#who’s who? that’s a secret I’ll NEVER tell

[gettingridofhope]

It’s time that we change the course of this country. All you younger cats listen up. What we do today affects you tomorrow. If you care about your future, if you are worried about nothing to strive for, if you feel like the American Dream is no longer available to you, then the time to change all that is upon us, Donald “The twat” Trump, this countries greatest challenge tricked his followers by lying, lying and fuckin’ lying constantly during his campaign and former term and convinced the dummies, the hardcore misogynists and and all around dumb motherfuckers of this country to put him back in charge with promises that he had no intention of keeping. This doddering fuck is an ignorant, racist, disingenuous, senile, arrogant and self absorbed piece of shit. He had embarrassed this country, its people and humanity in general. You young cats are alive during the worst time ever in American history. Never has this country been in such danger. However, all of us, you, me and them. Every single American, we have no where else to go, no one is coming to help us and only we together will survive this terrible and uncertain time. We must all make certain that this is the last time that a piece of garbage like Trump ever becomes president again. Trump and all the billionaires that suck suck hid dick need to be handled in the only place that gets their attention. Their wallets. The challenge is to find out who these billionaires and make everyone you know aware of who they are, what they own and straight boycott the fuck out of these greedy, immoral parasites and sink their fortunes. See what they don’t realize is that you young cats are the secret weapon. You guys stand to lose the most out any of the generation before you. You have your youth and your numbers and you have the power to end this shit once and for all. This country will be yours eventually and you’ll be the old cats one day telling the youngsters about what it was like to live during these times and and you along with us changed this country and this world into what it will we become. Billionaires are not your friends, Donald Trump doesn’t give a fuck about you or us. You know who does? I do. That’s why I’m telling it to you straight. Get active. Get informed. If you got questions about what is really going. Go ahead and ask me. I’ll give you the facts and let you decide. In these times you’re going to have to grow up fast and the sooner you do the better off your future will be. This greed that has infected civilization ends now. We have no other choice. Stay strong, stay smart, stay young at heart and remember mo can ever take away what you know to be right and wrong and the love you have for everyone. We will win this shit. We have no other choice.

[auroralwriting]

𝓊𝓈.

pairing: finnick odair x reader

summary: does he regret the secret of you?

warnings: no warnings for this story

: ̗̀➛ masterlist

gracie abrams songfic challenge

You meet Finnick by the shore, always.

The sun's barely peeking over the horizon, the waves hush against the sand, and the air still smells like salt and promise. It’s early enough that the rest of the district is asleep or pretending to be, which gives you these precious minutes alone, just you and Finnick. Just the two of you, before the world wakes up and remembers who he is.

You’re sitting on the rocks, legs pulled up to your chest, when he comes up behind you and rests his chin on your shoulder. A comforting feeling, something you only trusted him to do.

“You’re late,” you tease.

“I brought breakfast.” He holds up a paper bag with two flaky pastries, slightly squished from his run over. “Peace offering?”

You turn your head slightly so your nose brushes his. “Depends. Did you get the sweet one?”

He kisses your cheek. “Always.”

You take the bag and tug him down beside you. The world is still golden and quiet and yours.

Everyone in the district knows Finnick Odair. Of course they do. He’s the Capitol’s golden boy, the youngest victor in history, a name whispered with awe and fear and a tinge of envy. But you know him differently. You know him when he’s not trying to be charming, when he forgets the way he’s supposed to carry himself like a weapon. You know him when he’s barefoot and laughing, when he cries in your arms, when he dreams out loud about a future that might never come. When you’re swimming in the sea and running barefoot down the stony pathways of four.

And somehow, against all odds, you’re his. In secret. Not because you’re ashamed. Because it’s safer that way.

If the Capitol knew—if Snow knew—he would destroy you just to remind Finnick who he belonged to. So instead, your love lives in the spaces between. Glances across the square. Notes tucked into fishing nets. A second pair of footsteps behind the cliffs. And mornings like this one, where time bends just enough to make room for you both.

“You’re staring,” Finnick says, and when you look over, he’s grinning at you with one brow raised.

“Can’t help it,” you say, leaning into him. “You’re prettier in the morning light.”

He laughs, the sound warm and real. “You’re the only person alive who says that to me like it means something.”

You thread your fingers through his, fitting together with practiced ease. “That’s ‘cause when I say it, it does.”

The waves crash louder, a seagull swoops above, and Finnick watches you like you’re the only constant in a life full of chaos. “You ever think about running away?” he asks quietly, like he’s not supposed to even speak the thought out loud.

“All the time,” you reply. “But I don’t think we’d make it past the district border.”

He nods. “I know. I just… I think about it more now. About you and me and a little boat and no one knowing our names.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “I like the sound of that.”

He turns to face you, suddenly serious. “If I ever get the chance to go, I’ll take it. And I’ll come back for you. I swear it.”

