathless, tangled under the sheets, limbs entwined.

It’s the kind of morning you used to think only existed in movies.

Now it’s yours.

You don’t get out of bed until noon.

And even then, only because Paige insists on making breakfast.

You sit on the counter, legs swinging, watching as she burns one egg and undercooks another.

“Why am I the athlete and still the least coordinated one in this kitchen?” she groans.

You steal a piece of toast. “Because talent can only carry you so far.”

She squints. “Someday I’ll cook something decent, and you’ll cry from how good it is.”

You grin. “I’ll cry because I survived it.”

She throws a dishtowel at your head.

Later, you walk to the bookstore downtown.

She holds your hand the whole way, swinging it slightly like a kid, occasionally tugging you to stop and look at a dog or a flower or a sticker on a light pole that makes her laugh.

Inside, you lose her for a while.

You find her curled up in the poetry section, cross-legged on the floor, flipping through a collection with her brows furrowed in focus.

She looks up and smiles when she sees you.

You sit beside her, shoulder to shoulder, and she reads aloud—soft, unsteady, stumbling over the rhythm but still beautiful.

The poem ends, and she whispers, “That felt like you.”

And something inside you breaks gently open.

That evening, you cook together again.

No distractions. No music.

Just the soft sound of a knife on a cutting board, water boiling, her humming under her breath.

You light candles. Not for mood. Just because it feels right.

You eat at the kitchen island, knees brushing, sharing bites and smiles and stories you haven’t told anyone else.

After, you slow dance barefoot in the living room, no music, no rhythm. Just swaying.

Just her chin resting on your shoulder. Her hand on your back.

You hold her like she’s already a memory.

But you don’t know why.

Not yet.

That night, in bed, she presses her forehead to yours.

“I want a thousand more days like this,” she whispers.

You nod.

So do you.

So badly it hurts.

But all you say is, “Me too.”

And you fall asleep wrapped in everything soft, not knowing it will be the last day before the ache begins.

[orellazalonia]

Arm Dilemma

Summary: Your first time catching Bucky using the dishwasher to wash his metal arm. (Husband!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 600+

A/N: Inspired by that one scene in the thunderbolts trailer of Bucky’s arm in the dishwasher lol. Happy reading!

Main Masterlist

Bucky Barnes was many things: a former brainwashed assassin, a super soldier, a brooding Avenger, and surprisingly to many, a man with a very strong opinion about dish soap. You learned that about two months into marriage, when you bought off-brand lemon-scented detergent and he stared at the bottle like it had personally betrayed him in a Cold War mission.

But nothing quite compared to what you discovered one quiet Tuesday afternoon.

You had come home early from work, your arms full of groceries and your head full of plans. Nothing wild, just dinner and maybe a movie if Bucky wasn’t in one of his “I’m too emotionally complicated for romantic comedies” moods. As you kicked the door shut behind you, you noticed two things immediately: first, that the apartment was suspiciously silent. Second, that the dishwasher was running.

Bucky? Voluntarily doing chores?

You set the groceries down slowly, as if any sudden movement might shatter the fragile domestic miracle occurring in your kitchen. You approached the dishwasher with reverence, like you were sneaking up on Bigfoot. You squatted down, peeked through the tiny, cloudy window in the front panel, and your brain short-circuited.

There, nestled between a pasta strainer and a coffee mug with Tony Stark’s face on it, was Bucky’s metal arm.

You blinked, rubbed your eyes, then looked again.

Still there.

You stood in stunned silence for a long moment before you did the only logical thing: you yelled, “BUCKY BARNES, GET YOUR SUPER-SOLDIER ASS IN HERE RIGHT NOW.”

There was a pause. A creak. Then soft, sheepish footsteps.

He appeared in the hallway, shirtless, with only his flesh arm scratching the back of his neck. “Hey, doll.”

“Don’t you ‘hey doll’ me,” You said, gesturing wildly toward the dishwasher. “Why is your vibranium arm in there?!”

He glanced toward the appliance and had the audacity to shrug. “Had peanut butter on it.”

“Peanut-” You choked on your words. “How does a trained assassin get peanut butter on his arm?”

“I was making a sandwich. The jar slipped. It was a high-velocity incident.” He actually looked offended on behalf of his own coordination. “Some of it got into the grooves.”

“You could’ve wiped it down. With a towel.”

He looked at you like you’d just told him to polish a jet engine with toilet paper. “There are micro-particles in the joints. This is precision tech. Do you know what peanut oil does to vibranium?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I’m fairly certain it does not cause spontaneous combustion if left on for twenty minutes.”

He crossed his arms. Or rather, arm. “Steve would’ve backed me up.”

“Oh don’t you dare bring Steve into this- Steve washes his shield with dish soap and a sponge like a normal person!”

You stomped to the dishwasher and pointed at it like it had wronged your ancestors. “Do you know how expensive this is? If you break it with your high-tech Marvel Lego piece, I swear to God-“

“It’s on the bottom rack,” Bucky mumbled, sulking now. “Delicate cycle.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose and took a deep breath.

“I swear, one day you’re going to wash your soul in the laundry hamper because you got it dirty.”

He gave you a lopsided grin, the one that still made your heart do a traitorous little flutter even after years together. “Would you still love me if I did?”

You tossed the towel at his face. “Only if you remember to use fabric softener.”

It then became a running joke. You’d leave sticky notes on the dishwasher that said “NOT FOR BODY PARTS,” and he’d respond by leaving his own sticky notes over your notes with “WARNING: May Contain Metal Parts. Proceed With Caution!” It was domestic life with Bucky: chaotic, a little ridiculous, and somehow the best kind of normal you never thought you’d have.

And despite his broody past, his spy instincts, and the tendency to sometimes treat modern appliances like alien tech, Bucky Barnes was yours.

Even if he occasionally mistook a dishwasher for a tactical cleaning unit.

[smutmind]

No Leashes Here ft. Taeyeon

Taeyeon x You

The elevator blinked open with its usual chime, and Zero immediately darted out like his leash was a suggestion, not law.

“Zero!” Taeyeon’s voice chased after him, soft but firm, already halfway into a sigh.

You stood still, coffee in hand, watching the scene that had quietly become your favorite part of every morning. The dog zigzagged across the hallway, her slipper tapping impatiently behind him. She looked as she always did—low ponytail, oversized sunglasses, and something effortless in the way her sweatshirt slid off one shoulder.

“Morning,” you offered, stepping aside as Zero paused to sniff your ankle like it was routine.

She gave you a small smile. “Morning. Don’t encourage him.”

“I think he’s got leadership potential,” you teased.

“He’s got drama potential,” she muttered, scooping him up like a misbehaving toddler. “Sorry about him.”

You shrugged. “Best part of my day.”

She gave you a curious look. The elevator door closed between you.

The next morning, the hallway was quiet. No tapping slippers. No Zero.

You waited a moment longer than necessary before heading out. That night, you asked the guard downstairs if she’d gone on a trip.

“Miss Taeyeon?” he said. “Nah. Flu, I think. Been in since Tuesday.”

Your stomach did something weird. You lived across the hall. You could knock. You wouldn’t stay long. Just check in. Maybe bring soup.

The door cracked open after a soft knock. You didn’t expect her to answer so fast—or to look like that.

Tank top. Short shorts. Cheeks flushed pink with fever. And two small, unmistakable peaks pressing against the thin cotton.

“Oh—uh—hi,” you said, eyes immediately jumping to her face and then to the ceiling, like maybe there was something very interesting up there.

She leaned against the doorframe, one arm cradling her middle. “Hey.” Her voice was raspy, not unpleasant. “You okay?”

You held up the Tupperware in both hands like an offering. “Chicken soup. I made too much. And... I heard you weren’t feeling great. I can walk Zero if you want. Just... you know, neighbor stuff.”

Her mouth curved. “You’re sweet.” She opened the door wider. “Come in before you drop it.”

Her apartment smelled like lemon balm and eucalyptus. A humid warmth hung in the air. Zero yawned dramatically from his pillow on the couch.

“You really made soup?” she asked, settling onto the couch with a blanket across her lap.

“Mm-hmm.” You handed her a bowl, heart doing acrobatics at how casually her top slipped down her shoulder. You sat on the floor, cross-legged. “Zero’s got that look. Like he thinks I can’t handle him.”

“He’s probably right,” she said with a smirk, spooning soup to her lips.

You nodded at him. “Watch me prove him wrong.”

Zero let you leash him without incident, but he paused at the door, glanced back at Taeyeon like, really?

She chuckled, sniffling. “Be gentle with him.”

“I’ll try,” you said. “But if he stages a rebellion, I’m switching sides.”

Her laughter followed you into the hallway.

"Easy, champ," you muttered, stumbling a half-step as he zigzagged past a bush, tail high like a flag.

Your hoodie stuck to your back in the June humidity. The city was just waking up, streets wet from overnight cleaning trucks, air thick with coffee and exhaust. But none of it could distract you from the memory of Taeyeon’s bare legs curled under that blanket, soup bowl in her lap, hair messy and eyes soft.

Zero paused to pee on a lamppost and looked up at you like, You’re slow.

"You're lucky you’re cute," you told him.

The next morning, her knock came just as you pulled your hoodie over your head.

She stood there in black running shorts and a zip-up, ponytail high, Zero already leashed and vibrating with anticipation.

“You ready?” she asked. Her cheeks had some color again, and the flu haze was gone—replaced by something lighter, easier.

You blinked. “Ready for…?”

“Run-slash-walk. Mostly run.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. “I’m… not really a cardio guy.”

