#And I wrote a seven-chaptered fic

[revenantghost]

I lied, I think I'll do Mon/Fri since Tuesdays tend to be super busy for me afhsjgjgzjg But there are seven chapters, so four-ish weeks of posting!!!

Ehehehe just finished my final pass for my Vashwood reverse bang fic and it'll start posting this Friday 👀

[captainfairygodmother]

Trying to come up with the full scene-by-scene plot for your long, complicated introductory chapter for your new project is way more difficult than it should be

[sibillascribbles08]

Donatello's work never stops, and while designing and building house hold items may not be his dream inventions, its what his clients ask for. In order to deliver, he looks for inspiration in the showroom of the Nakamura Tech Company building. After hours, of course. But upon breaking in there he gets caught by none other than Jason from the Purple Dragons. Donatello's caught off guard, and even more so when Jase states that he not only works in the building, but he left the Purple Dragons a while ago. With some of the animosity removed between them, Donnie thinks their late night conversation goes pretty well, and does the crazy thing by asking Jase to hang out with him again. Jase also does the crazy thing and agrees. AKA How Donnie and Jase not only quit being enemies but became way more than friends.

Woe, gay people be upon ye

[headfullof-ideas]

I’m changing up some of the math for how long the people of Berk have been there and for how long they’ve been dealing with the raids in my crossover, because the math isn’t mathing

[burr-did-nothing-wrong]

Does a fic from your pinned art alredy exists or....?

You come into my own home and attack me like this

[greenfiredragonfly]

*stares at the book which I have vowed to write fanfic for* like: Yes I could write smut. Yes, I could write fluff, or post-canon character development, or introspection, or missing scenes, or meeting the parents, or or making friends, or exploring the outside world with self discovery, but --

You, my dear beloved author, gave to me an unrequited love situation where a girl is in love with her best friend who falls in love and gets together with someone else while she wasn't even there and didn't have any idea

I'm going to

Im

I might just go in on the most horrible miserable angst that I have ever written. I can do that. It would be easy. I could write heartbreak that would strike down both readers and myself and

*combusts*

*explodes into a fiery ball of light that overtakes the sun*

[woundedheartwithin]

Haaaaaaaaaa….

[fangharel]

we need to talk about The Silence and The Song

[PLEASE READ] edit to add: i realise that this post has been reblogged far and wide and that there is not a lot i can do about it now, but this is me trying anyway.

posting examples from the fic about my issues with its repetitive structure was careless of me, and i apologise to those of you who read it and became insecure about your own writing style. as someone who has worked with ai in academic settings, it's incredibly difficult for me to explain to you how the tone and structure of ai-generated fiction works and how, after reading enough of it, you can simply just tell. i do also realise that this is an incredibly weak argument, which is why i didn't include it when i originally wrote this post.

all that to say: there is an enormous difference between "beginner's writing" and ai writing. being repetitive as a new writer (or a seasoned one who just likes using repetition) is so normal. as is flowery/purple language. i've read hundreds of books and fics and the difference between these traits in ai-text and actual works is starkly clear. please don't feel anxious over the examples i've used in this post.

again, i apologise for any distress i have caused.

as per my last post, i have received a lot of encouragement to go public with this, and the more disappointed people i have in my dms, the angrier i get. so i will.

the silence and the song is an ancient arlathan au DA fic on ao3 by luxannaslut, and it is partly, if not entirely, written by an ai. i have no wish to be involved in any kind of fandom drama or witch hunting or bullying, but as a writer myself there are few things that piss me off more than watching people steal the work of others because they can't be fucked to write. it's disrespectful to your fellow writers, it's disrespectful to your readers, and it's disrespectful to the authors of the works the ai is stealing from.

ai is a plague that has no business being in creative spaces and you must do better.

the writing pattern

there was something very odd and monotone about the sentence structure of tsats that i couldn't quite place, so i fed chatgpt a prompt along the lines of "two people in a fantasy novel hate each other, but they secretly desire one another, and they kiss", and the screenshots above are the results. the third one is an excerpt from chapter 40 of tsats. the writing pattern is identical and it doesn't seem like the "writer" has even bothered to pretend they wrote it. if you're going to use ai, at least be sneaky about it. you know, paraphrase a little.

nonsense descriptions

"her nimble fingers worked with quiet precision" (ct. 1), "his grip firm but tender" (ct. 33), "her gown pooling around her like embers" (ct. 1).

fingers don't make sound, so what does quiet precision mean? as opposed to what? her joints cracking with every movement? how is a grip firm but tender? what does that mean? since when do embers pool?

the entire fic is littered with these adjectives that contradict each other or just straight up do not make sense, because all an ai does is generate descriptive language with no understanding of what the words it's spitting out actually mean. i could spend hours picking out examples from the seven billion pages worth of text, but i quite frankly have better things to do and would simply challenge you to try getting through a chapter or two without noticing the pattern.

repetition at structure-level

all the scenes in this fic are described in pretty much the same way. they open with purple prose vomit of the surroundings; solas is standing somewhere looking "unreadable as ever"; ellana's fiery golden molten fire copper ember ginger red hair is flowing this and that way; there's some dialogue with whoever is present and it leaves ellana feeling different variations of "something she couldn't name". this is, once again, a blatantly obvious sign of ai. below is the result of me feeding chatgpt the line "write me a scene from a fantasy novel where a woman with red hair is sitting on the ground in a magical garden at night", and side by side with that is the opening scene of the fic. make your own judgement.

repetition at word-level

this one speaks for itself. we fucking get it. her dress is orange, her hair is red, mythal's presence is heavy in the room, solas looks unreadable, compassion is sitting on her head like a crown, solas' ears are betraying him and ellana's move with every thought she thinks. we get it. the issue here is that an ai remembers the info you feed it, but not necessarily the info it shits out. if it's being told to write scene after scene of an elven woman with a gown that looks like fire doing xyz, it's going to do so with no regard for how many times the reader has already been informed of these details.

lastly: the breakneck speed

359,6k words in four weeks by a person who allegedly is employed and married and hasn't pre-written anything? no. any writer will tell you that this simply isn't possible. it absolutely infuriates me to see how much praise this "writer" gets for posting up to three full chapters in a day without anyone calling bullshit. i am pulling out my hair, you guys.

why i'm not going to live and let live this one

perhaps i would be less angry if the fic was some silly bullshit court intrigue Y/A stuff, but this is a text that handles very heavy and triggering topics such as SA, coercion, domestic abuse, and other things of the same vein. to sit back and put your feet up while having a robot write these extremely sensitive and very real human experiences with words it has stolen from texts written by actual persons is fucking heinous. the "writer" should be deeply ashamed of themselves and i'm sick and tired of watching people eat up their bs.

and on that note: the amount of people in my dm's telling me that they feel stupid and naive for not clocking this has infuriated me more than anything else. you're not foolish for this. being fed ai-generated bullshit is not what is supposed to happen on any creative platform and much less a fandom-centred one, so of course no one approaches a fic through that lens. fandom and fic writing is supposed to be about passion and the only person in this situation who needs to do better and change their behaviour is luxannaslut. polluting our creative spaces, wasting the time of your readers, and minimising the effort of actual writers who are working hard to provide content for us all to share and enjoy is vile and so, so lazy. i beg of you: do better.

[skiesuconn]

all the ways i stay

paige bueckers & azzi fudd യ notes: it took me a while to find satisfaction with this, but i’ve finally settled on it. i figured i’d jot something down quickly while i work on chapter 3 of the argent. fic. it’s still in the making, but trust me, it’ll be worth the wait. in the meantime, i hope you enjoy this quick blurb i had in mind. also, i highly recommend playing the song mentioned later on—it really brings the moment to life. happy reading, lovelies.

paige never thought she’d be sitting through a rom-com marathon with azzi, yet here they were, limbs tangled on the couch, a half-empty popcorn bowl wedged between them. the air smelled like butter and whatever candle azzi had burning—something warm, vanilla, a little too cozy for a night where paige had fully intended to roast every movie choice.

but azzi was taking this seriously. too seriously.

the notebook had been playing for all of five minutes, and already, azzi was watching like it was a high-stakes thriller, arms crossed, one perfectly manicured hand occasionally reaching up to twist a curl between her fingers. paige, meanwhile, was sprawled out, one socked foot nudging azzi’s thigh, head tipped back against the armrest like she was suffering.

“this is the dumbest shit i’ve ever seen,” paige muttered, watching ryan gosling pull off some grand romantic gesture. “like, imagine a guy hanging off a ferris wheel, threatening to let go unless you agree to a date. that’s not romance, that’s blackmail.”

“he’s being dramatic. it’s supposed to be sweet,” azzi countered, eyes still locked on the screen.

paige huffed a laugh, shifting so her shoulder knocked against azzi’s. “oh, so if i dangle off a balcony and demand you take me to chipotle, that’s sweet? good to know.”

“you wouldn’t last five seconds. your upper body strength is—” azzi let her gaze flick down to paige’s arms, the definition obvious even under her hoodie. she cleared her throat. “never mind.”

paige smirked. “oh no, finish that thought, princess.”

“no.”

paige, who lived for this kind of thing, propped herself up on one elbow, getting close enough that azzi’s perfume curled around her senses. she smelled expensive, like warm florals and a hint of something soft, maybe honey. she should be paying attention to the movie, but instead, she was studying the way azzi’s lashes brushed her cheek when she blinked, the exact shade of brown in her eyes. totally normal. not a problem at all.

“admit it,” paige drawled. “you just got distracted by the guns.”

“i hate you.”

“no you don’t.”

“i do. i hate you so much.” but azzi’s mouth twitched, and her hand, traitorous thing that it was, had found its way to paige’s wrist, fingers pressing absentmindedly into the skin there.

paige noticed, but didn’t comment. instead, she shifted again, nestling further into azzi’s space like she had every right to be there. “okay, but you have to admit this movie is trash. a seven-year breakup over a letter she never got? and then she gets engaged to some other dude just for funsies?”

“it’s about fate.”

“it’s about bad communication.”

“well, not everyone’s an oversharer like you.”

paige grinned. “first of all, rude. second of all, if you ever fell in love with me and wrote me letters for a year, i’d totally read them.”

“good to know,” azzi said dryly, but her fingers curled slightly around paige’s wrist, like she was holding on without thinking about it.

paige caught it this time. dragged her thumb over the inside of azzi’s wrist, slow, lazy. “you’re holding my hand, princess.”

“no, i’m not.”

paige laced their fingers together, making it undeniable. “yeah, you are.”

azzi let out a long, suffering sigh, but didn’t pull away. instead, she rested her head against paige’s shoulder, like it was easier than fighting whatever this was.

“shut up and watch the movie.”

paige smirked. “yes, ma’am.”

azzi groaned. “don’t call me that.”

“whatever you say, sweetheart.” paige turned her head slightly, pressing a lingering kiss to azzi’s temple. it was casual, effortless, like second nature. azzi’s breath hitched, but she didn’t move. didn’t push paige away.

paige still thought the movie was ridiculous, but if it meant getting to sit like this, wrapped up in azzi’s space, maybe rom-coms weren’t so bad after all.

paige stretches out on the couch, head sinking into azzi’s lap like she owns the place. which, technically, she does. well—half of it, at least.

"story: five out of ten," paige announces, dragging a lazy hand through the air. "sure, it's the usual love story. boy meets girl, they fight, they make up, they cry… whatever."

azzi snorts, idly combing her fingers through paige's hair. "so poetic."

paige tilts her head up, grinning. "what can i say? i have a way with words."

"yeah," azzi deadpans. "like a drunk guy at karaoke."

paige gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. "wow. that was personal."

azzi hums, twisting a strand of blonde between her fingers before flicking it back into place. "well, i’d give it an eight."

paige jerks up like azzi just said something blasphemous. "eight? for that?"

"it's a classic." azzi shrugs, like that explains everything.

paige squints. "so is canned tuna, but you don't see me crying over it."

"maybe because you have the emotional depth of a teaspoon," azzi muses, lips twitching.

"okay, rude." paige flops back down, arms crossed. "also, i think we’re ignoring the real issue here. you, azzi fudd, are a rom-com crybaby."

"i am not."

paige smirks. "oh, really? then explain why you sobbed over that one scene in 10 Things I Hate About You last week?"

"because heath ledger was singing in the bleachers, and that’s a valid reason!"

paige hums, tapping her chin. "mm. i dunno. seems a little wimpy to me."

"i'm emotionally intelligent," azzi corrects, flicking paige’s forehead.

"mm. tomato, tomahto." paige closes her eyes, perfectly at peace, until—

"you know," azzi starts, voice all sweet and innocent, which immediately puts paige on edge, "when we're old, you’ll be the one looking for your eye contacts only to realize you’ve had glasses on this whole time."

paige's eyes snap open. "excuse me?"

"just saying." azzi grins, all dimples and mischief. "you give off that energy."

paige sits up, pretending to be offended. "i do not give off ‘losing my own glasses while they're on my face’ energy."

"you so do," azzi counters, biting back a laugh.

"i'm literally the most capable person you know."

azzi raises an eyebrow. "paige, last week you spent ten minutes looking for your phone while you were on a call."

paige squints. "…that proves nothing."

"and two days ago, you left your car keys in the fridge."

paige huffs. "that was one time."