You blink at him, stunned. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious,” he says. “I don’t want this life forever. I don’t want to keep pretending. I want us.”

Your heart pounds so loud you’re scared he’ll hear it. You squeeze his hand tighter.

“Okay,” you say, breathless. “Then I’ll wait for you. I’ll always wait.”

The months go by like pages turning too fast.

Your love is all little things. Late-night walks on the pier. Pressed flowers in your pockets. Hidden kisses behind nets and market stalls. He braids tiny shells into your hair and says you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and you tell him he talks too much, but you kiss him like you believe it.

And then.. everything changed.

When they announced the Quarter Quell, your heart dropped before his name was even drawn. You knew. You knew Snow would never let him go. Not after all he’d endured. Not when Finnick’s smile was still the Capitol’s favorite currency.

You had braced yourself for goodbye. But instead, miraculously, inexplicably, they came for you. District 13.

President Coin said it was for your safety. Someone had told them of Finnick Odair's secret lover and how he needed her--you. But you weren’t stupid. You knew the truth: it was to keep him tethered. To keep him sane. To remind him what he was still fighting for.

Finnick didn’t know you’d been brought to District 13, not at first. You were underground, in hiding, protected and silenced and surrounded by strangers in gray. But when he stumbled out of the hovercraft after being rescued from the arena, bleeding and trembling and half-alive, they let him see you.

They didn’t expect him to fall to his knees when he did.

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked at you like you were a ghost, hands trembling as they hovered inches from your face. Like he was scared you’d disappear again. That he’d imagined you like he had so many nights in the Capitol, when loneliness felt like it would kill him before Snow ever could.

You took his hands and pressed them to your cheeks, kneeling in front of him slowly, like he was some wounded animal. “I’m here,” you whispered. “I’m here.”

He sobbed into your neck. And from that moment on, you didn’t hide anymore.

In District 13, you sleep in the same bed. It’s not like before, no ocean breeze or tangled nets or kisses by moonlight, but it’s real. It’s a borrowed bunk in a metal room, and still, somehow, it feels like a palace. Because it’s yours. Because he’s yours.

He wakes up in the middle of the night sometimes, breathing hard, sweat soaking the collar of his shirt. You don’t ask what he’s dreaming of. You already know. So you curl around him, press your lips to the side of his neck, and hold him until his shaking stops.

He always says the same thing: “You’re my only safe place.”

Sometimes, he says it with tears still drying on his cheeks. Sometimes, it’s whispered against your shoulder like a prayer. And you believe him. Because you feel the same way.

In District 13, people glance sideways at you in the beginning. You don’t care. Let them stare. Let them wonder if you’re scared out of your minds. Let them wonder who had possibly caught Finnick Odair's attention. It didn't matter, because it was finally real to you.

But there’s nothing fake about the way Finnick pulls you into him during the middle of strategy meetings, resting his chin on your shoulder like he’s bored out of his mind but perfectly content as long as you’re there. There’s nothing fabricated about the way he holds your hand in the cafeteria line, like you’ll disappear if he lets go. You could be grabbing bread and water and he’s still brushing his thumb over your knuckles like you’re made of something divine.

You catch people smiling sometimes. Not the cold, calculating kind. The soft kind. The kind that says: oh, this is real.

He kisses you in the hallways. He steals kisses like he used to, quick and sly, like you’re both teenagers again, but now it’s in full view. You’ll be talking to Gale or Katniss, and Finnick will just walk by, press a kiss to the side of your mouth like it’s the most casual thing in the world, and keep walking like it didn’t leave you flushed and dazed.

“You’re insufferable,” you tell him once, when he does it in front of a crowded room.

“You love it,” he grins, hands already slipping around your waist.

“I do,” you admit, letting him press his forehead to yours. “God help me.”

He kisses you like the world has already been saved.

When the war ends, and the world opens back up, Finnick refuses to go anywhere without you. It’s not a protective thing, it’s a need thing. A love thing.

You rebuild a life together near the coast, in a village that smells like freedom. You sleep tangled up like driftwood, limbs always brushing. You wake up to his lips on your cheek, his voice murmuring some half-sung melody he’s writing in his head. And when you leave the house, together, always together, people don’t bat an eye when he threads your fingers together like it's second nature.

Because it is.

You go to markets and he picks out your favorite fruit without asking. You read on the beach and he lies with his head in your lap, humming under his breath. You take walks along the shoreline, and he insists on skipping rocks even though he’s absolutely terrible at it. He’ll pretend to pout until you kiss him. It works every time.

He kisses you so often it becomes a rhythm. A punctuation. A language.

And he loves being yours publicly. After years of being forced to wear a mask in the Capitol, after years of fake smiles and someone else’s hands, you are his truth. You are the thing he never had to fake.

He tells people stories about you, often unsolicited.