She grinned. “Then just keep up. Or don’t. Zero and I will circle back.”

You lasted three blocks.

Taeyeon ran like she didn’t touch the ground—light, fast, impossible to catch. Zero was all teeth and joy, pulling her forward like a tow rope.

By block four, your lungs staged a rebellion. By block five, you gave up and walked in wide, shamed loops while they doubled back with breezy ease.

“You alive?” she asked, slowing beside you. Her skin glowed, ponytail damp, tank top clinging in places your brain struggled to ignore.

“Barely,” you said. “I think I saw the light. It called me a wimp.”

She laughed and patted your back. “You did better than I expected. We usually go twice that.”

“Of course you do.” You panted. “Sadists.”

Back in the hallway, Zero flopped dramatically on her welcome mat.

Taeyeon pulled her keys out, breathing normal again. “Want ramen?”

You looked up. She was smiling, casual, wiping sweat from her brow. The kind of smile that didn’t know what it did to people.

“I’m disgusting,” you said.

“So am I,” she replied. “Shower, then come over. I’ll boil water.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay. Five minutes. Maybe ten. Depending on if my legs stop working.”

“Bring an appetite,” she said, unlocking her door. “And maybe ice cream.”

Her door clicked shut.

The steam rose from the ramen bowls like mist over a quiet lake, curling into the soft amber light of her living room.

She handed you chopsticks and plopped down beside you on the floor, her legs crossed, Zero already asleep under the coffee table with one paw twitching in a dream.

“This is criminally good,” you said after the first bite, slurping too loudly and not caring. “What did you put in here? Magic?”

Taeyeon leaned her head back against the couch, grinning. “MSG and heartbreak.”

You laughed. “Solid combo.”

She took a slow bite, then glanced sideways at you. “So… you really had no idea?”

You blinked. “About what?”

She gave you a look—eyebrows up, a single amused scoff. “Me.”

You frowned. “You being… what? A good cook?”

She dropped her chopsticks dramatically into the bowl. “I’m offended.”

You chuckled, not quite following. “I’m sorry?”

Taeyeon leaned forward and grabbed the remote, tossing it toward you. “Most people either freeze or start name-dropping album tracks the second they recognize me. You’ve been weirdly normal.”

You stared at her for a beat. “Wait. Are you saying you’re famous?”

She squinted at you like it was a trap. “Dead serious?”

“Dead serious,” you echoed. “You’re just... the girl with the chaos dog and great soup skills.”

She burst out laughing, then curled her knees to her chest. “Wow. That’s almost refreshing. Almost.”

You nudged her knee gently. “Wanna show me who I’ve been ignoring all this time?”

She groaned, dragging her blanket over her head like a curtain. “Nope. Embarrassing.”

“Come on. I sat through your cardio cult initiation this morning. You owe me.”

After a moment, a soft sigh from beneath the blanket. “Fine.”

The TV blinked to life. She scrolled through YouTube with mechanical shame and found it—an old concert clip. The stage lights were wild, her voice even younger, hair longer, crowd roaring.

You watched in stunned silence as the woman sitting beside you—who just thirty minutes ago had laughed at your inability to open ramen packets—commanded a stadium like gravity bent around her.

Taeyeon peeked through the blanket. “This is the part where you stop talking to me.”

You turned to her, slowly. “This is the part where I ask how the hell I didn’t know you were a pop star.”

She cracked a smile. “Because you’re either extremely oblivious or the last person in Seoul without Instagram.”

“Or maybe,” you said, scooping more broth, “I’m just into you for the soup and sarcasm.”

She looked at you then—really looked. Something subtle shifted behind her eyes. Not flirtation. Not performance. Just a quiet check-in, a flicker of interest that said: maybe this isn’t normal for me either.

The clock blinked 11:47 PM as you set your empty bowl in her sink, fingers warm from the dishwater, heart still pacing from laughter that had stretched far past the ramen.

“I should head out,” you said, eyes flicking toward her hallway. “Didn’t mean to eat half your pantry.”

Taeyeon stood near the counter, half-leaning, one hand curled around a glass of water she hadn’t touched in the last twenty minutes.

“Yeah,” she said with a smile, but her eyes said don’t. Her fingers gripped the glass tighter before she let go. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for not poisoning me,” you shot back, opening the door.

She walked you there. Her feet were bare, the hem of her sweatshirt grazing the top of her thighs. Zero barely lifted his head.

“Good night,” you said.

“Good night,” she echoed, one hand on the edge of the door.

You almost waited a beat too long. But you stepped into the hallway, let the door close behind you, and stood alone in the quiet.

Your own apartment felt foreign, lit only by the city glow filtering through the window. You dropped onto your bed, heart loud in your ears, mind racing through the past three hours like a scene-by-scene replay.

She was funny. Sharp. Gorgeous. And apparently world-famous. And she lived ten feet away.

You stared at the ceiling.

What the hell is my life?

Your phone buzzed once. Then stopped. No message. Just a phantom.

You turned on your side. Then onto your back again.

Sleep didn’t come. But someone else did.

The doorbell rang. One soft chime.

You blinked toward the entrance, half-expecting you’d imagined it. But then it came again.

You opened it to find her standing barefoot in a nightgown, hair loose, skin dewy from her evening routine. She looked nothing like the woman on that concert stage. And somehow, even more impossible.

She held her arms at her sides, unsure. “I’m not… used to this,” she said. “To people who don’t want anything from me.”

You swallowed. “I didn’t even know what there was to want.”

“Exactly,” she said softly. Then, “You made me feel like just… me.”

Her eyes were shiny. Not from tears—just something fragile behind them. Then she rose on her toes, leaned in, and kissed you.

No rush. No fire. Just a soft, honest press of lips.

You reached for her waist instinctively, pulled her closer, exhaled into her kiss like you’d been holding your breath for a week.

Then you stepped back just enough to take her hand.

“This way,” you whispered, guiding her inside.

She followed, the door clicking shut behind her.

Her mouth met yours again before you reached the bedroom.

The kiss had weight now—less cautious, more desperate. Her hands slid under your shirt, fingers brushing bare skin, and you felt her pulse leap as yours did.

You kissed her deeper. Let your hands trace her sides, thumb sweeping just under the swell of her breast through the thin satin of her gown.

She gasped, barely audible, and you pulled back just an inch. Your eyes searched hers. “Okay?”

Taeyeon bit her bottom lip, cheeks flushed in candlelight. Then she nodded—one small, shaky nod. The kind that made your chest tighten.

You bent to her again, slower this time. Let your mouth trail kisses down her throat. Over her collarbone. Across the delicate dip between her breasts.

She arched as your lips closed around one nipple, satin pressing against your cheek, then falling away as her fingers tugged her gown lower.

“God…” she whispered, hand resting on your shoulder. “Feels—god—”

You pulled back to see her bare. Breasts soft, flushed, trembling faintly with every breath.

“I’m still trying to believe this is happening,” you said, cupping her with both hands, thumbs teasing her stiff peaks.

She smiled hazily. “Believe it.”

You kissed lower. Let her gown drop to her ankles.

She stood in front of you now—naked but for her confidence flickering in and out.

When your hands touched the waistband of your sweats, she stepped forward and pushed them down herself. Then stilled.

“…Shit.”

You raised a brow, amused. “Problem?”

Her eyes were wide. She wrapped her hand around your shaft carefully, like testing heat. “Are all European guys like this?”

You snorted. “Only the ones blessed by Norse gods.”

She gave a breathless laugh. “I can see why they need cold weather.”

You let her stare. Then tilted your head. “You’re not bad yourself. Asian women are like… eternal. You’re seriously thirty-seven?”

Her smile dropped. “Wow.”

“…Wow what?”

She stepped closer, mouth grazing your ear. “You just dropped the age bomb. Rookie move.”

You opened your mouth to apologize, but she shoved you backward onto the bed.

“I’m about to show you thirty-seven years of knowing exactly what I want.”

She climbed on top, straddling your thighs, dragging herself slowly along your length without letting you in. Teasing. Controlling the pace. Making you work.

But when you flipped her and took her in your hands—when her body curled on instinct and her breath hitched—she whispered it:

“Behind. Please.”

You froze, palm against the arch of her back. “Doggy?”

She nodded, flushed. Her hair slipped over her shoulder like silk.

You leaned forward. “You want me to fuck you like that…”

She glanced over her shoulder. “…Yes.”

“Then,” you whispered against her ear, “you better bark like Zero.”

Taeyeon laughed—half-mortified, half-turned on—until your fingers dug into her hips and your mouth pressed between her shoulder blades.

Then, quietly… she barked.

Once.

High-pitched. Almost shy.

You groaned. “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that.”

You moved inside her in one smooth, aching thrust, and she gasped, gripping the sheets.

Each stroke deepened, your grip tightening as her moans grew louder, hips meeting yours with practiced rhythm and wild heat.

Her voice broke with every thrust. Your name, half-sobbed. Her legs shook. Your palm found her lower back and pushed, angling deeper.

You were losing yourself—completely—wrapped in the soft thunder of her body and that one unforgettable moment when the pop star barked for you.

Her hands braced against the headboard, thighs spread wide, your name slipping past her lips with every thrust.

She was wild in doggy—back arched, skin slick with sweat, moaning into the pillows like she didn’t care if the whole building heard.

But when she gasped, pulled forward, and swung one leg over to straddle you—face away, your length still buried deep—something shifted.

She dropped her hips slowly, teasing, her ass pressed snug against your thighs.

Then she rolled her spine, and the world narrowed.

“Touch me,” she said, breathless. “My chest—hold me there.”