"mm-hmm." azzi pats her cheek, eyes sparkling. "sure, babe."

paige flops back down, grumbling, but as azzi goes back to running her fingers through her hair, she lets the thought settle.

growing old with azzi.

being with her through all the ridiculous, mundane, beautiful little moments life throws their way.

paige isn't sentimental. not really. but the idea sticks, burrows into her chest in a way she can’t shake.

she smacks azzi’s thigh, lightly. "you're annoying."

azzi just laughs, warm and soft, and yeah—paige thinks—maybe she wouldn't mind losing her glasses if it means azzi’s the one to find them for her.

the room still smells like buttered popcorn and the faintest hint of azzi’s vanilla-scented lotion. the air’s a little stuffy from them being curled up on the couch for hours, so paige cracks a window while azzi smooths out the blankets, fluffing the pillows back into place.

"teamwork makes the dream work," paige announces, dramatically tossing a handful of snack bags into the trash like she’s steph curry sinking a three.

except—

clunk. one of them bounces off the rim and lands just outside the bin.

"except when you miss." azzi deadpans.

paige squints. "i meant to do that."

"mm-hmm." azzi picks up the stray bag, dropping it in as paige gathers up the cups. she takes a final glance around, making sure everything's set for the next movie marathon.

when she's satisfied, she turns to paige, a little smirk playing at her lips. "good job, partner."

paige barely has time to process before azzi leans in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to her lips. it’s barely a second, but it’s enough to make paige's brain short-circuit.

"oh." paige blinks, a slow grin creeping onto her face. "so i get kisses for cleaning? noted."

"don't push it." azzi nudges her toward the kitchen, but there’s no real bite to it.

paige busies herself grabbing the cupcake cups while azzi starts setting out ingredients. she fills a few with nuts—strictly for herself, since azzi's allergic and she’d rather not spend the night in the er. then she loads up the rest with fruit, especially kiwi, because azzi swears it tastes like happiness. she adds pineapple and strawberries too, then tosses in some dark chocolate and a generous amount of gummy bears.

azzi watches, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. "so… you’re just making a personal charcuterie board of sweets?"

paige shrugs. "some of us like variety."

azzi snorts. "some of us just like sugar."

"pot, meet kettle." paige gestures at the chocolate chips azzi’s been sneakily snacking on.

azzi flicks a marshmallow at her, and paige, never one to back down from a challenge, pops it into her mouth midair with a smug look.

"show-off," azzi mutters, but her lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh.

they settle into a rhythm, prepping ingredients for the ultimate snack session. paige, of course, insists on making s’mores, because what’s a cozy night without them?

azzi leans against the counter, watching paige work, arms brushing every so often. the night is easy, familiar, filled with little moments like this—bickering over snacks, stolen kisses, the kind of comfortable chaos that only comes with knowing someone like the back of your hand.

and honestly? paige wouldn’t trade it for anything.

azzi pads over to the kitchen, where stewie is curled up in his usual spot, breathing slow and steady. he looks peaceful, like he doesn’t have a single thought in that fluffy little head of his.

she crouches down, rubbing his ears, voice soft. "he’s literally perfect."

"mhmm." paige barely glances up, focused on skewering a marshmallow.

"paige, look at him," azzi insists.

paige, still hunched over the stove, murmurs, "kinda busy making s’moresess right now."

azzi squints. "s’moresess?"

"shhh." paige waves a hand, half-heartedly. "it’s a process."

azzi shakes her head, muttering something about her girlfriend being a lost cause, and moves behind paige, arms slipping around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder.

paige stiffens slightly but doesn’t stop what she’s doing—at least, not until azzi exhales slow and warm against the shell of her ear.

paige’s brain? fried.

her grip on the skewer slips, and the marshmallow nearly meets a fiery demise.

"azzi." her voice comes out a little strangled.

"what?" azzi hums, feigning innocence as she straightens up, leaving paige standing there like a malfunctioning robot.

"you—" paige exhales sharply through her nose. "you almost made me burn the s’more."

"tragedy," azzi deadpans, already moving toward the kettle.

paige glares, but it’s weak at best. instead, she focuses on plating everything while azzi makes herself a cup of tea and grabs some coconut water.

the dorm is spotless, the only sound the occasional clink of dishes and the low hum of the kettle. the candles caroline gifted azzi flicker gently, their scents—vanilla and lavender—mixing in the air, making the whole space feel warm, intimate.

it’s just them. no distractions.

azzi leans against the counter, stirring her tea, watching paige with something unreadable in her eyes.

paige, finally done, turns to face her, a cocky little grin playing at her lips. "so, did you come over here just to sabotage my s’mores, or…?"

azzi takes a slow sip of her tea, gaze steady. "maybe."

paige squints. "that’s evil."

"you love it."

paige sighs, defeated, but she can’t hide the way her smile softens just a little.

azzi kneels beside stewie, fingers ghosting over his soft fur, careful not to wake him. his little chest rises and falls in the slow rhythm of deep sleep, curled up on his uconn-themed dog bed—matching blanket and all. of course azzi had to go all out. paige swears this dog has more school spirit than half the team.

paige finishes up in the kitchen, setting the last plate down before making her way over, dropping onto the floor beside azzi. but while azzi’s watching stewie, paige is watching her.

azzi looks peaceful, more than she has in weeks. this semester drained the hell out of her—paige saw it firsthand, the late nights, the stress, the way azzi pushed herself through it all. and yet, right now, in this tiny little moment, she’s soft, calm, just existing.

paige leans back on her palms, studying her, a quiet sort of pride settling in her chest. that’s her girl. the girl she had all her firsts with.

and tonight? well, she’s about to have another first with her.

azzi really should stop making paige feel like her heart's a metronome—this can't be normal.

paige’s thoughts swirl for a second as she watches azzi, completely unaware of the storm brewing in paige’s head. “if Azzi asked me to climb a mountain right now, i'd probably do it just to see her smile. how much do I need to pay for her to stop being this cute?”

“this is why I’m not allowed near dogs,” paige thinks, watching stewie snooze. "one pet and suddenly I'm invested in a team of athletes who can't even talk."

azzi shifts, catching paige’s gaze. there’s that smile again—the kind that makes paige feel like the world stops for just a second. “Not that I mind,” she thinks, "but damn, this girl has me wrapped around her finger."

and honestly? paige is okay with it.

they’re talking about nothing and everything all at once, voices low, lazy, like the world outside doesn’t exist. sitting cross-legged on the floor, the snacks long forgotten, azzi’s hand moves in slow circles over stewie’s ear, careful not to wake him.

paige, propped up on one elbow, watches her with that look—soft, amused, completely gone. azzi catches it, and for a second, wonders if she needs to take notes because damn, paige's stare is next level.

azzi meets her gaze, smiles, something quiet passing between them.

paige leans in first, and azzi follows, her free hand slipping to paige’s side, fingers pressing just enough to ground them both. she smiles into the kiss before it deepens, slow and sure, like every time they kiss, it means something more. because it does. because it always does.

when they pull back, paige, still close enough that azzi can feel her breath, grins.

“hey az,” she murmurs, voice teasing. “remember that night a few years back when we slow danced on the porch and i stepped on your feet like… fifteen times?”

"of course i do, paige," azzi says, voice soft but sure. "that memory’s engraved in my brain."

she remembers everything—the exact date, the thick warmth of summer, the way the night unfolded like a scene straight out of one of her movies. “And honestly? The embarrassing foot stomping was just part of the charm,” she thinks. the way it led them here, to something that feels eerily similar to what’s about to unravel.

paige raises a brow. "woah, was i really that bad?"

azzi grins, playing with paige’s fingers absentmindedly. "kind of."

paige groans, leaning her head back dramatically. "well, i was nervous, okay? i was dancing with the girl of my dreams."

azzi snorts. "oh yeah?"

"yeah," paige says, eyes locked on hers now. "you were wearing your mom’s pearls that day. that dress i thought was pretty on you, though—let’s be real—all of them were. swear, you could wear a trash bag and i’d still go crazy." she shrugs, lips twitching. "doesn’t even matter what you wear. you are your outfit. if that makes sense."

azzi flushes, her smile growing. she tugs paige closer by her hoodie, pressing their lips together. paige grins into it, hands finding azzi’s waist as the kiss deepens.

when they break apart, azzi hums, eyes playful. "i think the romance movies really got to you, huh?"

paige scoffs. "hey, i’m not the one who wants to watch them."

"that’s true."

"but i wasn’t finished with my little speech, actually," paige adds, tilting her head.

azzi rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. "oh? go on, then."

paige squeezes her fingers, something shifting in her expression—something softer, something certain. "wanna dance?"

azzi’s face lights up instantly. "right here? right now?"

paige nods. "right here. right now."

“Oh god, we’re doing this,” azzi thinks, trying not to grin like an absolute fool.

without hesitation, azzi takes her hand. paige, playing the gentleman, offers it with a dramatic flair, one hand behind her back like she’s in some old-timey movie. “Oh yeah, I’m totally swooning now,” azzi thinks, trying to keep her cool. azzi laughs, but she takes it.

they step into the open space in the kitchen, the only sound the faint hum of the fridge. the soft glow of candlelight flickers against the walls, filling the room with something unspoken. something warm. something that feels like them.

as they settle in, azzi tilts her head. "are we doing a silent slow dance, paige?"

paige blinks. "my bad." she pulls out her phone, scrolling for a second before pressing play. the soft, melancholic notes of my love mine all mine by mitski fill the air.

azzi raises a brow. "since when do you know this song?"

paige smirks. "since sarah put me on."

azzi laughs, shaking her head. as the first seconds of the song settle over them, paige—who’s just a little taller—takes azzi’s hands. azzi sighs, already knowing how this is going to go. "please don’t step on my feet."

paige grins. "can’t promise that."

azzi smiles, and they fall into place like they always do. her head finds paige’s shoulder, her hands finding her waist, and paige isn't forcing a thing. they just fit. like they were made to be here, in this moment, like this.

the song is calm, and so are they, just swaying together. the stillness, the trust, the years of knowing each other—it all settles between them like a quiet understanding. azzi closes her eyes, memorizing every movement, the way their breaths sync, the way their heartbeats seem to fall into rhythm.

paige looks down at her, eyes soft, full of something deeper than words. she presses a gentle kiss to azzi’s head and whispers, "i love you more than you’ll ever know."

azzi lifts her gaze, the candlelight flickering in her eyes. "i love you more than i ever thought i could love anybody."

paige swallows. their bodies are so close, and as the second verse starts, azzi wraps her arms around paige’s neck, resting her chin on her shoulder. her curls brush against paige’s face, tickling her cheek.

"you can put your feet on mine," paige murmurs. "i’ll lift you with ease."

azzi snorts. "you’re ridiculous."

"and yet, here you are, playing into it," paige teases.

but azzi does it, stepping onto paige’s feet, letting her take the lead. it’s ridiculous, yeah, but it’s them.

paige smiles, eyes slipping shut, and this time, azzi’s the one watching her. with nothing but love.

she presses a soft kiss to paige’s cheek, and paige’s lips curl into that cocky smile—the one that always makes azzi feel something she can't quite name.

the way paige’s whole face lights up just from being near her… that’s the kind of love scientists should be writing articles about.

as the song fades out, azzi’s fingers trace lazy circles on paige’s back. they haven’t moved, still molded into each other, warm from the dance, from the love they just shared. they were always meant for this moment.

"can we just stay like this forever?" azzi murmurs.

paige chuckles, looking down at her, at the soft smile on azzi’s face. "and who’s gonna break ankles if we do?"

"kamorea can handle that," azzi says, completely serious.

paige laughs, shaking her head. as azzi pulls her hands back, she really looks at paige. paige is holding her hands now, thumb brushing over her skin, absentmindedly tracing small circles—no, actually tracing azzi’s name on the back of her hand.

azzi bites her lip. "gotta say, you improved. you didn’t step on my foot once."

paige nods, all cocky. what azzi doesn’t know is that paige spent her free time watching dance tutorials. even asked tim—azzi’s father—for tips.

"thank you," paige smirks. "i’m a natural."

azzi scoffs. "sure."

"should we go back to the movies?" azzi asks.

paige stretches. "yeah, just gimme a sec. gotta use the bathroom."

"okay." azzi leans in, pressing a quick kiss to paige’s cheek before heading back to the room.

but paige doesn’t go to the bathroom. instead, she crouches by stewie’s bed, quietly filling his bowl with water, making sure he’s set for the night. she grabs a few dog treats and places them beside him, scratching behind his ear as she whispers—(keep in mind, it’s a dog):

"i’m gonna marry that pretty girl someday. i know you’re her #1, but i’m never gonna stop loving her."

stewie snores in response. paige grins, giving him one last pat before heading back.

when she walks in, azzi’s already curled up, waiting for her with a look of love and safety. paige jumps into bed, and azzi immediately rests her head on paige’s chest.

"let’s do frozen again," azzi mumbles.

paige laughs, pressing a kiss to azzi’s head. "i’m covering your eyes when olaf loses his head."

azzi gasps and smacks paige’s leg. "rude."

as the movie starts playing, the soft glow of the screen flickering against their faces, azzi reaches for a s’more, breaking off a piece for paige. she turns to her, eyes warm, lips curled into a soft smile.

“open,” she says, holding it up.

paige laughs, tilting her head back slightly, and obliges. azzi stuffs the piece in her mouth, giggling as paige tries to chew through the marshmallow, cracker, and chocolate all at once.

“i love you,” azzi murmurs, almost absentmindedly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. because it is.

paige, still chewing, looks at her with the kind of softness that makes azzi’s heart ache in the best way. she swallows, then leans in, brushing her nose against azzi’s.

“i’m right here,” paige whispers, voice thick with certainty, “not going anywhere. always gonna take care of you.”

azzi blinks, the words settling deep in her chest, something warm and overwhelming blooming inside her. she presses closer, burying herself into paige’s arms, where everything feels right.

paige holds her like she’s never letting go.