“She makes the best tea,” he says to a wide-eyed kid in town. “Once she brewed a cup that knocked me out for eight hours straight. Slept like a baby. Woke up drooling on her shoulder.”

He grins at you like you hung the stars.

You roll your eyes. “It was chamomile, Finnick.”

He shrugs. “Magic.”

Sometimes you find yourselves just watching each other.

You’ll glance across the room and find his eyes already on you. Like he’s always checking, just to make sure this is still real. You’re sitting on the dock one evening, feet in the water, his arm wrapped lazily around your shoulders.

“Remember how we used to hide behind that net stall?” he murmurs, pointing down the shoreline.

You smile. “We got caught so many times.”

He laughs, tipping his head back. “That one time your braid got tangled in the ropes—”

“—and you tried to play it off like we were just admiring the craftsmanship.”

“Hey,” he says, mock offended. “It was a fine net.”

You laugh until your sides hurt. And then you lean into him, quiet, hearts beating in sync. “We don’t have to hide anymore,” you say softly.

He kisses the side of your head. “We never will again.”

“Do you regret it? The secret of us?” You asked.

Finnick shook his head, “I never regret any of our moments together.”

You’re the kind of couple people talk about in stories now. Not because of the war. Not because of the Capitol. But because of how good your love is. How whole. How loud and soft and lasting. They see the way Finnick looks at you like you’re his whole world. The way he tucks flowers behind your ear and doesn’t care who’s watching. The way you press kisses to the corner of his mouth every time you say goodbye—even if it’s only for a five-minute errand.

They say love in Panem never lasts. But you and Finnick? You’re the exception. You’re always touching. Always close. Always choosing each other. Not just in secret. Not just in private. But in every room. Every day. Every lifetime you’re lucky enough to share. And gods, are you lucky.

[shaiyasstuff]

choose me | xavier

synopsis : It doesn’t matter who loved him first. It doesn’t matter who loves him now. The truth is, none of you ever really had him—not fully. Not honestly. content : adultery, affairs, don’t read if you are sensitive now playing : Meet Me in Amsterdam - RINI

“It’s me. I’ll be at your place in ten.”

The line cuts before you can say a word.

Before you can stop him.

Before you can stop yourself.

You lower the phone slowly, as if delaying the inevitable might change the ending.

But it never does.

It’s always him.

It’s always been him.

Xavier.

You press the device to your chest, as though it can quiet the war inside you, but your heart is already spiraling—spinning in soft blue hues and pale gold strands that feel like sin.

You clutch the hem of your shirt, fists trembling.

“This can’t keep going,” you whisper.

And yet you know it will.

Because you’ve never been strong enough to let him go.

You’re the secret tucked into the folds of his life, the name he doesn’t say when he comes home, the body he returns to in the hours that don’t belong to anyone else.

You’re not his.

You never have been.

Not really.

He belongs to someone else.

Xavier’s marriage is a ring you never dared to touch, a name you can’t bring yourself to ask about.

You pretend it doesn’t exist when his fingers trace your spine, when he presses soft kisses into your shoulder, when he breathes your name like it’s a promise.

But it isn’t. It never has been.

You tell yourself you didn’t choose this. That you were dragged into the wreckage of his affection like a moth to flame.

But the truth is—your heart has always knelt for him.

Even when it shouldn’t have.

You still remember the way he looked that night—the first night. Blue eyes dimmed with regret, lips parting like he wanted to apologize for something he hadn’t even done yet.

And maybe that should’ve been your warning.

Maybe you should’ve run.

But you stayed. You always stay.

Even when it breaks you.

Even when you are nothing more than the pause between his vows.

Even when he’s still hers.

Because somewhere in the quiet, when his head rests against your chest and he whispers half-truths into the dark—you believe he’s yours.

Just for a moment.

And that’s enough to ruin you all over again.

—•

You stand with the door open.

And there he is—Xavier, leaning against the frame like the weight of the world has begun to settle into his bones.

His shoulders are slouched, not from defeat, but from exhaustion. Still, he holds himself with that quiet, princely grace he’s never quite managed to shake. Not even now. Not even here.

Your heart stutters.

A silent betrayal.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice barely more than a breath.

You step aside without a word, letting him in. The door clicks shut behind you, and your hand lingers on the lock longer than it should.

Fingertips pressed against cool metal, head bowed. Like maybe if you stay like that long enough, this won’t be real.

But it is.

It always is.

You feel the weight of his eyes before you hear his steps. The way his gaze crawls up your spine, deliberate and lingering, like it’s memorizing the shape of your silence.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

And still, he comes closer—carefully, almost reverently. As if this isn’t something that should ache.

As if this isn’t betrayal, and you aren’t already hollowing yourself out to make room for a man who was never yours to begin with.

Then his arms slip around your waist.

You flinch, just barely.

But he pulls you in anyway, like muscle memory, like this has always been his place to return to. His chin dips into the crook of your neck, nose buried in your hair as he exhales, deep and shaky.