You reached up, both hands wrapping around her breasts. Full, warm, bouncing in rhythm with each bounce of her hips. She rode you with growing urgency, gasping louder every time your palm grazed her nipples.

You gripped her tightly, fingertips digging just a little harder.

Taeyeon threw her head back. “Shit… fuck… your size—”

“You okay?” you asked, chest heaving.

“I love it,” she choked. “I fucking love how full I feel… You fit—god—you fit.”

She didn’t slow down.

Your hands kept her steady, squeezed with each rise and fall. You pressed your thumbs into the peaks of her breasts, teasing her harder.

She clamped down suddenly—her body going tight, her voice climbing in pitch like a rising note.

And then—like a goddamn chorus—she came.

The sound wasn’t a moan. It was melody—half-gasp, half-harmony, a rising, falling, breathless pitch that could’ve lived on a stage.

You held her tighter, barely able to breathe.

“Fuck—Taeyeon—can I…”

She looked over her shoulder, eyes hazy, lips parted.

“Please,” she whispered. Then louder, “Please, come inside. I want to feel you.”

That was it.

You groaned deep, teeth clenched, and spilled inside her, every pulse met with her body tightening around you, milking you like she never wanted to let go.

When you finally slipped free, she collapsed on your chest, still catching her breath.

“I’m ruined,” she mumbled, hair damp and wild. “You’re walking Zero tomorrow.”

You chuckled, fingers tracing her spine. “Only if you let me take you doggy again.”

She snorted, then playfully punched your chest. “Asshole.”

You kissed her temple. “Yours.”

She hummed and nestled in, breath slowing, bare legs tangled in yours.

Sleep came quiet, shared.

[subtlenighttribute]

Didn’t Mean to See That (But My Brain’s on Fire Now)

Selkie AU | Love and Deepspace Boys x Reader

Reader accidentally ends up naked in front of them | Embarrassed chaos | Seal form short-circuits | Flustered affection

This request was fun lol

What i imagine when they shift human is their pelt, unless stated otherwise, is wrapped around them like a towel. But its really up for interpretation, want them walking around without anything all the time? Go for it lol

---

🐺 Sylus

He’s always the one casually naked after a shift, so you’d think he’d be unfazed.

Nope.

You step out of the outdoor shower, towel slung lazily over your shoulder, thinking everyone’s off hunting fish—and there’s Sylus, lounging in seal form right by the deck, blinking up at you.

He freezes.

Flippers stiffen.

Stares.

He shifts human.

Then—poof.

Immediately turns around, eyes shut, hands in the air.

“I DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING I SWEAR—NO WAIT I SAW EVERYTHING—I’M SORRY—WHY DON’T I HAVE A TOWEL?!”

You’re already scrambling back behind the curtain, laughing through your mortification.

Later, he refuses to make eye contact for five hours and flinches every time you say the word “towel.”

---

🫧 Rafayel

You forget he’s sunbathing on the rocks when you go to rinse off after a swim.

You think you're alone, humming to yourself as you peel your clothes off—until you hear a dramatic splash.

You look over.

Replaced by human Rafayel, waist-deep in the water, face red, hand over his eyes.

Seal Rafayel is gone.

“PARDON—pardon, I was admiring the ocean, not—NOT—oh gods, this is very French of me, isn’t it?”

You shout at him to turn around and something about him not actually being French, just a Selkie on a small coast no where near France.

“Already turned! Completely blind now! Will be repenting in sea kelp for days! An you dont know that!!”

He leaves you a gift of three shells and a lemon the next morning. Doesn’t explain it. Refuses to talk about it. Blushes for a week.

---

🪨 Zayne

You catch him by surprise while changing in the back room, thinking he’s still in the ocean.

You pull your shirt off—and there he is.

On the rug.

Seal.

Just stares.

He does not move.

Like a statue.

You freeze.

“…Zayne?”

He makes a single noise:

“Mmhrm.”

Then slowly, slowly turns in a perfect circle.

Flops out the door.

Disappears.

Later, you find him in human form, stacking rocks with extreme focus.

“Didn’t see anything.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You were staring for 15 seconds.”

“Didn’t. See. Anything.”

He doesn’t bring it up again—but you find a flannel shirt left on your bed later that smells like cedar and Zayne and possibly shame.

---

☀️ Caleb

This boy melts down completely.

You’re changing inside the cabin, thinking you’re alone—when the door creaks open and in slides Seal Caleb, fresh from the ocean. He's turns human the moment he nosed open the door.

“HEY—uh—WAIT—I’M SORRY—I SAW A SPIDER I DIDN’T MEAN TO—I DIDN’T SEE YOUR—WAIT—WAS THAT YOUR—AAAAAAAAA—”

He flails backward. Turns into a seal. Hits a chair. Knocks it over.

Turns human.

Trips over his own pelt.

You’re already shouting and hiding behind a blanket while he flops to the ground and covers his entire head.

“I SAW YOUR SHOULDER. MAYBE YOUR KNEE. NOTHING ELSE. I’M A GENTLEMAN.”

He refuses to look at you for two full days.

Later builds you a privacy tent with a sign that says: “Safe Nudity Zone: Caleb-Free Since Tuesday”

---

🌊 Xavier

It happens in the water.

You think you’re alone in the cove. You slip out of your swim clothes and float freely, face to the sun.

Then you hear a soft splash.

You glance up.

Seal Xavier is floating five feet away, frozen in the water like a haunted buoy.

He blinks.

You blink.

Neither of you move.

You shriek. Dive underwater. He turns into a seal torpedo and vanishes at Mach 10.

Later, he leaves you a towel and a seashell on your pillow. You don’t see him again until nightfall, when he sits near you, silent.

You finally break the tension with: “Well, I guess we’re even now.”

His response?

“You looked free. Not embarrassed. I panicked because I wasn’t supposed to see, not because you were… you.”

You forgive him. He keeps glancing away with pink ears for the rest of the night.

[my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction]

Do Us Both A Favour

Anselm Vogelweide x afab!Reader • Rating: 18+ pals Masterlist• ao3• want to be tagged? | request info • Kinktober 2024 Masterlist • Day 21: Smoking

Summary: Anselm doesn't seem to be as intimidating as others perceive him to be, at least when he's talking to you.

A/N: This is mainly fluff, I'm sorry.

Warnings: smoking, flirting, innuendo, not beta read, please let me know if I have missed a warning!

Word Count: 1248

You were part of a team hired to catalogue a collection of antique books. It wasn’t the first time you’d done this job, but this was definitely the largest and most varied collection you’d seen from a single individual. 

There wasn’t one room where there wasn’t books. Including an interesting set of laminated novels in the bathroom that were presumably to stop the bath water from splashing on the pages.

You were currently working on a bookcase in a secluded room on the third floor, taking quick notes in your notebook that you would transfer onto your computer later. 

The room opening made you jump, despite how gentle it was. 

“Oh, my apologies.” 

You recognised him instantly, despite this being the first time you’d actually seen him in person. The head of your team had warned you about him quite thoroughly - everyone was to be on their best behaviour when Mr Vogelweide was around.

“No, erm, no, please, I’m sorry, this is your house.” You give him a small bashful smile that he grins at, chuckling lightly. 

He shakes his head, taking a few steps inside. His brace squeaks with every step. He’s wearing a sharp dark teal suit that compliments him immensely. “I’ll put this out.” He says kindly, gesturing to the cigar in his left hand. 

“Oh, no, it’s fine, really.” You say without thinking, wanting to be polite. 

He quirks an eyebrow at you as he moves to his desk, “You smoke?”

You shake your head. 

“Well, I really should put it out then. Manners, you see.” He opens a side draw and pulls out an ornate and heavy looking glass ashtray. 

“Unless,” he smiles, “would you like to see a trick?” 

“A trick?” You turn fully.

He nods, “A trick.” There’s a little gleam in his eyes as he takes the cigar, the smoke wafting into the air. He presses the cigar against his lips and then, with a rather dramatic sleight of hand, it disappears. 

He shows you his empty hands, revelling in your surprised look, before he makes it reappear from his left ear. 

“How did you do that?” 

Anselm grins, “an old party trick.” He lightly presses the lit end into the ashtray. “I’m afraid it takes a lot more for me to reveal my secrets than a simple request, even if it is from a very beautiful person such as yourself.” 

You wish your words didn’t fail you, that heat wasn't burning under your skin. From everything you’d been told Mr Vogelweide had seemed like some twisted miser ready to snap and scream at anyone at any given notice. Instead, he seemed painfully charming. 

“My second trick, seems to be robbing you of your words.” He smiles cheekily as you shake your head ever so slightly, trying to break out of that hypnotic spell you had willfully fallen under. 

“I’m sorry, I…”

“You say sorry, far too much, my sweet.” He’d given you a cheeky wink before he collected a ledger from his desk and left the room, bidding you good day. 

.

It was Tuesday when you next saw him, he’d brought you a cup of sweet honey and lemon tea as you were working in the drawing room. Smiling as he placed the tray next to you. 

“For you.” 

“I, oh,” you smile, blinking heavily as your mind catches up with reality. “Thank you. You didn’t need to.” 

“Oh, but I wanted to.” He sat down, taking a sip of his own drink. 

“Thank you,” You repeat, shifting a little from your place on the floor, it was easier to look at the bottom shelf that way. 

“How is the work coming along?” He asks and you were sure he already knew the answer. But he listens intently as you explain passionately about his collection, smiling when you ask him small questions. 