[strayingawayy]

series: love me two times

businessman minho! x former one night stand reader (and soon to be spouse)

chapter 1: whiskey, regret, and other engagement traditions

read introduction here

word count: 3100 words

WARNINGS: strong language, sexual content (maybe eventual smut if i have the strength to), emotional manipulation, toxic family dynamics, power imbalances, alcohol use, eventual gun violence, blood and injury, blackmail, surveillance, themes of control, secrecy, betrayal, emotional repression, unhealthy coping mechanisms, psychological tension under the guise of romance, dubious business dealings, mentions of public scandal and reputation damage, manipulation via arranged marriage, and consistent, unapologetically bad decision making from most, if not all, characters involved. british humour. in case you all pussy out from that.

A/N: oh my god she's here. chapter 1 is here. i have no clue as to how this is going to end but i put my whole soul, heart, brain and dick into this fic. (which is a lot, mind you) thank you for the support on a whimsical little intro i wrote at my grandparents' house while my dog slept on my feet. thank you thank you thank you. chapter 2 coming next weekend. hopefully. also omg sho's first non lower caps fic

playlist. (coming soon)

─── Lee Minho had always been a man who thrived in chaos. Corporate wars, high-stakes meetings, and PR disasters were his playground. But even he couldn’t have predicted the one nightmare he’d spent years running from would land right back in front of him, wrapped in a perfectly tailored suit, flashing a smile that had ruined him once before.

He could handle anything…

Except the one person who had, through one night alone, known exactly how to bring him to his knees.

Lee Minho liked to think of himself as a man who could handle anything.

Corporate warfare? Child’s play. High stakes negotiations? His playground. He could charm billionaires over black coffee and through a simple peak of his collarbone, crush competitors with a smile, and walk out of a scandal cleaner than he went in, usually with a headline the press couldn’t stop foaming over.

Adaptability was his superpower. Precision, his trademark. Control? Non fucking negotiable.

At least, it had been, until you happened.

Again.

He stared at you, his supposed fiancé(e), the ghost of one of his most notable past mistakes, and thought—briefly, desperately—that maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe he had worked himself into a stress-induced psychotic episode, and in reality, he was rocking back and forth in his office chair while his assistant frantically called for medical assistance. Would he be embarrassed that this would be the second time this would be happening? Maybe. Would he atleast be overjoyed by the fact that you weren't standing before him, far more gorgeous than all those years ago? Absolutely.

But no. This was real. You were real. This was happening.

You were still standing there, looking just as horrified as he felt, though, annoyingly, still unfairly attractive. Time had been disgustingly kind to you. And you had that same look in your eyes as before, the one that told him you were about seven seconds away from causing him severe emotional distress. And possibly a boner. Although he wasn't drunk enough for that. Not yet, atleast.

His brain short circuited as he watched you approach the table. You, of all people. He had been expecting a stiff, glass-of-champagne, charity-gala kind of person. Not you—the human embodiment of bad decisions and incredible, incredible sex.

Minho could laugh. His parents had unknowingly betrothed him to his favourite one-night stand. Brilliant.

“You have got to be fucking with me,” you finally said, sliding into the chair across from him.

“I wish I was,” Minho muttered, picking up his glass of whiskey and downing half of it in one go.

“So,” you said, resting your elbows on the table. “Long time no see.”

Minho blinked at you. Long time no see? You were acting like you’d bumped into him at Tesco, not like you were about to be married to the man you once absolutely ruined in a hotel room after a night of reckless decisions and expensive cocktails.

You, who had once dragged him into a bathroom stall at some questionably pricey nightclub and ruined him for every person he fucked after. Which he unashamedly agreed, were a lot. And the worst part was perhaps, that he remembered everything. He remembered the way you had looked at him that night, like you knew exactly what you were doing, like you had been born to make him suffer in the best possible way. He remembered your voice, the way you had laughed at him when he’d tried to act cool and ended up tripping over his own shoes, too fancy for him at the time. And he remembered the morning after, waking up alone, the only trace of you being a note scrawled on hotel stationery that simply read:

cheers for that. 10/10. no notes.

Minho had never been so simultaneously offended and impressed in his life.

And now? Now he was supposed to marry you? Spend forever with you...or atleast attempt to?

He took another large sip of whiskey.

“So,” you said, eyes sparkling with amusement. “How’s life been treating you? Still a bit of a man whore, or have you finally learned to keep it in your tailored trousers?”

Minho inhaled sharply through his nose. “I am a legitimate businessman.”

“Ah, so still a man whore,” you mused, nodding sagely.

Minho chose to ignore you.

"This… is a mistake," he muttered, running a hand through his usually well tamed hair. "This has to be a mistake."

"Oh, absolutely. Because otherwise we'll have to tell our parents we can’t get married because we’ve already seen each other naked," you say, leaning back in your chair with an unimpressed look. The very same that had drawn Minho to you that night. Because who did you think you were? Ignoring his wit and charm as he sat in the club's sofa, basking in attention and alcohol? The arrogant lad had decided that night, to prove himself to you. And prove, he did. A decision he didn't otherwise regret...until now.

Minho groaned and tried to reach over to his glass of whiskey, only to realise you were already drinking from it. "I swear to God, this is karma. This is divine punishment for my past sins."

"Well, considering your past sins include half of Central London, yeah, probably," you said with a shrug, swirling the now empty crystal glass.

He glared at you, his eyes narrowing with a mixture of exasperation and disbelief. You, in contrast, beamed at him with the kind of saccharine sweetness that suggested you were enjoying every second of his suffering. Minho noted internally, that you'd make a terrible actor, given that while the smile made it seem as though he was the only one seconds away from throwing up, your bouncing knee gave you away.

Minho, for his part, looked as though his soul had momentarily left his body. He blinked slowly, like someone trying to wake from a very specific, very inconvenient nightmare.

"Right," he said eventually, clapping his hands together in a sharp, business-like motion, as though trying to galvanise himself into action. "Let’s get this over with. How are we going to get out of this engagement?"

You shrugged nonchalantly, as if the matter were no more serious than choosing what to have for lunch. "Run away to Spain? Fake your death? Oh! You could seduce my grandmother so she convinces my father to call it off?"

"I am not seducing your grandmother."

"Coward."

Before Minho could offer a retort—no doubt a scathing one—a waiter, appeared at your table. He was the very picture of refined hospitality: all polite smiles, pressed shirt cuffs, and the faint waft of expensive cologne that trailed behind him like a signature.

"Good evening. May I start you off with a drink?"

"Whiskey. Double. Actually, just bring the bottle," Minho said, without so much as a blink, eyes still on you.

"Make that two," you added, not missing a beat, but still being polite and stable enough to break eye contact with Minho and smile at the waiter.

The attendant gave a courteous nod and retreated, leaving behind a faint trail of bergamot and judgement.

Minho exhaled slowly and dropped his head into his hands for a moment before glancing up at you, utterly defeated.

"This is going to be a disaster," he muttered, as if saying it aloud might somehow lessen the blow.

Minho barely had a moment to wallow in the tragic comedy of his predicament — engaged, against all logic, to a person who had just suggested seducing their own grandmother — before reality doubled down.

It came in the form of a booming, far-too-cheerful voice that could only belong to one man.

“Ah, Minho, you’ve met your fiancé(e)! Wonderful!”

The words rang through the restaurant and Minho flinched so hard he nearly knocked over the cutlery. He didn’t dare turn around. There was no need. He knew that voice. That was the voice of a man who thought forced betrothal was not only acceptable, but downright romantic.

His father.

Minho visibly recoiled, gripping the edge of the table as if bracing for impact. He had to physically resist the very natural urge to bang his forehead repeatedly against the pristine linen tablecloth.

And then, his parents descended upon the table in full force — exuding money, control issues, and the smug satisfaction of people who had just solved a problem by creating three more.

His mother was dressed in a sleek, couture suit that probably required its own bank account, looking every inch the woman who judged people based on the mineral content of their bottled water. His father wore the expression of someone who’d just sealed a lucrative merger and genuinely believed his son should be grateful for it.

And then there was your dad.

Looking every bit like the kind of man who once tried to bribe a headmaster with a case of vintage wine and a framed photo of himself shaking hands with a minor royal. So what if you weren't the best at studies during school? Was it really your fault that your Physics teacher was a bigger bitch than daddy dearest here?

Minho had never met him before, but he looked exactly as one might expect the father of someone like you to look—sharp suit, sharper glare, and the quiet intensity of a man who considered emotional vulnerability a personal failure. He radiated a kind of heavy, generational disappointment, like someone who’d been sighing over your life choices since the moment you learned how to form opinions of your own.

“Hello, sweetheart,” your dad said, planting a quick kiss on your forehead, affectionate in the way a CEO might congratulate a junior employee for not burning the office down. Then he turned to Minho, assessing the man who was supposed to be his future son-in-law with a look that would've made 16 year old Minho audibly whimper.

Your husband-to-be, drawing out every ounce of his professionalism, business acumen, and carefully cultivated adult composure, managed to respond with:

“Hi.”

Brilliant. Smooth. Absolutely nailed it. James Bond could never.

Your dad, unsurprisingly, looked as though he’d just been personally insulted.

Minho’s own parents, however, were beaming across the table, undoubtedly proud of their matchmaking skills.

“This is perfect,” his mother gushed, settling into her seat like she’d orchestrated the entire evening herself (she had). “I knew you two would suit each other.”

Minho let out a laugh that could only be described as emotionally strangled. Suit each other? Yes, absolutely. Because nothing screamed long term compatibility like a one-night stand from his blackout phase that he'd spent the past few years actively repressing, only to now be legally tethered to it in holy matrimony.

“So,” your dad said, leaning back in his chair with all the gravitas of a man about to sign a trade deal. “Shall we discuss the terms of this marriage?”

Terms. Terms. Marriage. Minho wasn’t sure which part of that sentence he found more horrifying — the casual contract language or the undeniable implication that none of this was a joke.

Minho looked at you, searching your face for some kind of solidarity. Instead, he found you sipping your whiskey like it was just another Wednesday, eyes half-lidded, posture relaxed—like this whole thing wasn’t giving you heart palpitations.

But oh, it was.

You weren’t calm. You were resigned. You’d played this game before. You knew exactly how your father operated: charm first, control second, and condescension somewhere in between. This wasn’t a dinner—it was a business meeting. And you were already sick of it.

“Well,” his father said briskly, “the wedding will take place in three months.”

Minho choked violently on his drink. “Three months?!”

“Yes,” his mother replied smoothly, not even blinking. “Any longer and people will start gossiping.”

Gossiping. Of course. Because obviously, public perception was the real villain here.

“Three months is plenty of time,” your dad added, nodding with the calm authority of a man who hadn’t even asked how you felt about any of this.

Minho's brown eyed flickered to you again, looking for help. A hotline number. A hint of rebellion. Something. Anything.

You just smiled at him.

It wasn’t kind.

“Now then,” your dad continued, “what about a prenup?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Minho’s father nodded enthusiastically. “We’ll have our legal teams draft it immediately.”

“Yes, yes, that’s all well and good,” Minho cut in, finally finding the will to form sentences again. “But- do I get a say in this?”

His mother tilted her head in that familiar, patronising way that suggested she thought his input was adorable but entirely unnecessary.

“Minho, darling,” she said, her tone one of pure condescension, “this is for your own good.”

Your dad chimed in, nodding. “If either of you had a reliable romantic track record, we wouldn’t be here. But let’s be honest-” he waved a hand vaguely in your direction “-you don’t, and-” he turned to Minho, gaze sharp and deeply insulting,“-you certainly don’t.”

You smiled tightly, jaw clenched just enough that it hurt.

Minho felt his soul attempt to vacate his body. Right there. In the middle of this overpriced, mood-lit, jazz-playing nightmare of a restaurant. He was going to die. And the only thing good about a death here would be that Art Blakey was playing in the background.

“So it’s settled,” his mother said brightly, with finality in her voice, “Three months from now, we’ll have a wedding.”

Minho turned to you. You turned to him.

You raised your glass in a slow, sarcastic toast.

“To our bright and happy future,” you said, voice honeyed, but eyes suddenly cold.

And your father smiled like he’d just won. Because unbeknownst to the two of you, he had.

•━━━━━━━━━━━•

Minho had made a lot of terrible decisions in his life. A truly impressive number. Enough to warrant a multi-part documentary series, probably titled Lee Minho: A Lifetime of Questionable Choices—with dramatic re-enactments, ominous voiceovers, and a theme song that sounded like a slow motion car crash. His friends could probably star in it too.

But agreeing (not really) to marry you?

Oh, that was shooting straight to the top of the list. Hall of fame. Permanent exhibit in the Museum of Regret.

Because it had been barely twenty four hours since the disaster that was your engagement dinner, and already, he felt his life being ruined, one sarcastic comment at a time.

“So, how long have you two been engaged?” Felix asked innocently, if one could call anything Felix did innocent, while stirring sugar into his overpriced cold brew.

Minho looked up from his coffee, eyes already tired. He’d made the mistake of inviting you to brunch with his friends. In public. With witnesses. Clearly, he’d suffered a blow to the head.

“Oh, it’s been wonderful,” you gushed. You reached over to squeeze Minho’s hand like you actually meant it. Maybe you did. Minho didn't want to bother with the details if it meant another migraine. “We’ve been informally engaged for a whole, what, twelve hours now? It’s been magical. Truly life altering. I can’t wait to be legally bound to this man forever.”

Minho squeezed your hand back. Hard.