“I missed you,” he murmurs.

The words are a wound.

You close your eyes. You force your body to soften, to let him hold you—like the curve of your spine hasn’t bent too many times under the weight of this secret.

And he holds you, gently, desperately, as if that could fix it.

As if his arms could stitch together the parts of you that cracked the moment you said yes to being the other woman.

You smile. Or something like it.

A quiet, fractured thing.

Because what else can you do?

Let him pretend. Let yourself pretend.

Just for tonight. Just this once.

As if dignity weren’t already dust at your feet.

He begins to trail kisses along your neck—soft, familiar, undoing you with every press of his lips. Your breath hitches, sharp and involuntary.

You reach for his arm, fingers wrapping around it—not to pull him closer, but to pull away.

“I can’t,” you whisper, voice barely holding together.

He stills.

His arms fall to his sides, hesitant, lingering in the space between wanting and retreating. His eyes find yours, and they’re softer than they have any right to be. “Okay,” he says. But even as the word leaves his mouth, he takes a step forward.

You step back. A reflex.

Desperation tightens in your chest—not for him, but for yourself. For the last fragment of dignity you’ve been guarding like glass in your palms.

It’s slipping. You can feel it.

He moves again.

“Just tell me,” he murmurs, another step.

Your back hits the door.

You press your palm out, a weak barrier between you and him. “Xavier—” your voice cracks.

And he’s there. Inches away.

He doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

But the air shifts. Thickens. His hand reaches up, gently curling around your outstretched one as if to steady it. As if to steady you.

“Tell me to stop,” he breathes.

The words unravel in the space between you. A challenge. A plea.

And you want to. God, you want to. You want to tell him to walk away, to go home to the life he built with someone else.

To leave you with at least this much—your silence, your pride, the echo of your better judgment.

But then he looks at you like that.

With that slow, honeyed gaze. With that voice like velvet slipping through your ribs.

And suddenly you’re back there—years ago, heart in hand, loving a man who only saw you when it was convenient. Who only reached for you in shadows.

You don’t tell him to stop.

You never do.

Because part of you still believes that if you let him close enough, maybe this time, he’ll stay.

And when he closes the distance between your lips, the world stills.

You forget how to breathe.

Forget how to think.

So you don’t.

You simply let it happen.

You let him in—again—despite the way your heart claws against your ribs in protest. Despite the ache that never really leaves, only hides beneath moments like this.

His hands find you slowly, reverently. They trace the curve of your waist, glide across the flat of your stomach, brush along your arms—memorizing what he already knows by heart.

And your body, traitorous as ever, moves with him.

Your arms lift, winding around his neck like they always do, like they were made for this fall. And fall you do—headfirst into the familiar ruin of him.

Into love.

Into want.

Into the kind of lust that tastes like guilt but feels like home.

You surrender, again and again, to the abyss that is him.

You lay your head against his chest, the rise and fall of his breath steady beneath your cheek—soothing, dangerous. Your own breathing has only just begun to slow, though your body still trembles faintly from the things he did to you.

Things you can’t say aloud. Things that live only in the quiet hum between stolen moments and regret.

You listen to the rhythm of his heart.

Steady. Unbothered.

Like this was nothing. Like this was everything.

His fingers draw soft, idle circles against your bare skin—slow, hypnotic. You close your eyes, but it doesn’t bring peace. Just more weight.

You don’t look at him.

You can’t.

Not even when he pulls you closer like it means something. Not even when he whispers against your temple,

“So beautiful…”

like he’s speaking a truth, not just rewriting the lie of this affair.

You keep your eyes fixed on the hollow of his collarbone, lips parted in silence.

Because if you look at him now, you might never be able to look away.

But Xavier—always gentle, always cruel in the softest of ways—lifts his hand to your cheek. His palm warm. Reverent. Mocking.

He tilts your face toward his, coaxing your gaze to meet his own. And there it is—that soft smile. The one that disarms you.

The one that pretends this isn’t a slow undoing. As if he isn’t unraveling your dignity thread by thread and calling it love.

As if your self-respect isn’t already splintered across the floor beneath your feet.

As if your mind isn’t screaming kick him out,

while your traitorous heart clings to the fantasy of a man who was never yours to keep.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

And for a moment, you nearly laugh.

Because how do you say everything?

Everything is wrong.

Everything is cruel.

Every kiss he leaves on your skin is a betrayal you’ve learned to crave. Every tender whisper another nail in the coffin you keep burying your better judgment in.

Every night he stays, every breath he takes beside you—it’s all a sin.

An unforgivable, deliberate sin.

But you don’t tell him that.

You smile instead. A hollow thing. A mask you’ve worn too many times.

“Nothing,” you whisper.

Because your heart—faithless and pathetic—wants him to stay.

Wants him, still.