On Wednesday he invites you to have lunch with him. Seemingly delighted when you agree and sat down in the day room with your packed lunch. Commenting that it was heartwarming to see someone you had prepared their own food. And then grinning like a madman when you’d playfully teased him about it. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry that we don’t all have personal chefs, Mr Vogelweide.” 

He snorts, “Anselm, please. You are far too lovely to have my last name in your mouth.” 

You were used to his kind words by now, sure that it was just something he did with everyone. 

You laugh, “And what is that supposed to mean?” 

“Exactly what I said, my dear.” 

“I think your surname is lovely.” You nod playfully to punctuate the sentence, knowing by now that he always reacts positively to sincerity mixed with light teasing. 

“Hmm,” the sound grumbles in his chest. “But you like Anselm, more yes? You agree that it is lovelier?” He inches a little closer as he talks, pulling a face to make you laugh. 

Some of your colleagues began to notice your friendliness, started to ask you to ask Anselm if they needed more information on certain volumes. Their perceptions of him being so intimidating weren’t surprising, but you found it a little odd that you couldn’t convince them otherwise. 

“Would you like a scotch?” Anselm asked.

You pause, halfway through your sandwich and glance at the clock. “It’s 12:35.”

“Oh, vodka then?” 

You scan his face, looking for any sign of insincerity and find none. “Are you teasing me?” 

He smiles, “Terribly, I’m afraid. You were away with the fairies.” He waves his hand.

“I was not.” You swallow, you do not want to admit you had been distracted looking at his face. 

“You most certainly were, what was the last thing I said?” 

“Do I want a scotch?” 

He chuckles, “Before that?” 

The small pause you take is enough for him to beam in triumph. 

“Ah ha, see, my dear?” He wags a finger playfully at you. “Am I boring you so?” 

“No.” You answer a little too quickly. 

“No? Well, I’m not sure if I am so convinced by your protest.”

“Anselm, that’s not fair.” You squirm a little under his gaze.

“What is unfair is you using my first name now of all times.” He leans a little closer, obviously amused. “Tell me, what has you so distracted?” 

“I… nothing.” 

“You’d be a terrible poker player, my dear.” He preens a little. 

“I would not.” 

“Then tell me.” He raises his chin ever so slightly, daring you. 

“I… wasn’t…”

“You… weren’t?” He teases, delighting in your discomfort. “Was it dirty is that why you won’t tell me?” 

Again, you take too long to answer.

“Oh, it was.”

“No, no,” you laugh in spite of yourself, “Stop, it wasn’t.” 

“I’m sure it was, it’s always quiet ones like you that end up into the most depraved things.” 

“I, what, no,” your giggles are becoming harder to control. 

“It takes one to know one, after all.” He lightly takes your hand in his, stroking the back with his thumb. 

“I have no interest in whatever depraved things you are into.” 

He chuckles, “I very much doubt that.” “Do you?” You pull a face and he laughs harder. 

“Yes, especially when you’ve been staring at me like you want to jump my bones for the last fifteen minutes.” 

You freeze, unable to even deny it. 

Anselm grins wickedly, pressing closer and whispering in your ear. “How about I do us both a favour, and instead of waiting around, I jump yours?” 

Thank you for reading!

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[typicalopposite]

Hopes & Fears - post break up Mpreg <333 if you want to write

<3<3<3<3 doubling this as my Tease Tidbit Tuesday! since you tagged me <3 I am trying so hard to get this chapter done!! <3

Tommy sighs as he walks up the porch steps.  Gena is right… he knows that even if he hates to admit it. He considers calling Howie, or maybe even Eddie… thinks about how it would go– how bad it could potentially go… Then he walks inside and his thought process flies out the window, because his house smells amazing. It smells like lemon pound cake, mixed with peanut butter cookies… and apple fritter. He is pretty sure the aroma lifts him up at the door and carries him into the kitchen– where it dawns on him why his house smells like a bakery. “Evan?!” Evan turns around, covered in flour, the biggest brightest smile instantly blooming across his face like he just saw the most amazing thing– and that can’t be right… right? “Uh, hey– hey Tommy. You’re home.”  “I am… and you’re… baking?”  “I, uh– yeah. I am.”

“Instead of resting?” He cocks his brow and offers a smirk so he doesn’t seem too naggy about it… even thought he very much should be resting.  Evan gives him that look. The look he has given him every time Tommy calls him out for not resting when he should– even back with his dislocated shoulder, or the time he got the flu… Evan Buckley does not know the meaning of take it easy; he is surprised he hasn’t come home to this sight sooner. “Well I uh– I felt pretty good today, so…” He sets the whisk in his hand down, wiping the mess on his hands off with the rest of the mess on his apron. “And– And I couldn’t stop thinking about you– you– uh, you know… how much you liked the loaf I made you when we first talked about the baby. So, uh, I figured I would make you more–” Tommy is pretty sure his heart stopped restarted and then cracked in that statement… but he still smiles. It’s sweet.  “You definitely made more…” he laughs.  Evan’s smile brightens somehow and he is quickly grabbing the nearest thing to him– a cookie– and holding it out to Tommy. “H- Here, these should be ready to eat.” Tommy takes it, and takes in the sight of Evan visibly holding his breath as he waits for him to taste it… It could have tasted like cardboard and he knows he would have acted like it was a delicacy. It did not taste like cardboard however, and was possibly the best cookie he has ever had in his life. “Oh my god,” he practically moans around the mouthful. “So all of these are ours,” he adds gesturing to the rest of the tray of cookies, then his belly, rubbing a hand over it. Evan beams–  and that’s enough. Tommy smiles back, a real smile he can feel bringing out the crows feet at his eyes and scrunching up his nose.  He grabs another cookier in one hand, and puts the rest of the first in his mouth… Then he grabs the hand towel he keeps hanging on the handle to the stove door and begins wiping the counter off. “Whoa,” Evan immediately protests— which Tommy knew he would. “Hey— Hey wait! I’m gonna—” “You baked, I clean.”  “No! That’s not—” Tommy sighs and gives Evan the most bitchy look he can muster while fighting the ridiculous urge Evan’s pout is giving him to kiss it away. “You need to get off your hip, Evan.”  That gets him an overly dramatic (very much deserved— he would have done the same) groan. “You make it sound like I’m an old man.” Tommy shrugs and Evan gasps. “How dare you! Like you have any—” “Hey now!” Tommy quickly interjects “I am with child. Your child, by the way... That means you are legally not allowed to bully me!”  They both laugh, and Evan finally concedes. “As you wish,” he sighs grumpily, sitting down while Tommy continues to clean.  Tommy moves slowly around the kitchen, and combined with their ongoing conversation about Gena, milkshake dipped fries, and the gender reveal, it’s getting dark by the time he’s finally done… and now he’s feeling it in his hips. He runs his hand under the heavy bump that’s mostly to blame… Not that I blame you… he mentally notes, smiling when he feels a kick against his hand. 

<3<3<3

No pressure tags forrrr: @30somethingautisticteacher @sunnywithachanceofbin @herrmannhalsteadproduction @nine-one-wanton @judymarch15

@loversinmalta @somethingaboutfirefly @dum-amo-vivo9 @lovetommyactually @quintessenceofdust88 @rosyhoneydew

@beanarie @ladyeyrewrites @hyperfocusthusly @unhingedangstaddict @kinardsevan

[shycroissanti]

Satoshi sleep walks and does the most RANDOM things EVER while doing it. There are cameras set up around the Sunlight base area thingy to video what he does.

Sebastian knows how to play 100% of MCR, AC/DC and Lemon Demon on his guitar and his accuracy is scary.

Irina’s name on her birth certificate was misspelled as Lrina

Dr. Antares has a bad case of doctor’s handwriting and is only allowed to type up mission reports instead of writing them by hand.

Dr. Antares is not allowed inside a shopping centre without another Sunlight with him because he once got into a fistfight with someone over a bag of skittles and needed to be picked up from the Police Station by Commander. A (I can’t spell his name so he is now Commander. A.)

Despite denying it with his entire soul, Kenta loves Hello Kitty and his comfort show is MLP (His fave if the mane six is Rainbow Dash).

Kinshin’s breath smells really odd because of the mix of flowers.

The Sunlights treat Taco Tuesday like a holy tradition. Someone will be crowned as ‘Taco Tuesday King/Queen’ at the start and they get to wear a cool sombrero. There’s the occasional food fight that will sometimes end Kenta tied to the wall, Kinshin under the table screaming, Irina running around like a madman, Dr. Antares having a philosophical discussion with Satoshi over why bagels exist, Sebastian on the fan, Alex sobbing in the doorway bc he just wanted tacos and Commander. A on the table screaming for dominion over Tacos while Yuliya sits at the table with a coffee in hand contemplating her life choices and munching on a taco.

Someone is hiding cheese in everyone’s rooms but nobody knows who it is (It’s Alex)

Takahiro will sometimes sit in the bathtub and sing baby shark

Yudi falls asleep in the most unconventional places. The midnights are fighting the sunlights? Yudi’s asleep on the ground, creating a tripping hazard.

Commander. A and Satoshi like to read fantasy novels

Sebastian likes true crime and tries to get the others to listen to it, but nobody will.

If you would like more random hc’s on your OC’s, please let me know! I have a list.

Ok, let's get started!!✨️✨️

1. Probably true

2. True

3. Noooo xD

4. TOTALLY TRUE

5. No, Antares is too peaceful to do things like that xD

6. True!! (Funny because Rainbow Dash is Kenta and Irina's favorite pony too and they fight about it)

7. No. Kishin has great oral hygiene (Kishin's breath is strangely good)

8. I don't know if this happens... BUT I DEFINITELY NEED TO DRAW THIS!!!!🤣

9. True

10. VERY TRUE

11. This is canon

12. Satoshi not so much, but the Commander likes it.

13. No. Nikko seems to do this xD

[ladyanaschmidt]

Sicilian Lemon - Clay Beresford +18 IcePlay

I hope you like it, English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes.