“Yes,” he deadpanned. “Overjoyed. Thrilled. Best day of my life.”

Felix, the little gremlin, grinned, his mind already turning your worrying marriage into a soap opera. “Well, it’s about time you settled down, hyung. You’ve been a menace to society for years.”

“First of all, that is highly inappropriate. I am a legitimate businessma-”

“Mate,” Chan, Minho’s business partner, cut in. “You once forgot a woman’s name mid-bloody-date.”

“And she had to remind you,” Hyunjin added, sipping his neon-green liquid. Whatever it was.

“And you still got her number,” Seungmin chimed in, looking vaguely offended on behalf of all women. You'd be sure to send his number to your recently heartbroken friend.

Minho groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. Why had he thought bringing you to brunch was a good idea? Why had he brought you into public? With his friends at that? He had practically announced a 'Bully-Lee-Minho' day himself.

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said brightly. Too brightly. “He’s very devoted now. Wakes up every morning and just stares at me in awe, whispering about how lucky he is.”

Felix gasped, awestruck at the beauty of love at first sight. “Really?”

“Absolutely,” you said, smiling. “He even cries a little.”

Minho nearly inhaled his coffee. “I do not-”

“He does,” you said solemnly, giving his hand another squeeze. “It’s beautiful.”

Chan leaned back in his chair, way too entertained. “Well, I can’t wait for the wedding. Have you set a date?”

“Not yet,” Minho said quickly, cutting you off before you could say something like ‘we’re thinking next week, on a volcano.’ “We’re taking our time.”

“Oh, obviously,” you added, ever helpful. “We have to enjoy the honeymoon phase before I find out all his deep, dark secrets. Like his skincare routine, or lack thereof. Which I'll have to change either way. Or his browser history.”

Hyunjin gagged. “Please. Spare us.”

“No, no,” you mused, eyes alight with mischief. “I think he’s hiding something. Like a secret past. Maybe he was a failed K-pop trainee. Maybe he’s got a tattoo that says ‘Live, Laugh, Love.’ Or he owns a mug that says Boss Babe.”

"I actually gifted him that." Chan added, sipping his protein smoothie.

“Or if he has a pet rock named Gary, considering one of his girlfriends was Australian,” Hyunjin added and Chan nods proudly.

“Or an old TikTok account where he lipsyncs to early 2000s emo hits,” Seungmin said.

“I knew you gave eyeliner energy,” Felix muttered.

Minho buried his face in his hands. “Please. I am begging you all to stop.”

You just leaned in, resting your chin in your hand as you smiled sweetly. “Aww. He’s shy.”

Minho resisted the urge to walk directly into London traffic.

But even as the table erupted into laughter, and your brunch turned into an impromptu roast, something shifted. A cold thread of unease slid down Minho’s spine.

You were laughing, yes. Playing the part perfectly. But beneath the sparkle in your eyes was something else—something guarded. The way your smile didn’t quite reach all the way. The way your shoulders tensed every time someone mentioned the wedding, like the word itself had claws.

He couldn’t put his finger on it, not entirely. Maybe it was the text from your father that he had watched you ignore minutes ago. Maybe it was the transparent pants Hyunjin had worn years earlier making a reappearance in his head for some reason. Or maybe it was just his own overworked brain, spinning a conspiracy out of nerves and too much caffeine.

Whatever it was, Minho decided to shelve it for later. He had reports to review. Contracts to sign. A mountain of paperwork waiting for him and exactly zero emotional bandwidth to spare.

He’d figure it out. Eventually.

For now, he’d go home, finish his paperwork, and go to sleep.

Not knowing that what he’d wake up to would be far more fearsome than your father’s moustache.

Far, far worse.

Because somewhere, in a dimly lit security office, a grainy CCTV recording, dated four years ago, timestamped 2:14 a.m., was being uploaded by hands far too eager and far too vengeful.

A bed. A hotel logo in the corner. Two familiar silhouettes.

And the unmistakable beginning of the scandal that would burn everything to the ground.

...

taglist: @imfoive @jisunggy @hyunebunx @peskybirdysya @rockstarkkami @knowbites @mischievousleeknow @thepoeticpurplepotato @artemesiareads @valreifang @alisonyus @jisuperboard @8minho @robinnotgood24 @sarahfirecrystals-blog @lmnhx @maskedcrawford @bluesoobinnie @butterflydemons @pinkpunkdynamite @stickymusictale @lazymfblog @krssliu @halesandy @vcordova1460 @gnusihcom @cutecucumberkimberly @coldcraftmusiclight @superwholockiancrackhead @starfishblobblob @privatespotyk @thingsiwannaseelater @loveunt0ld @showingmafandomlove @2minpov @hantaechan @skyinkpop-blog @helpijustgothere @herejusttemporary @kpopenthusiast143 @miyaluvvsyou @shuuporanglinos @abbiestearsricochet @pixie-felix @loxgirl2004 @met30c1ty @feelikecinderella @uhhhhhokay @moon0fthenight @cashtonsbetch

[chvoswxtch]

the bodyguard

[status: completed]

summary: after a series of terrorist attacks in new york, an article you wrote calling out the cowardice of the organization's leader causes you to become a target, and frank castle is assigned to be your bodyguard. the resurgence of former flames and shocking sinister revelations will test just how far frank is willing to go to protect you. divulgences of his mysterious and convoluted past will make you question just how much you can actually trust him. will frank be your savior? or the reason for your demise?

a/n: a HUGE thank you to my love @thyme-in-a-bubble for that incredibly breathtaking header. this series was inspired by the absolutely lovely @lowkeythor's genius request for a bodyguard!frank x reader fic. it is a slow burn-so get comfy. this is a punisher series friends, so there will be mentions of violence and gore, as well as other mature themes. (there will eventually be spiciness bc i can't resist) if you'd like to be added to the tag list for updates, please let me know!

»— anything marked with an astrik contains explicit content. minors dni.

»— all work is my own. please do not repost anywhere else without my consent.

chapter one: it's my job

chapter two: take the day off

chapter three: trouble

chapter four: it's like that

chapter five: conflict of interest

chapter six: invasion of privacy

chapter seven: checkmate

chapter eight: sorry

chapter nine: stakeout

chapter ten: pancakes

chapter eleven: we got a problem

chapter twelve: confession

chapter thirteen: desire*

chapter fourteen: i got you

chapter fifteen: teach me*

chapter sixteen: an adjustment

chapter seventeen: a favor

chapter eighteen: first date*

chapter nineteen: personal

chapter twenty: secrets

chapter twenty one: a little more time

chapter twenty two: fade to black

chapter twenty three: revelation

chapter twenty four: i love you

chapter twenty five: promotion

chapter twenty six: epilogue*

the bodyguard soundtrack

[ozai-the-bonsai]

Like Lovers Do

| Part 1 | Part 2 |

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!reader

Summary: You and Daemon would dream about marrying each other before both of you became victims of political marriages, very much against your wills: he was sent to the Vale and you to the Riverlands. However, when your lord husband passes away, you return to King’s Landing, only to find out that your childhood sweetheart is now wearing a crown of his own.

A/N: I am finally back for the Daemon x reader fics, you lovely people! I hope you still remember me after that loooooooooong gap... Anyways, I once again wrote too much and couldn't even get to the point I was heading - I intended this story to be a one-shot but it seems I will be writing another chapter for the spicy stuff ;) I hope you enjoy it! (I am also open to any Daemon requests you might have for me!)

Warnings: I am not a native English speaker, strong language

Taglist: @throughgoeshamilton @mirandastuckinthe80s @xicesam @mariamyousef702 @eddiemadmunson @dont-try-pesticide @sweetybuzz25 @hc-geralt-23 @schniiipsel @ttae-yong @syrma-sensei @asiludida164 @kaitieskidmore1 @irmavanity-blog @pax-2735 @trickrtreatart @shanzeyxsyed @random-human02 @scarwicht @xcallmetaniax @instabull @niiight-dreamerrrr @my-dark-prince @stargaryenx @abaker74 @babywolff @sonnensplitter @bi-narystars @softtina

You had almost forgotten the way his voice sounded.

Fourteen long years had it been, the last time you were given the privilege to let your eyes wander on his handsome face as long as they desired.

You had expected time to have changed you in all the possible ways anyone could ever imagine, the years you had spent at the Riverlands being no different than a bird in a cage did harden you to your very core; however, the moment his sweet voice reached your ears again, you felt yourself melting just as you did when you were six-and-ten.

For the first time in fourteen years; for the first time after you had left King's Landing, you were feeling the warmth in your heart again, waking up from its deep slumber, melting the frost that used to be your heart.

At first, you hadn't even believed it when you heard the whispers roaming the castle about the return of the Rogue Prince.

"Prince Daemon is back," the whispers had said, "and he is wearing a crown."

King of the Narrow Sea? You had thought to yourself, following the crowds into the Throne Room. Is he going to challenge his brother now? Have the years turned him completely mad?

And now, you were watching him, King of the Narrow Sea, give up his crown to King Viserys.

He really is back.

After the ceremony in the Throne Room was over, the Royals and the Small Council moved to the Godswood to celebrate the Prince's victory over the Triarchy. You weren't quite sure whether it was expected of you to join them; however, upon seeing the way your father looked at you, you decided to follow them. Your heart was racing as if it was trying to break free from your chest.

Your father's position in King Jaehaerys’ and after him King Viserys’ Small Council had allowed you an easy, enjoyable life within the walls of the Red Keep, allowing you to share the early years of your youth with Prince Daemon, growing up alongside him.

Until he decided it was time for you to marry a rich lord and be shipped to the Riverlands, of course. You had known long before your father made his decision that you would, sooner or later, have to marry someone - preferably some lord from one of the Great Houses.

However, you had expected your father to come to you with this delicate matter first, instead of shaking hands with the lords as if he was doing some kind of trade.

"I do not care about some stupid lord in the Riverlands," you had told your father upon hearing the terrible news about your future. "I am going to marry Prince Daemon, Father. How can you even begin to compare him with any other man in the Seven Kingdoms?"

"Prince Daemon is going to the Vale," your father had responded in a cold voice. It made you realize he had wished for you to become the Prince's wife perhaps even more than you yourself had. "It has been decided that he is to take Lady Rhea Royce as his wife." Upon seeing the tears beginning to form in your eyes, your father had held your hands. "I am sorry, my sweet girl, but there is no other way."

Even though you had known all these years, deep down, that your father's only wish was for you to have an easy, wealthy life (and at the meanwhile keeping his good connections, and establishing relations with the strong houses), the anger you had been feeling never really faded away.

Yes, you had led a wealthy life for the last fourteen years; however, being the second wife of a (compared to your six-and-ten self) fairly old lord had taken all the happiness you had ever known from you. It was almost as if you had forgotten how to enjoy life...

After arriving at the Godswood - since the Red Keep was enormous, it always took ages to get from one place to another - you too poured yourself a glass of red wine as you stood beside your father. King Viserys and some other members of the Small Council were talking with Prince Daemon, mostly about the war against the Triarchy.

Somehow, it seemed like Daemon didn't even notice you were there, maybe he didn't really recognise you after all those years - you couldn't say.

Until King Viserys saw you standing next to your father, the Master of Coins.

The King's face lightened with a bright smile as he turned his eyes to his younger brother, placing his left hand on Daemon's shoulder. "Brother, you surely remember Lord Beesbury's lovely daughter," the King spoke with a delightful tone. "She has, too, recently returned to King's Landing."

The world froze around the two of you when Daemon's purple eyes met yours. Every other person standing there with you faded away, and all the other sounds melted into silence until it was just you and him, the same memory playing in front of your eyes.

"I am going to make you my Queen one day," Daemon whispered in your ear. "I promise you."

You were out at the Godswood, sitting under the moonlight - both of you had to be around sixteen, it was shortly before the calamity that was your marriage.

You raised an eyebrow in his direction. "So you plan on winning me and the Iron Throne?" You asked him, only to earn a cocky smirk.

"You would be surprised to see what I am capable of, my Lady."

I have seen what you are capable of, my Prince, you thought as you came back to reality. You were breathing heavily. Capable of winning a war without the support of the Crown, earning your very own crown - but you still gave it up to your brother.

To prevent the awkward silence from getting any longer, Daemon quickly wore his famous smirk as he nodded at the King. "Of course, how could I not," he spoke with a charming aura surrounding him. Taking a step towards you, the Prince held your right hand gently and brought it to his lips. "It has been many years, my Lady." The Prince told you. "Though, it is somewhat unfair that the years have not touched your beauty, not in the slightest."

The poker face, which only showed a humble smile fitting of a lady of your position, would never give away that you were, in fact, dying inside. Feeling his lips and his touch for the very first time in fourteen years had hit you like a wall of bricks.

"You flatter me, my Prince," you spoke with your best I-am-a-noble-lady tone. "Congratulations on your victory."

Before continuing the conversation with his brother and the other Lords, Daemon gave you a small nod - only you realised that he had allowed his eyes to linger on your face longer than they needed to.

[Time Skip}

"I wasn't expecting to see you here again, after all those years."

Hearing his velvet voice, you raised your head to look at Daemon, who was standing to your right. Fixing your silver dress and crossing one leg over the other, you waited for him to continue speaking.

"Why aren't you at the Rivenlands?"

You raised an eyebrow at the Prince as you responded while mimicking the same cocky tone he always used. "Why haven't you been at the Vale all those years?"

The edge of Daemon's lips curled upwards as he shook his head, he was wearing a red, long-armed tunic under his long, black cloak - proudly carrying the colours of his House. "Your attitude hasn't changed even in the slightest, love."