Always.

“I’ll be back soon.”

It sounds like a promise, but you know better than to hold it in your hands. It isn’t a vow—it’s a transaction. A whispered lie dressed in affection.

An illegal exchange between a man who belongs to someone else, and a woman too foolish—too willing—to say no.

You nod anyway. “Okay.”

He smiles. Of course he does.

His fingers thread through your hair, slow and familiar, before trailing down to brush your cheek. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead—gentle, almost reverent. As if that small tenderness can sanctify all the ways he’s ruined you.

And just like that, he’s gone.

He disappears into the dim hallway of your apartment complex, leaving nothing behind but the ghost of his touch and the echo of words that never meant anything.

And you?

You stay.

Still.

Barefoot on cold tile, your body marked by his presence, your pride scattered at your feet.

You watch as he fades into the night, back into the life he never intended to leave. Back into the arms of the woman who gets to love him in daylight. In truth. In full.

While you remain here—unseen, unheard.

Helpless and sinful.

A secret dressed in silence.

You pull the covers to your chest, curling onto your side as if the blankets could shield you from the truth of it all.

Your eyes sting, wet with unshed tears, and your shoulders feel heavy—worn down by the shame and guilt you carry like a suitcase you never set down.

“I need to stop this.”

The words leave your mouth like a prayer. A plea. A lie.

Because who are you kidding?

You won’t.

You can’t.

And worse than that—you don’t even want to.

—•

“The total will be $48.53,” the cashier says brightly, her voice cutting through your haze.

You nod, wordless, handing over a crumpled fifty. The change is pressed into your palm, forgotten almost instantly as you clutch your bag of groceries and offer a polite smile.

You turn toward the exit, steps light, mind elsewhere—somewhere quieter.

But then you stop.

Dead still.

Just beyond the sliding doors—her.

His wife.

The woman he comes home to. The one with his last name, his mornings, his full, unhidden love.

And she’s looking straight at you.

Not past you.

Not through you.

At you.

Your breath catches.

Your pulse roars in your ears, and suddenly the bag in your hands feels too heavy. Like shame has weight. Like guilt has shape.

And for a moment, the world holds its breath with you.

The soft clinking of cutlery and quiet chatter fills the restaurant around you, but it all feels distant—muted, like sound underwater.

Your hands tremble as they wrap around the porcelain cup, drawing what little warmth you can from the tea. You don’t lift it to your lips. You just hold it, as if the motion alone can steady you.

Across from you, she sits. Composed. Calm. A cup of coffee cradled in her hands like it’s second nature.

Neither of you has spoken since sitting down.

The crepe she ordered rests untouched beside her, the whipped cream beginning to melt, pooling slowly at the edges like time running out.

It’s all unraveling—quietly, politely, painfully.

“I’ve known since that night,” she says softly, almost like an afterthought.

She takes a sip of her coffee, and you’re struck—not by the words, but by the calm in her voice. The unbearable stillness. As if she’s practiced this moment a hundred times in the mirror before finally stepping into it.

But you see it.

God, you see it.

The faint redness at the corners of her eyes, the way her lashes look damp. The exhaustion in her spine, just barely noticeable in the way her shoulders droop. And that smile—still there, still perfect—only now it feels like glass. Thin. Breakable. Screaming.

She’s holding herself together so quietly, so painfully.

You bow your head, eyes fixed on the untouched tea in your hands. Shame spreads like a bruise across your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

And it’s not enough.

It never will be.

“Don’t be,” she says gently, picking up her fork. “You and I both know it wouldn’t fix anything.”

You nod—small, ashamed. The gesture feels like penance. Like a child caught doing something they can’t undo, sitting in silence while the consequences settle around them.

She takes a bite, chews slowly, then glances up at you.

“How long?”

The question hangs there, deceptively simple. But something in her tone, in her eyes, tells you she isn’t asking about the affair.

She’s asking about you.

About the feeling. The why beneath the what.

And somehow, that’s worse.

You hesitate, the truth caught like a splinter in your throat. You don’t deserve her grace. You don’t deserve her voice still soft.

But still, you answer.

Quietly.

“Since college.”

And the shame deepens—because even now, after everything, she’s still asking about your heart.

She doesn’t respond right away.

Just lowers her eyes to her plate, the fork paused between her fingers as if the admission settled somewhere deeper than she expected. Or maybe, she always knew.

You wonder if she’s tracing back the years in her head.

Wondering when he started looking at you the way he used to look at her.

If he ever stopped.

The silence stretches between you, thin and fragile. You grip your cup a little tighter, not because the tea has gone cold—but because you have.

She finally exhales, a sound so soft you almost miss it.

“I thought so,” she murmurs. Not bitter. Not angry. Just tired.

You want her to scream.

To curse you.

To ask why.

But instead, she lifts her gaze, and there’s only sorrow there. Not for herself. Not for him.