The bar was practically deserted that Tuesday night. The rain had awakened his senses in the face of The Crown's expensive menu, a luxurious night befitting Manhattan, its shiny skyscrapers reflecting their shine from the drops on the glass ceiling, like small diamonds. "I'll have a side of Calamari, and a Martini." As soon as the waiter leaves the table, the dark overcoat is closed, his nails clink on the table, in the same symphony of the blues played in the background by a young man. The afro of his hair is similar to his own, like a lion's mane, the shine of his sweaty skin like a varnish on mahogany wood. Damn, the damn white tank top and leather jacket suited him very well. Looking away again to the window, crossing his legs, he felt the rain intensify, inside and outside the bar. Looking at his Cartier watch, he saw that Clayton was fucking late. The Polaroid camera attached to her neck was immediately brought to her eyes, the clicking gears and the sound of the photograph perfectly capturing the immensity of New York seen from above. Holding the photograph between her fingers, the smell of ink invaded her nostrils, at the same time that her order had arrived. Removing her things from the table, she set the photograph aside, observing the cooked squid and rustic cockroaches, the low, yellowish light shining the Tiffany ring on her right finger. Dating Clayton Beresford seemed like something she would only imagine in her erotic novels, but the silver and diamonds on her ring finger didn't lie about the thousands of dollars it was worth. And neither did the man who placed the jewel on her hand. He not only hired her as a professional photographer for his company, but he also nailed the expensive Baccarat scent to her pulse when he called her to his bed for the first time.

— Eating without me, princess? — Clay's velvety voice invaded your senses, looking up and your gaze met the blue of the most powerful man in New York. — I'm sorry for leaving you… — He walks around the table, his index finger rising from the tip of your right finger, then over your elbow, shoulders and finally chin, raising his gaze even higher to him. — Waiting. He lets go of your face, purposefully scraping his nail on your jaw, testing your reaction. Sitting down in front of you, he removes the scarf, playing with the fabric in his hands, rolling and unrolling it in the palms of his hands. You also bring the squid to your mouth, looking into his eyes as he speaks to a waiter. However, instead of biting into the seafood, you place your tongue inside the circumference of the food, making a circular motion to slurp the sauce. He bites his lip hard, pulling the man's arm and stuffing some bills into his pocket, which the man immediately smiles and bows. She looks back at you, who swallows the food, also teasing him. “Aren’t you going to eat?” You asked, pointing to the almost empty plate. Your metaphor hovers in the air, and Clay stretches his foot towards you, his Oxford shoe scraping against your expensive pantyhose, caressing it. You melt into your chair, relaxing your back, while your left hand is held by his hand, his ring and index fingers fingering your palm, calling, asking. Until he finally answers: “Expensive dishes are eaten in the presidential suite.” Fuck, you could have come just with that sentence, as he brings his Negroni to his lips, his foot hooks on your calf, locking your body. The red liquid fell from the corner of his mouth, staining his jaw, he cleans the red trail with his tongue, spreading it over his white teeth. At the same time you squeeze his hand tightly, he finally laughs mockingly. “I guess we can skip to dessert, right?” You don't know how you got out of that table, you don't know how you got to the rooftop, the place full of yellow lights, drinks and food. The fireplace rising like the excitement that grew inside you. When the door closes, he goes to the fireplace, arranging two shallow glasses of drinks, and cut Sicilian lemons, the bucket full of ice, you remove your coat, shirt, pants, if you could you would tear off your skin so he could touch your veins directly with his fingers, bursting veins and arteries. When he turns around, his gaze was almost adoring, as he unbuttoned the buttons of your shirt, tilting his head to the side, calling you. When he is only in his pants, you approach, your fingers exploring his body, tracing the cut on his toned chest, taking another step, you glued your mouths. He tasted like Negroni, seafood, salt, and, most of all, the flavor of fire. He pushes your body back, just to have the pleasure of taking you in his arms, because he knows you are too weak to stand. His tongue swirls in your mouth, turning your face with his head, while his arms hold your band with a baby, placing you on the counter above the fireplace, on a blanket, right next to the condiments he left there. He gently places your feet locked on his back, the heat of the fire scraping your panties. Scaring you. You bring your hands to the back of his neck, trying to pull his face away from yours. "The fire… you're going to burn us…" He pulls away obediently, but smiles playfully. Getting closer to your ear, removing your bra: "It won't be the fire that will burn you, my princess." He turns his attention to your neck, biting your skin lightly, your hands go to his strands, messing up his silky blond locks, scratching your scalp when he bites your skin, eliciting a louder moan. "Are you okay, princess?" — He stops, resting both his hands on your hip bones, looking worriedly into your eyes. You roll your eyes and beg: — Please, suck me, Clay.

Something breaks inside him, his gaze becomes volatile, he pulls your panties and socks down your legs, letting the heat of the fire touch your feet. He stands up, picking up several pieces of flaky ice, tracing your neck with his mouth and the ice between his teeth. The contrast makes you gasp, your nails scratching his back, the ice melting on your warm skin, at the same time as the flow of your waters begins to wet his fingers as they explore you slowly. Opening your big lips, making sure to make himself heard and listen to your waves. He strums her with the strings of a guitar, extracting the most beautiful sounds from her, until Clay silences her with his lips on yours, you tremble with your mouth frozen due to the cold of the ice cubes. In a moment the blue of his orbs open and he pulls away slightly: "I want to try something, do you think you can handle the ice?" — Your hand stills, your two fingers inside you stop moving inside you, but he curls his digits, touching something inside you that makes you scream. — You certainly melt the ice of any glacier. He kisses you again hungrily, his breath smelling like you. His ambiguous sentence makes you want to cry, after all you didn't know who had melted whose barriers. But you knew that Clay Beresford was yours, completely and entirely yours. Just as you were his, completely and entirely too. He takes a step back, letting go of your face, supporting you better on the fireplace, you can see his chest covered in sweat, as if he was melting, the fire was literally and figuratively between you, and he loved to burn himself. His skillful hand squeezes the Sicilian lemon into the shaker, adding cachaça, lemon slices, honey, and finally closing it and shaking it with measured force, you tremble in your place, your hawk eyes hunting him, analyzing his black pants, marked by your excitement. When he finished, he poured its contents into a Martini glass, placing a dehydrated lemon slice on top. Lifting the drink to his full lips, sipping it, then smiling, he looked into your eyes over the crystal: — It's missing ice… — He leaves the glass on the floor, and approaches again, picking up the bucket of ice, holding some in his hand. — How fast can I make you cum with my mouth?

At that moment you laugh, finally understanding his goals, determined to embark on his idea, you teased: — The ice can't melt… — She holds his face with the tip of her nails, scratching his cheek affectionately. — Show me what you're capable of, that mouth does more than just… — She lowers his head down your torso, watching him put 3 ice cubes in his mouth. — Business. When his mouth touches your pussy, a volcano rises in your senses, and screams erupt. He's not calm, he's not delicate like Clay usually is. And he knows it. His tongue moves, spinning the ice at your entrance, while his nose presses your clitoris hard, almost choking on the ice, but he persists, saliva and water mixing with your juices. His hands, once gentle in caressing you, now grip your thighs fiercely. Keeping you still. When you try to lift yourself towards his lips, he holds you with his arms, intertwining his fingers over the hair on your skin, at the same time pulling you lower, the heat of the fire embracing your perineum.

The room echoed with the moans, the calls. The prayers. The musk of her flavor tempering the frozen stones that were still intact in Clay's mouth. Her nails grip his hair tightly, then her palms caress his abused scalp in a silent apology. He brings his mouth to the glass with the Sicilian lemon caipirinha, his favorite, and he sips the drink in a short gulp, approaching and kissing his hair as he holds the crystal glass.

— Sicilian lemon is undoubtedly a wonderful ingredient… — He licks its residue from your hair and skin, savoring your cum. — But you are the most addictive drink in the world… — He goes between your breasts, resting his hand on your cheek, in complete contrast to the fury he felt sucking you off a few minutes ago. — I'm drunk because of you, damn it. He drinks more of the drink, offering it to you, who shakes her head, scraping her foot against his pants, feeling your excitement. And your laugh rises, as you pick up the phone forgotten by your side. You pull his body towards you, feeling him play with your nipples, laying your head on his sternum. When you dial a number, your hand goes to the back of his neck, keeping him still. — I want the ingredients to make the Spanish drink in suite 501. — He makes a move to get up, but continues kissing your pink bud. — Except for the condensed milk, I… — You look down, and Clay returns your cheeky look, his foot pinching your member, making you bite your tongue and moan. — I already have what I need. — He stands up, holding your face. Glazed like a dog on hunting day. — Thank you. When the call ends, he pulls you into another kiss, the taste of lemon explodes in your mouth, as well as the undeniable taste of Clay. — Are you going to try all the drinks? — He asks, biting your ear slowly, and pulling you to the floor. Holding your body close to his own. — Wait for the sun to come up so you can go… please. — He begs with doe eyes, big and loving. And you simply smile as you say: — I have a tolerance for alcohol, and you Clay? — He smiles cynically, approaching you again. — I have all night.