You rolled your eyes at him, keeping your attitude, not letting it falter under the heavy weight of the love your heart still carried for him. Of course, it would have been a lot easier to give into your heart's whispers and welcome him with arms wide open; however, you had grown overmuch furious with him over the years.

First and foremost, he had broken off every damn contact with you at an instant as soon as you had left King's Landing. You haven't heard from Daemon for fourteen years. News and gossip about his doings had reached your ears, of course, but not from Daemon himself.

And second, it had hurt you too fucking much when you saw he had done nothing to fight for your love. As the Prince, he could have had more of a say in the matter than you, but all he had done was tell you goodbye and disappear into the night. That was the last you had seen of him, fourteen years ago.

At first, you had thought that perhaps, Daemon had found the idea of marrying Lady Rhea Royce more appealing than marrying you. Until the news had reached the Riverlands about the Rogue Prince's failed marriage - not long after, he had returned to King's Landing, never to visit the Vale ever again.

Rhea Royce had never been what Daemon desired, and apparently, you too - else, he would have at least tried to find a way to arrange something, anything.

Placing your hands on your lap, you asked. "Can I be of further assistance to you, my Prince?"

"You can start by providing me with an answer, my Lady," Daemon said, arching an eyebrow in your direction. "Why did you return to King's Landing? Has your lord husband got a place in the Small Council now?"

"He has passed away," you spoke with a low voice while playing with your fingers. "A few months ago."

The Prince licked his lower lip. "I would wish to offer you my condolences, love," he spoke, "but I have never liked the sight of that cunt."

Your eyes widened with shock upon hearing his words, you hissed between your teeth. "Seven hells, Daemon!" The Prince shrugged in a careless manner. "Show at least some respect to the dead!"

"Will you be staying here?" he asked, earning a nod from you. "Why not stay at the Riverlands?"

This time, you turned your eyes away - his intense gaze was making you feel dizzy. "There is nothing for me there, at the Riverlands. My late husband's eldest nephew holds the Lord title now." Taking a deep breath, you leaned forward to pour yourself some wine. "You see, we didn't have any children to inherit my late husband's position, hence there was no more need for me."

Upon feeling Daemon's hand closing on top of yours, you quickly raised your head to look at him. Gently, the Prince took the carafe from your hands to pour you a glass of wine. With slow movements, he handed you the glass.

"I thought the whole idea behind you marrying that old man was to provide him with heirs," Daemon spoke, his purple eyes lighting with curiosity. He didn't even explicitly ask about the reason behind the failure but you could easily read it from the way he looked.

"We did try, for years, but..." Taking a moment, you took a big sip from your wine. "He could have tried with a dozen other women for another ten years and it still wouldn't have changed anything."

Daemon pursed his lips upon understanding the meaning behind your words. "I see, this explains why he didn't have any heirs from his first marriage, too." You nodded. "Good riddance, should I say now? At least you are free from that burden of yours."

"As if you cared about me or my burden," you snorted. Upon seeing the confused look inside his eyes, you first drank your half-empty glass - all at once - and then stood up. Raising your head, you looked Daemon in the eye, your faces standing dangerously close to each other. "It has been fourteen fucking years, Daemon," you spoke with a low voice but still, your fury could be heard in every word. "And not one fucking raven from you. You just walked away from my life, as if I meant nothing to you!"

Towards the end, your tone tended to become higher, thus you took a deep breath to keep yourself under control. From the corner of your eye, you could see Queen Alicent and your father taking a curious look in your direction.

With his left hand, Daemon held you firmly on your right wrist as he whispered, looking down at you. "You meant everything to me," he put emphasis on each word. "Don't you dare act as if you don't know it."

Your chest brushed against his with every breath, you could feel the warmth radiating off his body. At that very moment, the only thing you wanted was for Daemon to push you against the stone wall behind you and kiss you until you couldn't remember your own name anymore.

With slow movements, Daemon leaned into your ear, his warm breath brushing against your neck. You didn't even realise you were pressing your lips against each other - your breaths were heavy, your head felt dizzy and you slowly got drunk with his smell surrounding you.

"Do you have any idea," the Prince whispered in your ear, his voice full of sex appeal. You could melt right then and there, inside his arms. "How many nights I have spent, thinking about you?"

Back then, when you were both young and in love, Daemon had never touched you other than sharing small kisses (and rarely not-so-small kisses) for you wanted to wait until marriage.

In retrospect, you believed your younger self to have been too naive and, well, young - after seeing one could in fact do whatever they desired as long as it was discrete enough.

Now, all the lust and desire you both had been bottling up for years came to the surface.

Holding onto the last bits of your will, you took a step back, putting some visible distance between Daemon and yourself - so that you could think clearly once more.

"Then why," you asked, your voice sounding weaker than you wanted it to. "Why did you disappear from my life?"

The Prince cast a quick look at the curious people around you - some of the council members seemed kind of interested in your conversation with Daemon since they were sending curious looks in your direction every other second.

Muttering something under his breath - he was probably cursing at the nosiness of the people - Daemon quickly put on one of his most charming smiles. "Perhaps the lady would like to grant me the honour of dining with her this evening," he spoke with his velvet-like voice as he took your hand and brought it to his soft lips. The mild wind was causing his silver hair to sway ever so gently. "Where we can discuss further, as long as she likes."

Your heart skipped a beat.

Of course, you knew what his true intention was. This invitation was more than just a dinner where you could both scream at each other about the fourteen years you have lost - it was also to make up for all that time.

Your brain was shouting at you, telling you that you were making a big mistake - the Prince was still married, even though his marriage had been a bigger failure than yours - but your desires were stronger.

"I would love to, my Prince." The words left your lips before you could even think.

Daemon winked at you before leaving Godswood. "I will be waiting for you in my chambers, love."

[kithtaehyung]

[ 250118] wow, y’all, we worked on a lot the past couple days??

satsuma (iron chef!myg x challenger!reader, enemies to lovers and incredibly niche): made a crap ton of headwind!! started the doc at 8k, now at 9.1k

seamless (roommate!myg, who offers to sew together an outfit for you): made some changes to the flow of events, now at 1.6k and ready to be fleshed out in some places

7days1 (fuckboy roommate!jjk that begs you to date him for at least seven days): changed and got a couple scenes down, and only have 2-3 more to go! now at 6.2k

heaven (boyfriend rapper!knj who just wants some post-album wrap up cuddles): wrote more as soon as it came to mind, surprisingly shifted directions from where it originally started but i’m even more attached to it now🤍 sitting at 1.6k

minted4 (long mint-haired gangster!myg x tangerine cart vendor!reader): hoooooo lordy this one is quite the update and i’m so excited to show y’all. got another scene written out in short form💥 currently 3k

3tanfugue (3tan!myg, yoongi’s interlude/pov): don’t talk to me about this one lmfaoooo I’m working on it in bits and pieces to not cloud my mind to hell. word count is hard to say since it also currently contains words from other chapters

— that’s what i got for y’all! the most hefty batch of updates yet. talking about these fics really fueled me to work on a lot, so just wanted to give you a glance into what’s been the result of that energy🤍 thank you all for being amazing and feel free to talk anytime about anything💌 it helps more than you know

— if you’re randomly seeing this post, hi, i’m ryen and i write sometimes😂 here’s my masterlist!

[sarcasmandships]

so i wrote a solangelo college au where:

will solace is a stressed-out pre-med student working two jobs and pretending he isn’t obsessed with nico di angelo nico di angelo is a ridiculously rich, terrifyingly chic classics major who may or may not be in the mafia (he’s not… probably) there’s way too much gossip about “the seven,” aka that elite friend group everyone on campus is obsessed with will keeps embarrassing himself and falling harder every time they run into each other and somehow… they keep running into each other

there’s cursed open mic nights, chaotic rooftop hangouts, secret smoking breaks, and will thinking he’s subtle (he’s not). it’s messy and funny and very gay.

basically: ridiculous rich kids banter & pining will being so down bad friends meddling in the worst/best ways found family vibes and a (not so) tiny bit of “what if he’s in the mafia” energy

Will Solace and the Socialites of Olympus University, now on ao3 (i even promise u fast updates, i've written like 16 chapters of this fic already)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64071844/chapters/164384653

[sasheemo]

Friday Thoughts

Chapter 3

Chapter Summary: Sharing dinner with Agatha and Nicholas shouldn't be too hard, right? But Saturday night at Agatha’s has other plans. As the evening unfolds, tensions escalate and desires ignite, promising anything but an ordinary end.

Chapter Tags: Mutual Pining, Power Dynamics, Gay Panic But Make It Domestic, The Tension Is Tensioning, Accidental Eavesdropping, Masturbation

Word Count: 7.4k

A/N: Chapter 3 is here! Spoiler alert: it’s long. Like, the longest chapter I’ve ever written for any multi-chapter fic, it took a lifetime because I wanted to pack in so much. Honestly, I don’t even want to think about how many times I wrote, re-read, and completely tore it apart because I hated it. It’s been through the wringer, y’all.

Am I 100% happy with it? No. Will I ever be? Also no. But if I keep tweaking it, it’ll never see the light of day, so… here it is, flaws and all!

Let’s just say things are heating up, and this chapter sets the stage for the spicy goodness that’s coming in Chapter 4.

As always, feedback is greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading, enjoy 💜

Chapter Index

Read on AO3

The clock creeps closer to seven as you sit on the floor with Nicholas, your hands idly stacking blocks while your thoughts wander to the kitchen. 

Agatha has been in there for a while now, the faint clinking of dishes and the soft rush of running water weaving through the quiet of the house.

At one point, unable to resist, you’d stood and smoothed your sweater nervously before edging toward the kitchen doorway. 

“Do you need a hand with anything?” you’d asked, your voice hesitant as you lingered just outside.

She’d glanced over her shoulder, a wisp of hair falling loose from behind her ear. Her lips curved into a faint, almost absentminded smile. 

“No need, hon.” she’d said lightly, returning to the cutting board without missing a beat. “After a day like today, this is how I unwind. Just keep Nicholas entertained, and make sure you’ve got an appetite.”

You’d nodded, retreating to the living room with a strange mix of relief and unease, unsure whether to feel dismissed or reassured.

Now, your gaze drifts toward the kitchen doorway again, catching fleeting glimpses of Agatha as she moves gracefully through the space. The subtle flicker of her silhouette, the fluid motion of her hands as she reaches for something on the counter, it’s almost hypnotic. 

You find it harder and harder to look away, your eyes drawn back to the doorway every few moments.

Then, the realization that you’re about to sit at the same table as her hits you like a brick wall, and your brain immediately kicks into overdrive. Where will you sit? What will you say? How will you stop yourself from staring at her like some starstruck idiot? The thought alone makes your chest feel tighter, and you let out a quiet, resigned sigh. 

Dinner hasn’t even started, and you’re already losing it.

Finally, her voice calls out from the kitchen, announcing that dinner’s ready.

Nicholas springs up instantly, his blocks forgotten as he rushes toward the kitchen. You follow more cautiously, your pulse quickening as you step into the room.

The table is set simply but elegantly, with the kind of care that feels distinctly Agatha. At the center, there’s a steaming dish of herb-roasted chicken rests on a platter, surrounded by golden baby potatoes and vibrant roasted vegetables. 

The scent of rosemary, garlic, and lemon fills the air, rich and inviting, but it only makes your stomach flip—not from hunger, but from the realization of where you are and who you’re sharing this moment with.

Agatha stands by the head of the table, placing the final plate in its spot, her expression is calm as she straightens and meets your gaze.

“Sit.” she says lightly, gesturing to the seat across from hers as though this is all perfectly normal.

You glance at Nicholas, who’s already climbing into his chair without hesitation. Taking a steadying breath, you lower yourself into the seat she’s indicated, trying not to think too much about how surreal this feels.

Agatha moves with her usual composure, taking her place at the table. She leans back slightly, one hand curling around the stem of her wineglass, her gaze drifting over the food before landing on you. It lingers just long enough to send a flicker of heat up your spine, your pulse quickening under the weight of her attention.

“Let’s eat before it gets cold.” she says, her voice warm but commanding, the kind of tone that makes it sound less like a suggestion and more like a quiet decree. 

“This is so good, Mom! Did you make the potatoes crispy on purpose?” Nicholas asks with a grin, already halfway through his first bite.

“Of course.” she replies, arching an eyebrow as her lips curve playfully. “Is there any other way to do them?”

Nicholas shakes his head vigorously, his mouth now too full to reply properly. You suppress a laugh and glance at Agatha, who catches your eye with an amused glint in her own.

“And what do you think?” she asks, her gaze settling on you like a spotlight. “Passable for a last-minute effort?”

You blink, caught off guard by her directness. 

“It’s delicious.” you say, and you mean it, though the compliment feels inadequate. “I think Nicholas might be right about the potatoes. They’re perfect.”

Agatha tilts her head slightly, as if weighing your response, before giving a soft hum of approval. 

“Good.” she says, her voice low and velvety. “I’d hate to disappoint.” 

Her eyes lock on yours, a spark of mischief flickering just beneath the surface, as if she’s gauging your reaction, or outright daring you to respond. 

Then, as if to twist the knife just a little deeper, she adds a slow, languid wink that sends a sharp jolt straight through you. 

You’re left speechless, grasping for a response that never comes. Agatha, of course, doesn’t wait for one. 

She shifts her attention back to Nicholas, asking about his latest castle design, her tone light and engaging as though she hasn’t just left you squirming in your seat. 