For you.

“You loved him first,” she says. Not a question. A realization.

Your throat tightens.

It doesn’t matter who loved him first. It doesn’t matter who loves him now. The truth is, none of you ever really had him—not fully. Not honestly.

“I shouldn’t have,” you manage, voice cracking under the weight of guilt. “But I did.”

And she smiles.

Not kindly. Not cruelly. Just sadly. Like someone who’s been living inside a heartbreak long before you ever stepped into it.

“I think,” she says slowly, “that’s the most honest thing either of us has said all day.”

She sets her fork down, untouched food pushed aside, and looks at you one last time.

“I don’t hate you,” she whispers, and somehow, that’s the cruelest mercy of all.

Because you do.

You hate yourself enough for the both of you.

She lets out a soft chuckle—gentle, unexpected. “Thank you. For being honest.”

And somehow, that hurts more than anything she could’ve screamed.

Your head dips lower, eyes fixed on the table as the guilt claws its way up your throat, thick and burning. It sits there—unspoken, unbearable—just like everything else you never had the courage to say.

Just then, the door swings open—and there he is.

Xavier.

He stands at the entrance of the café like he hadn’t just been the center of a quiet war. As if he hadn’t been split between two women sitting at the same table, breathing the same grief.

His eyes move to you first—always to you first—and then to her.

And the shift is immediate.

The air thickens. The stillness sharpens. Your breath catches somewhere between shame and something dangerously close to longing.

She doesn’t flinch.

She turns her head slowly, meets his gaze with a calm you know she’s had to fight for.

Xavier hesitates. Just for a second.

And in that second, you see it—the flicker of guilt, the fear, the weight of everything unspoken.

Then it’s gone.

He walks over like nothing’s wrong, like he wasn’t the reason everything is.

And you?

You sit there, tea cold, spine stiff, throat lined with remorse.

Because this is the moment you realize—love doesn’t always look like choosing.

Sometimes, it looks like walking in too late.

She clears her throat—light, deliberate. A warning bell in the stillness.

Xavier has just settled into the seat beside her.

Of course, beside her.

Where he belonged.

“I’m not leaving my husband,” she says, voice calm, but resolute—like she’s drawn a line in the sand and dares him to cross it.

Xavier’s head snaps up to her, eyes wide, stunned into silence.

And you… you look at him too.

Even now. Even here, tangled in the wreckage of what should never have been, you search his face like it holds an answer. Like it might offer you something more than borrowed nights and regretful touches.

Maybe, just once—you want him to look at you and choose.

Not in secret.

Not in silence.

But truly.

And still, he says nothing.

You nod—once, faintly.

There’s no fight left in you now. Only resignation, curled deep in your chest like smoke after a fire.

Your chair scrapes softly against the tiled floor as you rise to your feet. The sound feels too loud in the silence the three of you share. You smooth down the front of your clothes, more out of habit than necessity, then lift your gaze—not to him, but to her.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, and this time, your voice doesn’t tremble.

She doesn’t smile. She doesn’t nod. She just watches you—like she understands that this, finally, is the goodbye you both needed.

You don’t look at Xavier.

You can’t.

Because if you do, you’re afraid your resolve will break.

Afraid that some desperate, buried part of you will still beg.

So you keep your eyes on the door.

And when you walk away, you do it with your head high and heart in pieces—leaving behind the man who never chose, and will never choose you.

—•

“Y/N, these just came in for you.”

You glance up from your desk, the numbers on your screen blurring as a bouquet is set gently in front of you—roses, soft and bright.

Your fingers hover before you take them, delicate in your hands like something from another lifetime. A small note peeks from between the stems.

I hope to see you smile more, it reads, scrawled in messy, hopeful handwriting.

You already know who sent them.

Your eyes lift across the room to where he sits—Rafayel. The handsome new hire with warm eyes and a smile too easy for a world like this.

He offers a small wave, a tentative grin.

But your heart doesn’t move.

It doesn’t stir.

It’s silent.

You rise slowly, holding the bouquet like it’s made of glass and ghosts. And then, without a word, you cross the room and place it carefully on his desk.

“Thanks,” you say, softly. “But I’m okay.”

You don’t meet his eyes. You don’t owe him that.

You pick up your files, your steps quiet as you make your way toward the conference room. Back to routine. Back to numb.

Because you’ve loved too deeply once.

And it left you hollow.

You’re done chasing after the shape of something that never stays.

You’re done with love.

Or rather, the twisted parody you convinced yourself it was.

[usagii-bun]

𝐝𝐫.𝐚𝐥𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦 ‧₊˚ part 2 | fluff

╰┈➤ fem reader. reader is alhaitham’s patient (this may be a bit self indulgent hehe). mild flirting. fluff. attempt at comedy, just a drabble ig, i love alhaitham fr— WAH a part 2 ?? masterlist

part 1 | part 2

Unknown Number: Hi. This is Dr. Alhaitham. I received your results. Are you available to come in tomorrow?