Lady Ana Schmidt

[prettyboysdontlookatexplosions]

wow what a great weekend i wound up having, largely unexpectedly! friday morning zoom with a friend straight to hanging with a friend in town from far away, down to brooklyn for a single tutoring session & then home and back out to a bar 5 minutes from my apartment that i didn't know existed and has shockingly good vibes (to me, known bar hater) because people were hanging out; saturday thrifting & hot chocolate with a friend who talked me into buying a pair of $15 men's wranglers i wasn't sure of but now am obsessed with and feel when i am wearing them like liz lemon in that episode where she gets those jeans that make her butt look amazing and then has to give them up because the company is owned by halliburton, then home to leg day and back out to a slight but very entertaining musical about a robot band because a friend had a last minute extra ticket, then from there to a holiday party downtown where i mostly hung out with the same people i had hung out with on friday; and then today somehow another last minute ticket appeared, this one to a screening of the philadelphia story, which was somehow my first katherine hepburn picture and i do understand now why my friend who has been Like That about her our entire lives is Like That about her... i mean like wow.... anyway and then home for a zoom session and sunday treat korean take-out and, mostly, washing 5 million dishes, resulting in a kitchen that is not quite clean but has crossed the threshold where i no longer open the door to the apartment upon arriving home and think for a second "my kitchen makes me want to kill myself" lol.

anyway! we are in the final two weeks before break, and three students had their final sessions (or final before resuming in january) this week, with one more coming this tuesday, a week earlier than i thought due to some confusion over his test date... we're really winding down now... the week came in at just under twenty seven and a half hours so planning to put in about 25 this week should be fine in terms of stuff getting done. i feel like my surprise streak of fun things happening sort of broke me out of my tunnel vision re: Must Always Be Highlighting and i feel much calmer about the idea of for example prioritizing ending this week with also my room doesn't make me want to die lol. i dooooo want to be prepped at least for my first few sessions back before i go into full Vacation Mode which will require some willpower.... but i think it'll be fine since next week i have like five sessions total.

this week i only worked out 3 times partly due to busyness partly due to soreness but it was a run of HIIT day, upper, & lower, so at least it was a well balanced 3. also it's good to take stock and think about how wild it would be to me a few years ago to think of conceiving of a 3-workout week as an "only." it continues to be annoying that i had to take time off and now have to take body-acclimation time so close to the end of the program but on the bright side i am 3 days away from the end of the program! amnesty got bumped thank goodness and that will definitely get a bigger priority this week especially since my replacement pair of earbuds whose sound quality i don't hate should arrive soooon... it's starting tomorrow and luckily the one song i've blurbed so far is on the roster so i am so far on track for doing at least a blurb a day. that & the room thing are the preoccupations for the week i think!

[alecjmarsh]

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NEW CANDLES - AO3 tags

PWP - lemons ;)

Hurt/comfort - sage and lavender, a cozy bedroom

Fake dating - mint mojito, a very public bar

F or die - fruit and musk, an aphrodisiac

Slow burn - pine and smoke, a smoldering fire

Enemies to lovers - sweet plum and spicy rosemary

BALDUR'S GATE

Astarion - his cologne (Rosemary, bergamot, absinthe). Ask me sometime about what an epic pain in the ass this one was to blend. However, it IS my new favorite so I guess this sad wet cat knows something about scents.

Gale - mystic library, cedar wood, magical saffron

Karlach - strong espresso, creme brulee

Lae'zel - mountain mist

Shadowheart - orchids, lemons, lime, religious fervor

Wyll - old growth forests, oakmoss, amber

An old favorite people people slept on

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Are you an author? I do bulk discounts for kickstarters and preorder rewards! Are you participating in nano? I do custom single order candles for nano novels. Not sure what you like? Give me a vibe or a tasting note and let me be your sommelier.

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[strgbird]

#SABRIEL tags: Drabble ×Slow Burn ×Alternate Universe - High School ×High School ×Alternate Universe - College/University ×Alternate Universe - No Supernatural ×Pre-Law Student Sam Winchester ×Artist Gabriel (Supernatural) ×Painting ×Domestic ×Friendship/Love ×Friendship ×Hurt/Comfort ×Unrequited Love ×Not Actually Unrequited Love ×Pining ×Pining Gabriel (Supernatural) ×Nerds in love ×Coffee Shops ×Pre-Stanford Era (Supernatural) ×Stanford Era (Supernatural) ×Stanford University ×Stanford Student Sam Winchester ×Songfic ×Title from a Gigi Perez Song ×I Wrote This While Listening to Gigi Perez ×

🖤SOMETIMES🖤

chapter 1

Gabriel never noticed when it started. Maybe it was always there, threaded quiet and harmless between hallway glances and the way Sam tapped his pencil during study hour. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Not when Sam sat three chairs away, all long limbs and ambition, muttering something about pre-law and scholarships with his hair falling into his eyes. Not when Gabriel was just passing time before graduation, slipping out of chemistry to sketch in the stairwell, smelling like acrylic and lemon gum.

Sam was younger. And straight. And so very serious.

Gabriel liked soft boys with sharp mouths, liked loud girls with fast cars, liked people who looked like neon signs when they laughed. Sam didn’t laugh much. He smirked, sometimes. He talked like he had somewhere to be, something to prove, and he looked at Gabriel like he was trying to figure out what didn’t fit.

It should’ve been annoying.

But Sam asked questions no one else did. He watched Gabriel paint once, said nothing for twenty full minutes, then told him the color looked like a bruise. Like something healing. Like something honest.

Gabriel had looked away too fast. His fingers had gone still, and the silence had pressed too close.

Sam never brought it up again. But the next week, he gave Gabriel a book on modern art movements with a sticky note tucked between the pages:

"I think you'd like this. Thought of your stuff on page 63."

He had. Gabriel flipped to that page a lot more than he meant to.

Gabriel flipped to that page a lot more than he meant to.

It was dumb. It was just a book. Sam had probably done the same thing for a dozen other kids—he always carried too many books, always had notes tucked into margins like breadcrumbs. Still, Gabriel found himself glancing at that stupid yellow sticky note every time he saw the book on his nightstand. He hadn’t taken it out. He hadn’t moved it.

Now, the library was quiet except for the gentle hum of the heating vents and the occasional scratch of pencils. Gabe had ducked into the corner table near the back, sketchpad open, but nothing was coming out. Just spirals and half-faces and a smudged fingerprint where he’d rubbed too hard at the charcoal.

He almost didn’t notice Sam sliding into the seat across from him.

“You’re in my spot,” Sam said, not looking up as he pulled a thick binder from his bag. His voice was calm, but Gabriel could see the flicker of amusement around his mouth. A barely-there smile.

Gabriel raised a brow. “Didn’t know we were getting territorial now.”

“You’ve sat here every Tuesday for three weeks. I figured that was a declaration of war.”

Gabe smirked. “Guess I’ll just have to fight you for it.”

That made Sam look up. Not all the way—just enough that their eyes met, and Gabriel felt it like static. Something unspoken moved between them, familiar and strange.

Then Sam glanced down again and shrugged. “I’d win.”

“You think you’re stronger than me?”

“I think I’d bore you into submission with legal jargon.”

Gabriel laughed, genuine and short. It startled them both.

Sam tilted his head, just slightly. “You should laugh more.”

And Gabriel, heart caught somewhere between a smile and a breath, couldn’t think of a single damn thing to say.

***

There are things you don’t notice while they’re happening.

Like how often you start memorizing someone else’s routine. The sound of their footsteps coming up the stairs. The way their laugh changes when they’re tired. The little things they do when no one’s looking—like how Sam chews the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking too hard, or how he always taps twice on the lid of a coffee cup before taking a sip.

Gabriel told himself it didn’t mean anything. You could learn anyone like this, if you saw them enough. If they let you in enough.

Still—there were parts of Sam that Gabriel didn’t know how to unsee.

“Hey, genius,” Sam muttered, nudging Gabriel with the corner of a textbook, “your toast is burning.”

Gabriel blinked. He’d been standing in front of the toaster, staring blankly at the counter. He glanced down at the toast—well, carbon square now—and groaned.

“That was my last piece of bread.”

Sam didn’t even flinch. “I brought muffins.”

“Did I ever tell you you’re my favorite person?”

Sam smirked, pulling a crumpled paper bag from his backpack. “Only every other day.”

They ended up sitting on the Gabriel’s kitchen floor, backs against the cabinets, sharing chocolate muffins and cold coffee. 

The conversation drifted—school, finals, college, the annoying new librarian who hated teenagers. Gabriel wasn’t really listening to what he was saying anymore. He was too busy watching the way Sam’s hand curled around his paper cup, the way his head tilted slightly when he laughed. There was a muffin crumb at the edge of his mouth. Gabriel wanted to brush it away, and that thought hit harder than he expected.

Shit.

He looked away fast, heart skipping in that terrible, familiar way. It was happening. It had been happening.

And Sam didn’t know.

Worse—Gabriel was pretty sure Sam didn’t even think of him that way. Not really. Not the way Gabriel did, not with this low ache in his chest and a thousand words he couldn’t say.

“Gabe?” Sam asked, voice soft.

Gabriel blinked. “Yeah?”

“You spaced out.”

Gabriel forced a smile, too sharp at the edges. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

Gabriel shrugged. “How badly I want a second muffin.”

Sam laughed. “You could just ask, you know.”

Yeah. Gabriel thought.

I could.