As they talk, you force yourself to focus on their conversation, chiming in occasionally, but your mind keeps wandering. Every so often, your gaze drifts back to her, trying—and failing—to reconcile the poised, commanding Agatha you’ve come to know with the one sitting at this table.

There’s a warmth to her, something relaxed and comfortingly domestic. It’s strange, watching her here, casually slicing into a piece of chicken and humoring Nicholas’ endless stream of questions.

And yet, as foreign as this moment feels, there’s something about it that tugs at you, a quiet sense of belonging you hadn’t anticipated.

As dinner ends, you rise from the table, stacking your empty wineglass atop your plate in an effort to make a smooth exit.

“Thanks again for dinner.” you say, keeping your tone light but sincere. “It was wonderful. I should probably let you two enjoy the rest of your evening—”

“Wait!” Nicholas bursts out, his chair scraping against the floor as he jumps to his feet. “You can’t go! We have to watch a movie!”

You gape at him, eyes wide, like he’s just suggested skydiving without a parachute or eating soup with a fork.

“Uh, a movie?” you repeat, glancing between him and Agatha. 

Surely, this is where she steps in to say it’s too late, that it’s time to wind down.

But to your surprise, Agatha simply raises an eyebrow, her expression amused. 

“A movie.” she echoes, swirling the last sip of wine in her glass. “Isn’t it a little late for that?”

“You always say that! Come on, mom. It’s Saturday!” Nicholas complains dramatically, his hands on his hips in a way that’s almost comical.

You open your mouth to help, to offer a dismissal Nicholas might accept—“Maybe next time” or “Your mom probably wants to relax.”—but before you can get a word out, Agatha’s gaze shifts to you.

“You did say your evening was wide open. So, what’s it going to be, hon? Care to join us?” she asks, leaning back slightly in her chair. 

Each syllable feels like a finger pressing to the one thought you’re trying desperately to bury: that not only do you have nowhere else to be, but if you’re honest with yourself, there’s nowhere you’d rather be.

Her lips curve into a knowing smile, the kind that suggests she’s already read your mind and is simply waiting for you to catch up.

“I—well, I don’t…” you start, your voice faltering as your mind scrambles for a coherent response. “I mean, I don’t want to intrude or—”

“Intrude?” she interrupts, her brows lifting in mock surprise. “On my son’s demands and my… oh-so-thrilling evening of cleaning up after dinner?” She leans forward slightly, her smile softening but never losing its edge. “Come now, you’ll have to try harder than that.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks, and you scramble to find the right words, your tongue suddenly feeling two sizes too big. 

“I just thought—you know, maybe you’d rather spend the evening relaxing. Just the two of you. I wouldn’t want to… overstay.” you manage, your voice wavering as your face burns hotter by the second.

“I wouldn’t exactly call the cinematic torture Nicky usually puts me through my ideal way to relax. But if you stay, at least I won’t have to endure it alone.” she muses, the words landing with practiced subtlety, as though she’s tossing the suggestion into the air to see how it falls. 

It’s not quite an invitation, not explicitly—but the subtle curve of her lips and the way her eyes insist on finding yours tell a different story, one she keeps ambiguous enough to leave you guessing.

If you choose the professional route—thank her again, grab your things, and leave—would you ever forgive yourself? Could you really walk away now, knowing you’d just turned down the chance to sit in her orbit a little longer? 

But staying… staying feels like opening a whole other door. The kind of door that leads to a night even more absurd than this one already feels, where the lines between reality and your own impossible daydreams blur so completely, you’re not sure you’d know the difference.

You’re stuck in the tension of that choice, the possibilities pressing down on you, when Nicholas’ voice explodes through the moment, shattering it entirely.

“I’ll go pick a movie!” he announces, his excitement bubbling over as he bolts toward the living room, a blur of motion and enthusiasm. The spell is broken, and you exhale, blinking as reality floods back in.

You glance back at Agatha, half-expecting her to change her mind now that he’s out of earshot. Instead, she leans back in her chair again, her eyes glinting with that usual quiet amusement. 

“There you have it.” she quips lightly, gesturing toward the living room. “Looks like the decision’s been made for you.”

Her words land with a calm finality, and for a moment, you simply stand there, unsure of what to do next. Before your nerves can get the better of you, you decide to grasp at the first thing that feels remotely purposeful.

“I’ll help clear the table.” you offer, your voice quick, almost rushed. “It’s the least I can do.”

You reach for a plate before the words have fully left your mouth, but as you stack the dishes and carry them to the sink, you can feel her gaze trailing you, quiet and intent.

You roll up your sleeves, the simple motion grounding you as you turn on the faucet. The water’s warmth seeps into your skin, and the rhythmic clatter of dishes offers a fragile sort of focus. 

For a moment, you dare to think you’ve managed to steady yourself.

But then, the scrape of her chair against the floor echoes through the room. 

The steady rhythm you thought you’d found falters as you hear her footsteps closing the distance between you. She moves into the space beside you, her presence altering the air itself. 

The faint clink of glasses being placed on the counter pulls your focus for a second, but it’s the feeling of her hand brushing against your waist that makes your body freeze.

With the warmth of her palm burning through the fabric of your sweater, the plate in your hands slips through your grip. You fumble, the sharp sound of porcelain against the sink cutting through the quiet as you catch it just in time.

“Careful, hon.” she murmurs, her voice impossibly close, rich with that maddening calm. But there’s no hint of apology, just the smug confidence of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.

All of a sudden, the water streaming over your hands feels unbearably loud, each droplet amplified against your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the roaring in your ears. 

Each of your senses narrows, zeroing in on the spot where her hand rests against you. Her touch isn’t pressing, nor forceful, it’s just there, as if she’s delicately testing the boundaries of the moment.

Your cheeks burn, and you’re sure she can see it, but you can’t bring yourself to look at her, not when every nerve in your body feels like it’s caught fire. 

Before the moment stretches into something unbearable, Nicholas’ voice cuts through the stillness. 

“I found the movie!” he calls from the living room, his excitement palpable. “Come on, it’s starting!”

Agatha straightens, her hand leaving your waist, and the absence feels almost as intense as the touch itself. 

“Duty calls.” she says smoothly, her composure unshaken as she heads toward the living room without looking back.

You exhale shakily, gripping the edge of the sink for balance as you force yourself to calm down. With one last glance at the water, you shut it off and follow her, stubbornly pushing aside the ghost of her touch that refuses to fade from your body.

When you step into the living room, Nicholas is already curled up in one corner of the couch, wrapped in a blanket with the remote clutched triumphantly in his hands. His grin is so wide it’s almost glowing, radiating the pure victory of having secured his movie of choice.

It’s a scene of pure innocence, simple and easy, but your focus falters when your gaze shifts to Agatha.

She pauses at the edge of the couch, leaning down to unfasten her heels with graceful precision. The soft thud as they hit the rug feels somehow amplified in the quiet of the room. A low, contented sigh escapes her lips as she straightens, the sound carrying the unmistakable weight of a long day finally set aside.

Then, she sinks onto the central cushion of the couch, elegantly tucking one leg beneath her, folding into the space with casual confidence. One arm lifts to drape over the backrest, her fingers splayed idly.

You hesitate, your heart stuttering as the realization hits.

You weren’t prepared for this. You’d assumed Nicholas would sit between you, a natural, innocent buffer that would keep you at a safe, comfortable distance. But now, the couch looks impossibly small.

Panic rises even more when you realize you’ve been standing halfway between the kitchen and the couch for far too long, awkwardly frozen in place like prey caught in a snare.

For a fleeting moment, you genuinely consider sitting on the floor. But, as always, Agatha’s timing is impeccable. 

Her voice cuts through your inner turmoil like silk, laced with that signature teasing amusement that makes you want to both melt and scream.

“Are you planning to stand there all night?” she asks as her eyes lock onto yours. She tilts her head slightly, patting the cushion beside her. “Come, sit.”

Forcing your legs to cooperate, you move toward the couch, every step slower than the last. By the time you lower yourself onto the cushion, your body feels coiled, as if every muscle is bracing for impact.

You try to sit casually, like you’re perfectly at ease, teetering on the very edge of the cushion as if that extra inch might save you. 

But the effort is useless. The space between you is practically nonexistent, laughably small, and you’re acutely aware of every inch separating you.

She makes no effort to adjust her position or move her arm, leaving it draped lazily across the backrest, her fingers resting just shy of your shoulder. 

You clasp your hands tightly in your lap, fixing your gaze on the screen with a determination that borders on desperation.

Nicholas, oblivious as ever, starts the movie. The opening scene bursts to life on the screen, colorful and loud, his excitement spilling over as he narrates every detail. 

You nod along absently, keeping your eyes fixed ahead. But the truth is, you couldn’t explain a single thing happening in the movie if your life depended on it.

All of your attention is wrapped around Agatha, around her presence and the quiet weight of it. It’s nothing short of consuming, and every movement she makes feels seismic: the subtle shift of her posture, the barely audible rustle of her clothes as she settles deeper into the cushions, the gradual ease of her shoulders as though she’s letting the weight of the day melt away.

You feel like you’re about to lose your mind trying to understand how she can appear so perfectly composed while you sit there, silently coming apart at the seams.

And then, without warning, her knee brushes against yours.

Instinctively, you shift slightly to the side, leaning further into the backrest, but the movement only makes things worse. 

The arm that had been resting lazily behind you is now definitely touching your shoulder.

Your breath catches, your body locking up before you can stop it, every nerve screaming at the contact. 

Surely, she’ll move away. She has to.

But she doesn’t.

Neither her leg nor her arm budges, as if the contact is completely natural, as if she didn’t even notice. You, on the other hand, feel like you’re drowning in the sensation. 

Her proximity completely floods your senses. It feels as if the world has shrunk to the points were your bodies are touching, the faint pressure on your leg and shoulder anchoring you to the spot. 

And then, as if to seal your fate, you feel her gaze on you.

You don’t dare look at her, but from the corner of your eye you can see her head turned toward you. Her eyes are fixed on your face, and they might as well be burning holes through your head for how intensely she’s staring.

Everything begins to blur, the room fading as your thoughts swallow you whole. Once again, you find yourself grasp at rationality, trying to explain away her behavior and your own feelings, convincing yourself it’s all in your head. 

But the longer you sit there, the harder it is to believe that.

It’s been four months since you started working for her, four months of walking into this house, telling yourself you were foolish for even entertaining the thought that someone like Agatha Harkness could ever see you that way, as anything more than Nicky’s babysitter. 

During all this time, you’ve dismissed every fleeting glance, every teasing word, every ambiguous gesture, chalking it all up to her natural charm. You convinced yourself you were imagining things, creating meaning where there was none, deluding yourself into believing you could ever hold her attention.

But tonight? Tonight feels undeniably different. Especially after what she said last night. 

The tension has been simmering beneath the surface for this whole time, each moment building on the last, and now there’s no mistaking it: Agatha’s behavior is intentional, deliberate in a way that leaves no room for doubt.

These aren’t the actions of someone indulging in a meaningless game. Sure, Agatha has a very teasing nature, you know that. But she isn’t careless, she doesn’t do unprofessionalism. She wouldn’t risk making you uncomfortable—or worse, crossing a line—without a reason, especially when it involves someone so closely tied to Nicholas.

You wonder if you’ve been blind to something that’s been there all along, oblivious to what’s been right in front of you—if you’ve had an actual chance all this time and simply refused to see it.

Because at this point, no other explanation fits.

Your heart races, the possibility exhilarating and terrifying in equal measure, a mix of longing and fear swelling in your chest.

When the credits finally roll, Nicholas lets out a loud yawn, stretching his arms above his head before slumping back into the couch. His eyelids droop heavily, but there’s a satisfied smile on his face.

“That was the best movie night ever!” he declares with a sleepy grin, his voice softening as exhaustion starts to win. 

He turns toward you, pushes off the blanket and practically climbs over Agatha to crawl over and wrap his arms around your shoulders in a hug that’s warm and unexpected.

“Thanks for staying.” he murmurs, his voice muffled against your sweater. “It was really fun doing this with you and Mom.”

Your heart stutters in your chest, and you blink rapidly, taken aback by the tenderness of it all. 

Words fail you, any attempt at a response dissolving into nothing as an involuntary smile tugs at your lips. You feel yourself melt into the embrace, your hands settling lightly against his back as you return the hug gently.

Nicholas pulls back, his grin bright despite his sleepy eyes, and he turns toward Agatha, who’s already rising from the couch.

“Mom, can we do this again soon?” he asks, rubbing his eyes as he pushes himself to his feet.

“We’ll see.” Agatha replies smoothly, resting a hand on his back to steady him. “Now come on. Bedtime.”

Just before they step out of the living room to head upstairs, Agatha glances back over her shoulder. Her head tilts ever so slightly, the soft glow of the room catching the sharps curves of her profile. Her eyes find yours, holding them with an intensity that feels almost disarming, and for a moment, it feels like the air stills around her.

“Wait here, won’t you?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper laced with quiet insistence “I’ll be back in a minute.”

You don’t even think, your head nods instinctively, a reflex before your mind can catch up.

As she turns away, you catch a faint glint in her eyes, something unreadable that looks almost like… anticipation?

The quiet sound of their footsteps fades into the background, leaving the room steeped in silence. It’s just you now, alone in the living room, with nothing but the weight of her words and the echo of your own thoughts.

The thing is, the babysitter would have left already. 

You’d planned to leave the moment she was done working, when Nicholas no longer needed you and when Agatha was free to reclaim her evening. 

But then came dinner, a polite invitation you couldn’t bring yourself to decline. And later, when the plates were cleared and you’d readied yourself to go, the movie became yet another reason to stay.