Your heart skips a full beat.

Wait. Wait.

You reread the message about eight times, thumb trembling over the screen.

Dr. Alhaitham. Dr. ALHAITHAM.

You never gave him your number. Not directly. The clinic must’ve had it on file from your intake paperwork. Still—why did he text? Shouldn’t it have been the nurse? Or the front desk?

Your brain spins in three different directions while your thumbs hesitate, hovering mid-air. What tone do you even take with a man who has seen your bloodwork and your undereye bags?

You: Hi… yes, I’m free. Is everything okay?

You don’t expect a reply right away, but the bubbles pop up almost instantly—like he was waiting. Watching the clock.

Dr. Alhaitham: I’d rather explain in person. It’s nothing urgent. I just… want to speak to you myself. Tomorrow at 10?

You stare. Blink. Re-read. “I just… want to speak to you myself.”

Butterflies launch a full-scale riot in your stomach. Your cheeks go hot. You’re squealing internally as your thumbs tap out a response that’s way too calm for how your heart is behaving.

You: Okay. I’ll be there. Also… is this your personal number?

A beat.

The kind of beat where you spiral. Where you consider throwing your phone across the room, just to escape the weight of your own message.

Your face is burning. Why did you ask that? Why did he use it?

The silence stretches until it starts to ache. And then—ping.

Dr. Alhaitham: Yes.

A full-body meltdown ensues.

You collapse back into the couch like a Victorian woman being told her corset’s been outlawed. He gave you his number. He texted you himself. He wants to talk to you personally.

Tomorrow cannot come fast enough.

The Next Morning…

You show up to the clinic early. Too early. You pretend you’re just organized, but really you’re anxiously clutching your water bottle like it’s a lifeline. You tried to look effortless—pulled-together, but not obvious. Cute, but not trying too hard. Just… normal. Which is laughable, considering the amount of time you spent choosing earrings.

The nurse checks you in with a kind smile. You sit in the waiting room, leg bouncing, rehearsing responses in your head.

Then he appears.

Alhaitham steps out from behind the frosted glass doors. Still in his lab coat, still maddeningly unreadable. But when his eyes find yours—there’s a flicker of something. Recognition. Warmth. Something quieter.

“Come in,” he says, stepping aside.

You could swear—swear—the corner of his mouth twitches, like it’s tempted by a smile.

You follow him in.

The exam room is quiet, neat, humming with soft fluorescent light. You take your seat. He opens your file, but doesn’t look at it. His eyes stay on you.

“I didn’t want to go through the receptionist this time,” he says, voice quiet. “I thought it might make you anxious.”

You blink. The words take a second to land. “Oh. That’s… kind of considerate.”

“Also,” he says, finally glancing down, “your iron levels are low. You’ll need supplements. I’ve written the prescription.”

He slides the slip across the desk like he’s handing you a secret. You take it carefully, like it might crumble.

Silence.

The kind that sits heavy. The kind that means something.

He closes the folder, slow and deliberate. Leans forward just slightly, elbows braced on the desk, fingers laced.

“You didn’t tell me you’d been feeling this way for a while.”

You look away, shoulders curling in slightly. “I didn’t want to be dramatic.”

“You said you were a Victorian woman,” he deadpans.

You smile despite yourself, soft and a little sheepish. “Okay, but that’s just my personality.”

He watches you. Sharp eyes, steady and assessing—but not unkind.

Then, gently: “I don’t think you’re dramatic.”

You suck in a breath, caught off guard.

“I think you’re… overwhelmed. Tired. Maybe not used to being taken seriously.”

Your throat tightens. You bite the inside of your cheek. Something inside you shifts.

“I just treat patients,” he says. “But… I remembered you. More than I expected.”

Your heart slams once, hard. “…Why?” you whisper.

He shrugs, gaze not quite meeting yours. “You made an impression.”

Your grip tightens on the paper in your lap.

And then—his voice drops lower: “If you feel dizzy again… or if anything gets worse—don’t wait. Just message me. Directly.”

You nod, silent.

And as you leave—hand curling around the doorknob, heart thudding in your chest like it’s trying to break free—his hand comes to rest gently on the small of your back.

Warm. Steady. Certain.

You freeze. Just for a breath. His palm lingers there like it belongs, grounding you in the quiet between heartbeats. You swear you feel the heat of it radiating through the fabric of your blouse, straight into your spine.

You try not to melt. Try not to show how much that simple touch undoes you.

Then, just as your breath begins to hitch, he leans in slightly. Not too close. Just enough that his voice slides in low, just above a whisper.

“Go home safely.”

His hand slips away—slowly, deliberately. The loss of contact is almost startling.

You turn, instinctive, eyes finding his.

And he’s already looking at you.