[acideathr]

‧₊˚♪𝄞࿐₊˚⊹ 𝖙𝖜𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖜𝖔𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝄞₊ ⊹ 𝖇𝖔𝖔𝖐 𝖔𝖓𝖊 ● 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖗𝖊𝖉-𝖗𝖔𝖘𝖊 𝖙𝖞𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖙 ⤿ 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗲 ● 𝗮 𝗺𝗲𝗮𝗹𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝘁

♫ .. “ ... 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘹𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 ... “ ★ . •° . －𝘢𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘳 ．．• ♡︎

cater: hey, riddle! what's shakin', pal? you're lookin' adorbs, as always!

riddle: hmph. cater, keep running that mouth and you'll lose it — along with the rest of your head.

cater: sorry, sorry! my bad!

grim: myah?! you're the guy who put that stupid collar on me at the orientation ceremony!

riddle: and you're the new students who were nearly expelled yesterday.

riddle: i'll ask that you not refer to my signature spell as a "stupid collar."

riddle: the headmage's habit of tolerating rulebreakers like you is going to send this entire campus spiraling into chaos one day.

riddle: those who break the rules should have their heads removed immediately, without exception.

ace: dude, seriously? this guy looks like a wimp, but talks like a monster!

riddle: the headmage may have forgiven you, but if you break any further rules, i assure you i will not.

ace: so, uh, listen, housewarden, sir... any chance i could get you to remove this collar?

riddle: i had intended to remove it once you'd taken an opportunity to reflect upon your crimes.

riddle: but i've not detected so much as a hint of remorse in the foolishness i've heard you spout today.

riddle: so i think i'll let you keep that for a while.

riddle: don't worry. the freshman curriculum is more focused on magical theory than practice.

riddle: and your inability to use magic will help prevent incidents along the lines of what happened yesterday.

riddle: now, if you've finished your meal, you should quit gossiping and prepare for your next class.

riddle: rule 271 is quite clear: "one must leave the table within fifteen minutes of completing their lunch."

riddle: you do understand what happens to rulebreakers, i trust?

ace: *sigh* more insane rules...

riddle: i believe you mean to say, "yes, housewarden!"

deuce & ace: yes, housewarden!

riddle: very well, then.

trey: don't worry, i'll keep an eye on them.

riddle: hmm. as vice housewarden, i trust you'll avoid any further indiscreet conversation.

riddle: now, as per rule 339...

riddle: "the post—meal beverage is to be lemon tea with two sugar cubes."

riddle: thus, i must go to acquire my sugar cubes. farewell.

riddle: don't even get me started on their violation of running out of sugar cubes...!

cater: yeesh! that was terrifying.

grim: that guy... has some serious issues.

deuce: hey, don't disrespect him!

heartslabyul student a: is the housewarden gone?

heartslabyul student b: i totally just broke rule 186, "never eat a hamburger on tuesday."

heartslabyul student b: i don't know what i would have done if he'd caught me!

heartslabyul student b: *sigh*... i wish he wouldn't come here so we could at least eat lunch in peace.

cater & trey: ......

trey: riddle managed to secure the housewarden title before the end of his very first week at school.

trey: i know he can come off a bit harsh, but he's not a bad guy. everything he does, he does because he thinks it'll improve the dorm.

grim: would a good guy go around putting collars on strangers' necks?

cater & trey: heh heh...

yuu: that was your fault for causing trouble, grim.

grim: grrrrr... but that collar really hurt, and it shut off all my magic! that's just rude!

cater: hm? you're curious about riddle's signature spell?

deuce: that means, like... it's a spell that only he can cast, right?

trey: i doubt he's the only person in the whole world...

trey: but yes, a signature spell is a magical ability that is, generally speaking, unique to its user.

trey: you'll learn about them in class soon enough.

cater: riddle's signature spell allows him to temporarily seal away the magic of another.

cater: the spell is named...

riddle: off with your head!

grim: even the name is completely psycho!

cater: to a mage, losing the ability to use magic is about as painful as losing your head completely.

cater: which is why all of us at heartslabyul house try hard not to violate riddle's rules.

trey: and as long as you are following the rules, riddle isn't so scary.

ace: speaking of which — are you still not gonna let me into the dorm until i buy a tart, cater?

cater: don't @ me, but... yeah. that's rule 53, so my hands are tied.

cater: also, riddle always looks forward to having the first slice of a tart.

cater: so if you want him to forgive you, you had better bring a whole tart!

ace: what happened to "we're all from the same dorm, let's try to get along?" throw me a bone here!

cater: that's one thing. this is another.

deuce: a whole tart has gotta be pretty expensive.

ace: seriously? i don't have that much money!

cater: then why not make one yourself? trey made those three tarts by hand, after all.

yuu: it has to be cheaper than buying one.

ace: you made those tarts, trey? that's incredible! that was like something you'd find at a bakery!

trey: heh. i appreciate that. we do have most of the stuff you'd need, but...

trey: i'm afraid i'll need something from you in return.

ace: you're gonna charge me to make it?! what kinda racket...?!

trey: nah, i wouldn't take money from a freshman!

trey: but riddle wants a chestnut tart next, so i'm gonna need you to gather a ton of chestnuts.

ace: like that's any less of a hassle. but... fine. how many do you need?

trey: well, it's for the unbirthday party, so... probably two or three hundred?

deuce & grim: did you say HUNDRED?!

trey: and they're all gonna need to be boiled, shelled, and pureed.

grim: alright, i'm gonna head out.

deuce: i'm leaving too.

ace: you heartless cowards!

cater: hold up! haven't you ever heard that food tastes better if you make it with your friends?

cater: this'll be a memory to treasure! it could even be your chance to make a splash as a cooking blogger!

trey: don't tell riddle, but chestnut tarts are at their tastiest when eaten right out of the oven.

trey: and the only people who get to experience that culinary privilege are the ones who make it.

grim: well, when you put it that way... come on, humans, let's do this!

yuu: where can we find chestnuts, anyway?

trey: i heard there's a whole bunch of chestnut trees in the woods behind the campus's botanical garden.

ace: cool. plan made. let's meet at the botanical garden after last period.

grim: we're gonna be up to our ears in chestnuts!

⭑♪⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 ⭑♪⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝘁𝗮𝗴𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁

©𝗖𝗢𝗣𝗬𝗥𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 ● @acideathr 2025 ⤿ my work is not yours to take; posting chapters requires significant time and effort. all credit is due to aniplex and yana toboso; show your support by downloading the twisted wonderland. this blog particularly caters to players who cannot access the en game because of their region or those who aren't willing to download the game

[0perfectimperfections0]

Which uglydolls characters do you think these songs describe:

-Love Like You (feat. Rebecca Sugar)

-Saint bernard (panicking at the wrong disco lincoln)

-little girls (Cameron diaz)

-Brutal (Oliva Rodrigo)

-jealousy jealousy (Oliva Rodrigo)

-good 4 u (Oliva Rodrigo)

-Wrecking ball (Mother Mother)

-Cults (Guided Lily)

Two birds (Regina Spektor)

-Are You Satisfied? (MARINA)

-Notion (The Rare Occasions)

-Alien Blues (Vandabar)

-Oh No! (MARINA)

-I Deserve to Bleed (Sushi Soucy)

-dumb dumb (mazie)

-digital silence (Peter mcpoland)

-everybody likes you (lemon demon)

-Romantic Homicide (d4vd)

-I love you so (the Walters)

-Step on me (the Cardigans)

-YKWIM (Yot club)

Finally getting to this post even though it's been months since I started working on it. I got halfway through these songs before life slapped me in the face, so let's finish it up!

Lord help me, there's someone playing the piano in the Solarium here at college, so there's two polar tunes going through my ears XD

<><><>

Love Like You: Nolan - Ha! You thought I was gonna say Lou, right? Well, I thought about it, but the line "And I'm nothing like you, look at you go, I just adore you..." and so on makes me think of Nolan when he was obviously trying his best to get Lou's attention. He was focusing in the class and trying to keep up with the training, heck, he made it to the Gauntlet. Despite Lou calling him ugly, he still tries to make Lou proud of him or change his mind. "If I could begin to do something that does right by you, I would do anything."

Saint Bernard: Sorry, but this song was confusing, and I honestly was thrown off too much by the slightly off-key singing that...bleh, no sorry XD

Little Girls: Kitty - Here me out, it gives off more Kitty vibes. I debated it feeling more like for Lou, but it's giving me "Ugh, no, you imbecile" vibes. The way she sings as well is the way I imagine Kitty singing. She's also kinda stuck with Lydia and Tuesday despite acting like she's absolutely fed up with their two brain cells.

Brutal: Kitty - Way too insecure and earnestly faking being okay to be anyone else. Also, "only have two real friends:" Tuesday and Lydia?

Jealousy Jealousy: Mandy - I think one of the main reasons that she hangs out with the Spy Girls is because she wants to be just like them. I don't think they just spotted her one day. Kitty doesn't strike me as that type of person. I think Mandy earnestly sought them out and has been trying to prove that she's as good as them.

good 4 u: Lou - This definitely screams Lou and how he dealt with Ox after their friendship ended. It also didn't help that Ox was living up the dream in Uglyville despite his nature, whilst Lou was still stuck in a perpetual nightmare.

Wrecking Ball: Wage - I feel like this is definitely Wage. She can be a little fireball (and she is during most of the movie). And most of her decisions are impulses of her anger or other unruly emotions. I feel like she just embraces her unvisceral emotions.

Cults: Lou - The middle verses kind of throw me off, but the main chorus of "Haven't I given enough?" is definitely Lou-coded for self-explanatory reasons.

Alien Blues: I've heard this song before and absolutely can't stand it for the same reasons as "Saint Bernard", sorry XD, but I don't think I can listen to it purposefully.