But now it’s late. Nicholas is heading to bed. There’s no reason for you to be here. And yet… she wants you to. For the third time tonight, you’re faced with a choice, though deep down, you know the decision has already been made. 

You’ll wait. Because she asked you to. Because it’s her.

You lean back against the couch, exhaling shakily. Your mind spins, grasping at the threads of the evening, trying to weave them into something coherent.

Agatha descends the stairs a few minutes later, the faint sound of her steps barely registering over the buzz of your thoughts. She doesn’t spare you a glance, doesn’t say a word, moving with singular purpose as she crosses the living room and disappears into the kitchen. 

The faint clink of glass and the soft pop of a cork being pulled echo faintly, carrying with them a sense of inevitability that sets your heart racing.

Moments later, she reemerges with the bottle of wine from dinner in one hand and two glasses in the other. Her movements are smooth, practiced, as if this is all part of some unspoken ritual. 

She sets the glasses on the coffee table and pours the wine with precision before handing you one and taking the other for herself.

Then, despite the now ample space on the couch, she chooses the same spot as before, her knee brushing against yours once again when she crosses her legs.

“Cheers.” she says lightly, raising her glass in your direction.

“Cheers.” you reply, the word coming out softer than you intended as you lift your glass. 

The first sip settles warmly in your chest, cutting through some of the tension of the evening.

For a while, the two of you talk easily. She asks about Nicholas and your morning job, and you gladly share little stories about his antics and your shifts at the café. 

Agatha listens intently, her occasional hums and soft chuckles weaving seamlessly into the conversation.

You ask her about her work, though she keeps her answers vague, offering only the occasional quip about paperwork, tedious calls and demanding clients. It’s clear she’s deflecting, but her tone is so effortlessly charming that you don’t press further. 

Instead, you find yourself relaxing into the rhythm of the exchange, the wine loosening the edges of your nerves.

By the time the third glass is poured, the atmosphere feels incredibly comfortable, like the two of you have settled into a pocket of time removed from the rest of the world. 

You’re leaning back against the couch now, your own legs crossed on the cushion, and the soft hum of casual conversation filling the space between you.

But then, completely out of nowhere, the words spill out of your mouth with an abruptness that shifts the air immediately.

“Do you always drink this much with your babysitters?” you ask, your tone is light, almost playful, but there’s an edge of nervousness beneath it.

Agatha’s response comes slower than expected, but when it does, it lands like a deliberate blow.

“Only the ones worth breaking the rules for.” her voice is low, sultry, and laced with an edge of amusement that makes the room feel impossibly smaller.

Your throat goes completely dry on the spot, and you try to will your brain to keep up, to find something clever to say. A snarky remark, a witty comeback, an equally teasing reply, anything.

You fumble with your glass, taking a sip longer than necessary, the wine coursing through you like liquid fire. Each drop seems to stoke the embers in your chest, unfurling in waves, merging with the simmering frustration that has been tightening its grip on you all night.

Boldness—fueled by the wine, the smoldering tension, and the enigma that is Agatha—surges to the surface.  Before you can think, the words slip out.

“Why do you do this?” your voice is sharper than you intended, and it cuts through the air between you like a knife.

Agatha raises an eyebrow, her smirk deepening as she leans back against the couch. 

“Do what, exactly?” she asks, feigning innocence, though the glint in her eyes betrays her.

“This.” you gesture vaguely between the two of you, frustration bleeding into your tone. “The teasing, the looks, the… the way you—” you break off, exhaling sharply. “It’s like you enjoy watching me lose my mind.”

She chuckles darkly, the sound almost dangerous, and it sends a shiver down your spine. She sets her glass on the coffee table, her movements unhurried, calculated.

“Maybe I do.” she murmurs, her tone dropping into something quieter, more intimate. Her gaze locks onto yours, and she leans forward slightly, slowly closing the distance between you inch by inch.

Your pulse quickens, every nerve in your body on high alert. She’s close enough now that you can feel the faint warmth of her body.

But she doesn’t stop. She leans in further, her face now just a breath away from yours. Her eyes flick down to your lips for a fleeting moment, and your breath catches.

“You’re not the only one losing their mind tonight, you know.” her voice drops to a whisper, low and raw, and you’re pretty sure your pulse flatlines. 

The world around you fades, the only thing grounding you is the way her icy gaze holds you captive. Your heart pounds in your ears, and you think this is it—this is where the line between you finally blurs.

But then your eyes flicker down, catching sight of the glass still clutched in your hand, and reality slams into you like a freight train.

The wine—it’s been warming you, emboldening you, loosening you. And now, with her so close, you can’t shake the fear that it’s not just you under its influence. What if this moment isn’t real? What if it’s the wine, not her, driving the spark in her eyes, the closeness of her breath? The thought twists in your chest, sharp and painful. You don’t want this, her, to be something fleeting, something hazy and tainted by doubt.

You pull back, the movement abrupt and jarring, completely annihilating the moment. 

Agatha freezes, her body leaning back instinctively, confusion flickering in her eyes.

“I can’t.” you say quickly, your voice trembling slightly. “Not like this.”

Her brow furrows, and she tilts her head. 

“Not like what?” she asks, her tone still smooth but tinged with curiosity, fascination even.

“With… with the wine.” you stammer, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t want to— I mean, I don’t know if—” You let out a shaky exhale, setting your glass down beside hers. “I just… I can’t.”

You rise to your feet, your movements hurried and almost clumsy as you try to put some distance between the two of you. 

Agatha doesn’t stop you, but her gaze follows your every move, unreadable and heavy.

“I should go.” you mumble, your frustration bubbling to the surface. Even though you’re not sure if it’s directed at her, at yourself, or at the entire night.

You barely take a couple of steps toward the door when Agatha’s voice calls after you, firm and unyielding.

“You shouldn’t leave.” 

Her voice echoes through the room, and even though her words aren’t a real command, they sure feel like one.

You halt mid-step and slowly turn to face her, your chest tightening at the sight. She’s still seated on the couch, her posture casual but her gaze piercing, pinning you in place.

“It’s late.” she says, her tone measured, as if explaining something obvious. “You’ve had wine. The roads are dark. I’d rather not spend the rest of the night worrying about whether or not you made it home safely.”

Her words are practical, almost dismissive, as though the charged moment between you never happened. But there’s something beneath the surface—a subtle current in her voice that makes it impossible to tell if she’s truly unaffected or simply hiding it well.

“I’m fine.” your reply is automatic, defensive. But even as you say it, the shakiness in your voice betrays you.

“You don’t look fine, hon. You look like someone about to storm out into the night just to prove a point. Agatha says, her tone steady, though her expression softens just slightly. 

There’s still an edge of steel in her eyes, a quiet challenge buried beneath her words.

“I can handle myself.” you bite out, though the words sound hollow, even to you.

She exhales softly, the faintest flicker of something—annoyance? amusement?—crossing her features. 

Then, with a surprising grace for someone that just had three glasses of wine, she rises from the couch and closes the distance between you.

“I don’t doubt that. But tell me this: what exactly are you proving by leaving right now? And to whom?”

Her words hit their mark, and you feel the fight drain out of you. Because she’s right, you’re not leaving because it’s practical. You’re leaving because you’re overwhelmed, unsure, afraid of what staying might mean or lead to.

Agatha’s eyes stay locked on yours as she continues, her voice taking on a tone that’s almost… tender. 

“Stay.” she says simply, the single word carrying so much weight it feels like it might crush you. “It’s late. There’s no reason for you to go rushing out into the night when you don’t have to.”

You glance toward the door, then back at her, weighing your options.

The truth is, you are tired—tired of the emotions, of the push and pull of the evening that’s left you feeling completely unraveled. The idea of staying, of letting the night end on a quieter note, is far too tempting to resist.

“Fine.” you finally answer, your own tone colder than you expected.

“Good.” she says, stepping back to give you space. “The guest room is ready. It’s not much, but it’ll do for tonight.”

She turns and starts toward the stairs. You hesitate for a moment, your mind still spinning with the events of the past hours, before following her.

You sigh, exhaustion settling into your bones as you reach the top of the stairs. Right now, none of it matters—not the tension, not the confusion, not the endless spiraling questions that have chased you all night. All you want is to sleep, to let the haze of the wine fade away in the quiet refuge of a bed. Whether it’s your own or the one in Agatha’s guest room, it doesn’t seem to make a difference anymore.

You barely notice as Agatha pauses by a linen closet, pulling out a neatly folded towel and an oversized t-shirt.

“This should do.” she states, handing them to you. 

Her tone is neutral, almost too casual, as if nothing about the evening had been remotely unusual. Her gaze doesn’t linger as long as usual though, she doesn’t meet your eyes for more than a second before nodding toward the guest room door.

“That’s yours for the night.” she gestures briefly, indicating the room between the bathroom and Nicholas’ door at the far end of the hall. “Bathroom’s just here.” she continues, pointing to the door next to hers on the opposite end.

“Thanks.” you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper as you grip the towel and shirt tightly.

Agatha hums faintly, stepping back toward her room. For a second, you think she might say more, but instead, she simply glances over her shoulder.

“Goodnight.”, her tone is warm, yet the word feels strangely clipped. 

Before you can respond, she slips into her room and disappears in the ensuite bathroom.

You stand there for a few seconds, awkwardly rooted in place. Your own “Goodnight” comes out almost as an afterthought, mumbled into the silence as you step into the guest room and close the door behind you.

The room is elegant and cozy, a neatly made bed dominating the space and a single lamp casting a warm glow over the soft cream walls. 

You drop the towel onto the edge of the bed and hold up the shirt, its fabric soft and worn in a way that feels oddly intimate.

You undress and slip it over your head, only to be immediately engulfed by Agatha’s perfume. It clings to the fabric, potent and intoxicating, and for a moment, you allow the scent to wash over you and flood your senses.

Heat coils low in your stomach, and you shake your head quickly, brushing off whatever effect wearing something of hers seems to be having on you. 

With a steadying breath, you fold the towel over your arm and step back out into the hall, heading towards the bathroom.

The splash of cold water against your face is grounding, but even as you dry off and prepare to head back to your room, you can’t shake the way her scent fills you nostrils with every minuscule movement.

Stepping into the hallway, you’re greeted by darkness, broken only by a faint sliver of light seeping from beneath your door. 

You take a step toward the guest room, but a faint sound slices through the stillness.

It’s almost imperceptible, a noise so soft and muffled that, for a second, you wonder if you imagined it.

You hold your breath as your eyes flick toward the ajar door of Agatha’s room. You think about just brushing it off, receding to the relative safety of the guest room and pretending you heard nothing.

But then you hear it again. 

Your feet move before your brain can catch up, carrying you a step closer, as quietly as possible on the wooden floorboards.

And the closer you get, the clearer the sound becomes.

Another low, broken noise escapes, this time accompanied by a faint rustle of fabric. 

The realization dawns slowly, burning through you like wildfire. Your stomach twists, heat pooling low in your abdomen as the truth of what you’re hearing sinks in.

You consider retreating. You do. But your legs refuse to move. 

Something keeps you rooted in place, drawn forward as though compelled by a force beyond your control.

Your bare feet barely make a sound against the cool wood floor as you edge closer to Agatha’s door, muffled moans growing more vivid with every inch of space you gain. You can hear her breathing now, shallow and uneven, each exhale laced with pleasure that seems to echo in your own chest.

Your knees weaken as you reach the doorframe. And then you hear it.

“Yes… oh fuck, yes.”

Her rough voice rips through you like a physical force. The raw intimacy of it, the unguarded need, sends a sharp jolt straight down your spine. Your lips part on a shaky breath, your thighs pressing together instinctively against the unbearable ache building between them.

Every nerve in your body is on fire, wetness pools between your legs, and you feel a flush creeping up your neck, your skin hypersensitive to even the faintest brush of air.

Another broken moan follows, and it takes every ounce of restraint not to make a sound in return.

You close your eyes for a moment, trying to will yourself back to reality, to sanity. But all you can picture is her—Agatha, in the darkness of her room, her head tilted back, her lips parted as she whispers filthy, desperate things into the still air.

You can’t stop imagining what it would feel like to be the reason for those sounds.

The thought is intoxicating, dangerous, and far too tempting.

But you know you can’t let your mind go there. You know this is the moment to turn around, to leave, to escape before you lose yourself completely.

Pressing your back against the wall beside the doorframe, you focus on steadying your breath, though every nerve in your body feels alive, thrumming with a tension that leaves you trembling. Each sound she makes only tightens the coil in your stomach, the ache quickly approaching unbearable levels.

You take one last, shaky breath as she whispers another low curse that shoots straight through your core. Then, with every ounce of willpower you can muster, you step back, your movements shaky and reluctant. 

Each step toward the guest room feels like a battle, every fiber of your being screaming at you to turn back.

You step into the guest room and close the door behind you, leaning against it trying to steady yourself. Your heart still pounds, each beat reverberating through your chest, your entire body tingling in the wake of what you just experienced.

The room feels quiet, mercifully so, the sounds that had haunted you moments ago are now gone, silenced by the thick walls of Agatha’s home. You take a moment to reassure yourself—there’s no way Nicholas could hear anything, not from his room at the other end of the hallway. Agatha knows her house, knows its secrets. Of course, she’d be careful.

With that thought, you push yourself off the door and move toward the bed. You slip under the covers and reach for the lamp on the nightstand, turning it off. 

Darkness envelopes you, but it does nothing to quiet the sensations coursing through your body. The ache low in your stomach has only intensified since you left her door.

Your fingers tighten on the edge of the blanket, your breathing uneven as you squeeze your thighs together, desperate for even the smallest bit of relief.

But it’s no use. The ache is too insistent, too consuming. The memory of her moans, her breathy curses, fills your mind. You can still hear them, low and filthy, the rawness of her need reverberating throughout your whole body.

Your hand moves on its own, slipping beneath the fabric of her shirt. Your fingers trail over your stomach, climbing higher until they reach your breast. The moment your palm cups the soft flesh, a sharp jolt of pleasure shoots through you.

You suck in a breath, biting down hard on your lip to muffle the quiet whimper that escapes your throat. 

Your thumb brushes over your nipple, circling it slowly until it hardens beneath your touch. The sensation sends a wave of heat straight to your core, your hips shifting restlessly beneath the covers.

Your other hand moves lower, brushing over the waistband of your panties. There’s a moment of hesitation, but it’s brief. The heat pooling between your thighs is unbearable now, and you can’t deny yourself any longer. 

Your fingers slip beneath the fabric, sliding over the wetness that greets you. You gasp quietly, the slick evidence of your arousal coating your fingertips. 

“Fuck…” you whisper, the word slipping out unbidden, the sound barely audible but laced with desperation.

Your fingers glide over your clit, the swollen bundle of nerves already sensitive, and you bite back another moan. You begin to circle it slowly, the pressure just enough to stoke the fire burning in your stomach.

But you need more. You press your fingers lower, sliding one inside yourself, then another. The stretch is delicious, the rhythm instinctive as your hips buck against your hand. 

You curl your fingers, hitting just the right spot, and the pleasure that ripples through you makes your toes curl.

Your hand moves faster now, your palm grinding against your clit with each thrust of your fingers. The wet sounds of your movements would be obscene if they weren’t muffled by the covers, but instead of embarrassment, it only fuels your arousal.

And then, Agatha seizes complete control of your mind. You imagine her fingers instead of yours, the way they’d explore you, claim you. You picture her leaning over you, her voice condescending and commanding as she tells you how good you feel, how she can’t get enough of you.

Your back arches off the bed as your hand moves to your other breast, kneading it roughly. Your nipples are so sensitive now that each pinch, each roll between your fingers, leaves you wetter, the slickness between your thighs growing with each needy, breathless motion, soaking your fingers as you lose yourself completely to the sensation.

You imagine her lips replacing your hand, her tongue flicking over the hardened peak before she bites down, just enough to make you gasp. Your hips jerk involuntarily, the image too vivid, too real.

Her voice fills your mind, rough and low, the way she cursed earlier. But this time, it’s for you.

“That’s it, baby. Just like that. Let go for me.”

You can almost feel her breath against your skin, her weight pressing you into the mattress, her fingers fucking you with a precision that leaves you shaking.

Your fingers thrust deeper, harder, curling just right as your thumb flicks over your clit. The tension in your stomach coils tighter, impossibly tight, until you’re teetering on the edge.

“Agatha…” you whisper, her name tumbling from your lips like a prayer.

The sound of it, the feel of it on your tongue, pushes you over the edge. 

The tension snaps, pleasure exploding through you wave after wave, so intense it leaves you trembling.

Your thighs clamp around your hand, your hips grinding against your fingers as the aftershocks ripple through you. Your other hand grips the sheets tightly, your knuckles white as you ride out every last pulse of pleasure.

For a long moment, you lie there, your chest heaving, your body a trembling, oversensitive mess. Slowly, your hand slips away, the wetness on your fingers a reminder of just how badly you want her.

You don’t bother cleaning up, your limbs too heavy to move. Sleep tugs at you, irresistible in the aftermath of your release. 

As your eyes drift shut, her name rests on the edges of your consciousness, a soft echo you can’t help but chase.

[imjusthopelessenough]

Sterek Rec List

I've been reading fanfiction for a long time and so I've finally decided to make use of my skills and rec all of the fics that I would recommend anyone that considers themselves a fan of the ship to read. I feel like there's something here for everyone, so peruse at your leisure! If you liked a fic, make sure to leave kudos and comments for the author! (Feel free to come and chat about it with me as well!)

Obligatory disclaimer: Just because I read a certain trope, or idea does not mean that I agree with it or align my values with it. Read at your own discretion.

Don't Speak - Fatale 68k multi-chaptered

Summary:

The Alpha pack has systematically attacked Stiles and his friends for months, testing their strengths and weaknesses. When one of the Alphas goes after Stiles, he awakens in the hospital and realizes that something's wrong. Very wrong. All sounds seem to hurt him, he can't understand what anyone is saying, and when he tries to speak, it's gibberish. How is he supposed to deal with the fact that he's lost the ability to communicate with his dad and his friends? Without his ability to talk, his sarcasm, and his wit, what does Stiles even have left? Enter Derek, the only one who seems to make it better.

oh my god. Saying I love this fic is an understatement. I would recommend this to anyone, regardless of if they've watched the hellscape that is Teen Wolf. It's absolutely beautifully written and I feel like it's one of the rare fanfiction pieces that accurately represents a disability as well as hospital procedures. Not once did I get the feeling of "He would not fucking say that." Since stumbling across this I've read it multiple times, I truly cannot say a single bad thing about it. If you like a fic that is pure Stiles Whump but still keeps that "I have to keep fighting" vibe, this is a must read.

2. Home - TheTypeWriterGirl 167k multi-chaptered

Summary:

January seventh. Seven days since the start of 2015, and seven days since his father’s death. The bastard, he thinks bitterly. The past year Derek Hale had made it blatantly obvious that he hated his scrawny guts, taking every given opportunity to shove him up against a wall, growl threats in his ears and roll his eyes whenever he stepped into the room, muttering some snide comment about how spastic or idiotic he was. So why did he fucking volunteer to take him in?

Home, my beloved. I love this fic so much. Such an accurate description of what it's like to be grieving and how PTSD can manifest. I typically stray away from fics that involve character deaths like this because it can feel really pointless and is really only a means in which to get two people in a room fucking. This is not that. The sheriff dying not only serves as the major plot point of the entire fic it drives the narrative. We also get to explore Derek's trauma and how it coincides with what Stiles is going through. An added bonus, there's art for every chapter and it is beautifully done and really helps encapsulate you into what's going on. You can tell that the author went back and forth with what they wrote and what they drew to match the details. If you're looking for a weekend read that includes nothing but domestic activities and little to no werewolf fighting action with very lore accurate characters, this is for you!

3. To Have Outlived the Night - stillane 23k one-shot

Summary:

Derek steps away from the window. “You helped me. They took that as a declaration.”

I'm frothing at the mouth and eating glass for this one. I love this fic so much. Since the summary doesn't really list out what's going on let me tell you. There are multiple hunter families in town and they've got their eyes on the prize for Alpha Derek. Stiles and Derek are at their "I hate you but I guess I'll save your life," phases. They bond over being nerds, being in a fake-relationship, and categorizing the hunter families. The ending is also so funny I cackled the first time I read it no joke. If you're looking for fake (but really not) relationship and forced bonding time this is the one for you!

4. Stilinski's Home for Wayward Wolves - owlpostagain 35k, one-shot

Summary:

“At least your puppies knock first,” Stiles snorts. “Here I thought their alpha raised them to be well-mannered.” “There’s a sign,” Derek responds stiffly. Stiles, whose curiosity outweighs even his hardest of grudges, abandons his chilly façade of nonchalance in a heartbeat. He jumps right up and all but pushes Derek out of the way in his effort to get to the window, and sure enough when he leans outside there’s a laminated strip of cardstock duct taped to the vinyl siding: DON’T FORGET TO KNOCK Stiles gets cranky when we scare him --- Or, in which Stiles Stilinski moves to Beacon Hills for his junior year of high school and accidentally adopts a pack of teenage werewolves.

To start, anything that Owlpostagain writes is amazing and should be read, regardless of if you enjoy that fandom. I love them, and you will probably see their fics recced somewhere in this list again or in a different list. This is a what-if situation of what if Stiles didn't grow up with Scott. It's a nice medium length and is a mostly just really fun lighthearted read with pack feels. Also Scott is actually a good friend (mostly) Good for someone looking for something to kill a few hours that wants pack feels, Derek being treasured, and Stiles being an essential part of the pack.

5. Night Owls Early Birds - Lissadiane 24k one-shot (but part 1 in a series!)

Summary:

Confession: Stiles is afraid of having magic. The Spark had been cool. It had been small, manageable. He could do some funky stuff with Mountain Ash, all with the power of belief. And now here he is, his Spark blown wide open, apparently coming down with a fatal case of magical overload, and all that stands between him and bleeding out is a grumpy owl that looks suspiciously like a feathered version of Derek Hale. (In which Stiles learns he's a witch, but instead of a wand and a trip to Diagon Alley, he gets blood magic, a grumpy and reluctant owl as his companion, and an accidental blood bond with Derek Hale.)

I have a big thing for witch Stiles. Like a massive thing. I also have a big thing for whump Stiles who is also a bamf. If you also love these things you need to read this! However, you should definitely read the notes on this fic before reading, as there's a lot of gory details. I also love the way Derek is portrayed in this, and everything feels very in character. The owl is a bonus character and should be cherished. If you're looking for a fic that is high-action, worried Derek, BAMF stiles, you should read this!

6. Somewhere to Start - Lissadiane 33k one shot (but part 1 in a series!)

Summary:

Stiles has always known that he isn't quite human - the plant life that tends to sprout around him whenever he gets upset or excited gives it away. He's never really fit in among the regular people in Beacon Hills and is determined to wait it out, go to college, and find somewhere to belong. He's forced to abandon those plans, however, after he desperately agrees to enter into an arranged marriage to save his father's life. An arranged marriage with an angry, sometimes furry dude with trust issues. It's all very Beauty and the Beast, without the singing candlesticks.

Another Lissadiane piece because like I stated earlier, I love whump witch Stiles, it's my number one trope for this fandom. I have to say, the summary doesn't do this fic justice. If you're looking for a fic to read to kill a few hours that is very fast action paced that still keeps on the more lighthearted side, this ones for you!

7. Integral to Survival - placeholdr 8k one shot (must have ao3 to read)

Summary:

Derek is in the cell for about ten minutes before the lone door opens and a new body is tossed in. The person hits the floor with a grunt, rolls, and stands as the door is clanging shut. “That’s really not the way to treat a guest!”

You'll notice that this is another whump Stiles fic with Derek being protective and getting his ass beat for it. I plead the fifth. I love the dynamics in this fic and find that most of the character interactions are well-written. If you're looking for a short read that is basically just Stiles and Derek getting their asses beat and recuperating, this is one for you!

8. We've Written Volumes (in Blood and Scars and Ink) - notthequiettype 25k one-shot (Must have ao3 to read)

Summary:

Stiles is on his back on hard-packed dirt. He's cold and there are leaves stuck to his neck and there's a four inch gash in his side that he thinks he can feel his ribs through. There's so much blood around him he feels like he's floating on a pond and everything is so much dimmer above him than it was a minute ago, which is saying something because he's in the dark center of the forest in the middle of the night. And the worst of it is that he's alone, totally alone with the smell of his own blood drowning him and the soft side of him run through by a tree. As his eyes slip shut, the last thing he thinks is, "This is going to kill my dad."

Another Stiles whump who could have guessed! Nah but for real I love this fic, it's very cute and I enjoy the character dynamics between Stiles and Derek here. To truly summarize this fic, Stiles keeps getting in minor injuries and Derek shakes his head and does his mojo thing while pretending to be annoyed. Also, Derek makes annotations on Stiles' incorrect lore. It's very cute. If you're looking for a fic to occupy an hour or two that includes forced bonding and fondly annoyed Derek, look no further!

9. Glazed and Confused - wishingonalightningbolt 13k one-shot

Summary:

or, In Which Love is More Important than Donuts. Stiles is a forensic tech with the San Diego FBI. He thinks he's been fairly lucky, since he's never had his life threatened, sustained few injuries, and only has to work with his least favorite agent every once in a while. And then all of that changes.

Standoffish FBI Derek with super smart lab boy Stiles, sign me up babey!! This is another one of my favorite tropes and it's a shame that there aren't more well-written ones out there. To summarize this fic, Derek and Stiles are coworkers in a crime lab like that one CSI show. Stiles is the goth chick, and Derek is the white haired DILF. If you're looking for a cute short AU read that still keeps the character's personalities, read this! (Side note, TW for preg loss it's not mentioned in the tags because it's a very minor short thing that's literally 2 sentences)

10. Untamed - rosepetals42 28k one shot

Summary:

Of course, the transfer kid gets mentioned because transfers are rare, but the news isn’t that exciting. In fact, according to Laura, no one even seems to know his first name. The only thing anyone has really figured out about him is that he’s American. And that’s not exactly hard because he obviously has an accent. The only thing Derek really knows is that, despite other reports, he seems quiet enough, prefers to work alone, and has the most amazing shade of amber eyes that Derek has ever seen. Not that he’s looking. Obviously. OR: A Harry Potter AU where Stiles is a Slytherin transfer student and Derek is the grumpy Gryffindor who falls in love with him. There are also potions, elves, and falcons involved. Oh, and illegal use of magic. Obviously.

This is one of those rare Sterek fics where Derek is not an asshole and Stiles is not somebody that just yaps and yaps for no reason but it's still in character! Plus HP AU! Obligatory fuck JK Rowling. The essentials of this fic are that Derek is a nerd, Stiles is a genius and homesick, and Derek's family are all here! This is a good read for if you're wanting a meet-cute that still follows all of the logic of how the characters interact with one another.