Oh no!: Moxy - Despite the whole "friends are great" outlook Moxy seems to have during the movie, she's very self-centered. She was fully prepared to go through the Gauntlet and portal without telling any of the other Uglies back in Uglyville. If it hadn't been for Lou's interference, the other Uglies would still be stuck. Moxy definitely has her own future set in stone.

dumb dumb: Wage - She definitely gives off the "I'm surrounded by idiots" energy. I know, you probably expected me to say Lou, but I honestly think that Wage would be the one to secretly believe everyone is on a lower IQ level than her. She did constantly try to tell Moxy that her plan was outrageous. She also gives UglyDog a hard time.

Everybody Likes You: I couldn't find this song

Step on Me: Nolan - I honestly think that Nolan wholly accepts (tolerates) any treatment from other dolls. He'll withstand the insults and bombastic side eyes if it means playing peacekeeper.

YKWIM: Ox - I feel like closer toward the end of his friendship with Lou, he felt as if he was getting in the way of Lou being a functional leader in the Institute.

<><><><>

Yeah, I admitted some because it's been months since this ask came in and a little bit shorter since I had first worked through the songs. The few songs I deleted from my analysis is because I just didn't have the attention span to listen to them or they really confused me because of the lyrics.

But yeah!

[yeuxverts00]

Hi! I can't put into words how amazing I think TLTB is. I am in awe of you and can't quite grasp how you have been able to put this together. I bow at your altar and beg for your to give me more chapters. (Since this is roman inspired, is a blood sacrifice required or will some food suffice?)

To my question, is now (before part 4) a good time to start a re-read, or is there another point up ahead where it will fit better? I have planned to do read it from the beginning before it ends (oh, the horror) and wondered if there is good point to do it. I have been along since the first chapter, and I tremble at the thought of this masterpiece ending.

Sending you all the love!

WOW, what encouraging and kind words to be offered on this lovely Tuesday afternoon, thank you very much!

As to how I put the story together I am a nerd about process and will happily discuss it at absolutely any time in [probably painful] detail, but since that wasn’t actually your question I’ll refrain for the time being.

I do love a good snack, and my writing time usually finds me Liz-Lemon-style working on my night cheese, but I think right now the only sacrifice required is (maybe unfortunately) your patience. We are getting there though! 12 chapters left (+ 1 faux chapter divider for the Part IV epigraph).

Without spoilers, I think right now would probably be an excellent time for a reread if you were looking to do that.

Reasons why (MAJOR spoilers for beyond Chapter 40), and a possible alternative (potentially a touch spoilery for a chapter coming up in Part IV) below the cut.

I have “there’s a heist in there somewhere” in my tags and that was ostensibly to broadly reference the ministry prison break at the end of Part II, but I always kind of considered Hermione’s actions at the end of Part III to be the real heist of the story. She doesn’t have a team backing her up this time, and she’s got a lot less time to plan, but she puts that plan in place based on a lot of breadcrumbs she’s gathered over the course of the fic, carries it through, heists herself and GTFOs. I think that a reread from the beginning might make sense at this point so you can see where some of those breadcrumbs (my ‘Chekov’s everything’ I guess) entered the picture. You also may have gathered that Part IV is going to involve a bit of a time jump and there is a touch of a fresh start there that makes this a logical place for that.

However, I will say that there’s another chapter that possibly makes sense, and it’s primarily because it required me to do my own reread while I was writing it. There are some chapters, usually the more actiony ones for me, that tend to feel very shit while writing them. When Neilistic and I alpha for each other, we have a joke by now where after sending the other person a chapter or scene we instruct/ask to pitch it/laptop/ourselves out a [low] window. Usually, with a lot of reassurance and a bit of distance, the chapter will actually read great, but sometimes you will be very gently told some stuff needs another look.

This was Chapter 52 for me, and although I can generally bang out a 5K chapter draft in a few days, it took me a couple weeks, because after the first unsatisfactory pass I went back and reread, not from the beginning, but starting at Part III, and I think refreshing myself on all the events of how it played out served the chapter really well. I ended up adding about 2K words, which is what happens whenever I “edit” anything.

Beyond that, there is some backstory information more related to a few side characters in the coming chapters that details in a reread might be more enjoyable to experience after you know what to look for, but totally up to you.

Thank you once again for such a lovely message—it’s very wonderful to know you’ve been along for the ride since the very beginning, and I wish you all the love back!

[musicrunsthroughmysoul]

The show last night was not bad, but after writing a post that I will not post yet about my criticisms of it, it's actually making me rethink my perception of the album (which was not overwhelmingly positive to begin with, hence why I haven't said anything about it yet).

I'm just going to say that I liked Gigaton a whole lot more than I liked Dark Matter (and guess who didn't play a single fucking song off of Gigaton last night! I was surprised to find out that they played "River Cross" on Tuesday, though), and I'm not even sure that I liked more songs off of Gigaton than Dark Matter. You know...that's kind of weird. What it represents, and all that. It's weird to me. And my other post that I will post later will explain this a bit more.

I was going to put this in the tags but man, I'm disappointed in my own thoughts, and I just know that if anyone else willingly (or not) chooses to read them, I'm only going to disappoint you all more. So here is your choice to skip reading this post. This is your fair warning.

PJ (on their last live U.S. tour date): here's a bunch of songs off our new album!

Me: Thanks! I dislike it even more now. 🙃

Like, holy hell bitch, that's not how live music is supposed to work!!!!! That's literally not why bands go on tour! ...it's fucked up! I mean, I don't think I could say that it was a bad show in spite of that, but I have DEFINITELY been to WAY BETTER shows. :(

And yes, a small part of my salt is that they didn't play "Daughter" (my favorite PJ song but also one of my all-time favorite songs EVER) or "Present Tense" or "Betterman" or "State of Love and Trust", I will admit. I already waited six years to see Pearl Jam live. Now I have to wait probably forever again to hear my favorite song live in person? Maybe this is deeply privileged of me to say this, and if so, I apologize for not [yet] thinking deeper about this comment and its impact on others who have never gotten to see the band of one of their very favorite songs live and might not ever, but I'm just not a fan of having to wait forever again to MAYBE hear my favorite song live in person. I am actually a very patient person, but the thought of that wounds me.

I guess sometimes you get to hear the songs you don't want to hear ("Black" and "Spin the Black Circle" - because I hate them, and "Inside Job" - because of what it symbolizes/means to me) more than the ones you do. I guess that's life and it will always be unfair. But with those implied lemons, we do get to choose how we make lemonade, and I think my choice will be that I will not actively choose to see Pearl Jam live again. That's how I feel right now, and maybe, when my feelings about the show aren't as raw (and I'm not still so drained and tired) and I have more time and distance from it to think about it, my feelings will change...but for now, that's how I feel.

[thelasagnacat]

@evildilf2 my amazing oomf tagged me in a "shuffle your music 10 times" so i went ahead and made a spotify playlist where i just complied most of the albums/misc songs i listen to. (BECAUSE spotify doesnt allow you to shuffle all your music). adding commentary to whatever song i get.

okay i tag anyone in spirit who follows me and wants to do this, but i especially tag @kmker i know she has 100000 songs in her library

1. Predator by Nick Lutsko

this is nick at his peak and his favorite song of mine IMO, it's a lot different than most of his newer stuff probably cause it's one of his oldest albums.. you can tell his influence very clearly in his older stuff (this song being primus from what i have heard). also this was my top song of 2024 which says A LOT

2. I Came As a Rat by Modest Mouse

this one is sooo relaxing to me despite isaac's loud ass vocals at the beginning.. its sooooo good to listen to while on a drive at night, (which is true for most of the stuff on this album)

3. Video Games by The Young Professionals

😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 real ones will know why this is here... i cannot believe i got this one i havent listened to it in A WHILE.. i do prefer it over the lana version though

4. Me and Mr Wolf by The Real Tuesday Weld

Oh my god i was hoping this would show up, i love this song LOL its SO fun to listen to!! and i love both of the lead singers' voices so much, it's like a storybook. i do need to listen to more of this band's stuff though because i do feel bad only knowing their most popular song. but its so good IDGAF

5. Running On A Treadmill by Oingo Boingo

okay so i remember when i was deep into my oingo boingo phase, i considered this to be my FAVORITE song of theirs. even though listening now it's a bit boring compared to their other songs on their discography, i think i just picked this one cause i dont think anyone else had this as their fav OB song LOL.. its still good i think but i like Grey Matter better personally now

6. Sweet Bod by Lemon Demon

i swear this sounded so much better like 7 or 8 years ago when i first heard it, WELL i mean its alright, i just think that most of the substance from this song comes from the fact it has SUCH A ODD SUBJECT MATTER i dont think anyone else would write this but neil (in this specific upbeat way atleast). there are definitely better spirit phone songs though LOL

7. Tastes Like Metal by Man Man

ok i cheated i skipped through one really random video game OST to get this on... mostly because i could not say ANYTHING about that song, but this one i can. i love this one dearly even though it definitely has a more "accessible" sound compared to literally anything else by man man. i also really dig the music video for this one, it doesn't fit it AT ALL which makes it so great. Probabllllyyy my favorite song on this release

8. Alejandro by Lady Gaga

like the total drama character hahahhehaha. that's all i can think of when i listen to this. also i like the nightcore version of this better

9. LUVORATORRRRRY! by Reol

dude....... i remember listening to the original version of this SO MUCH when i was younger.. it has a special place in my heart, even though now it's very obnoxious sounding and it'll hurt your ears if it's too loud but IDGAFFFFF

10. Power & Control by MARINA (and the diamonds)

MARINA get ouuuuuut who caaares this song isnt that good lol but ITS FINE...

this was so fun thanks for the tag oomf