Not blankly. Not politely. No, his gaze is sharp and unreadable, steady and direct. There’s something in it—something knowing—that makes your breath catch and your fingers tighten around the cold metal of the doorknob.

You swallow hard.

You manage to nod. Maybe say “good bye.” You’re not sure. Your brain’s short-circuiting.

You take one step out.

Two.

You don’t even make it to the end of the hallway before your knees buckle slightly. Not enough to fall. Just enough to feel the ghost of his hand still lingering on your back.

11:41 p.m.

Your room is dim, bathed in the glow of your phone screen. You’re curled up in bed, overthinking the day in painful HD. You keep replaying every word. Every glance. Every almost-smile.

You haven’t messaged him. Even though he told you to.

You want to. But courage, it turns out, is fictional after 10 p.m.

Then—your phone lights up.

Dr. Alhaitham: Are you awake?

You sit up so fast you almost concuss yourself on the headboard. Your heart stumbles. Hands fumble.

You: yes?

A pause.

Dr. Alhaitham: Sorry if this is strange. I just remembered something you said the other day.

Your pulse is in your ears. You clutch your phone like it might float away.

You: Which thing? (The Victorian woman part?)

A longer pause. Bubbles come and go.

Dr. Alhaitham: No. The part about collapsing into someone’s arms. You joked. But I keep thinking about it. Wondering if someone’s ever really done that for you.

The air leaves your lungs.

The world stills.

This isn’t a joke anymore.

You: No one ever has. Why?

A minute passes.

Then:

Dr. Alhaitham: Because I think you deserve to be caught. Even when you’re not falling.

You sit frozen in your bed, the blanket bunched around your waist, the silence loud in your ears. His words wrap around you like warmth. Like something you didn’t know you needed.

Then, another message:

Dr. Alhaitham: Sorry. That was unprofessional. Good night.

But you can’t stop staring at the one before it.

“Because I think you deserve to be caught.”

The School Auditorium – 10:07 AM

The lights are too bright. The hum of the overhead fluorescents buzzes against the high ceiling, competing with the chorus of second-graders who are very much not using their indoor voices. You’re wrangling your chaos crew down the aisle—two are arguing about who’s taller, one’s asking if astronauts eat soup, and another is trying to lick the back of their own nametag.

You’re functioning on three hours of sleep, a half-drunk coffee that went cold in your cup holder, and the sheer force of whatever maternal instinct allows a person to stop a glitter spill midair.

You don’t notice the man walking onto the stage at first. Not until the noise cuts.

The chatter dies so suddenly it’s eerie—twenty-five small heads pivoting in unison toward the front like a hive mind has seized them.

You look up.

And your brain short-circuits.

There, standing at the center of the stage, is a man. Clipboard in one hand. Other tucked neatly into the pocket of a lab coat. He’s tall—really tall—built like someone who definitely doesn’t trip over his own feet, and carrying himself with the kind of effortless confidence that makes you feel like you’ve shown up underdressed to your own job.

He’s calm. Polished. Crisp lines and clean edges. A quiet authority that makes even the most fidgety of your kids fall still.

Alhaitham.

Dr. Alhaitham.

Your doctor.

Your heart leaps to your throat and lodges there.

He scans the room slowly, methodically. Dispassionate and professional—until his eyes land on you.

And pause.

Just for a second.

But it’s enough. Your breath catches. Your stomach does a little somersault, unprompted.

You are suddenly painfully aware of the state you’re in: oversized cardigan, mystery glitter on your left sleeve, your hair pinned back with a pencil because someone borrowed your last claw clip. There’s a child gripping your leg like it’s the mast of a sinking ship.

He starts to speak—something about germs and handwashing and healthy habits—but you don’t really hear it. The children do. They’re captivated. Spellbound.

You’re just trying to remember how to breathe.

The talk ends after what feels like a hundred years but also three minutes. You start herding your class toward the exit, one hand on a shoulder, another plucking a crayon from someone’s mouth.

And then your phone buzzes.

You glance down.

Dr. Alhaitham : You didn’t tell me you were a teacher.

You stop mid-step. The world tilts slightly.

You read it again.

You: You didn’t tell me you do school tours.

The reply comes so fast you know he had the message half-written already.

Dr.Alhaitham : I don’t. I only agreed because the principal is a patient. Didn’t expect to see you. (Or twenty-five second graders clinging to your legs.)

A breath escapes you—half laugh, half disbelief. Your heart’s still racing, but it’s a little lighter now. Warmer.

You: Yeah well… you might have cracked the case. That’s why I was always sick. Kid germs are no joke.

You watch the typing bubble appear. Disappear. Appear again.

You can feel the deliberation behind it. He’s thinking. Rethinking. Overthinking. You know the feeling too well.

Then finally—

Dr. Alhaitham : I get it now. All the coughs. The dizziness. The stress. You were holding together an entire classroom by sheer willpower.

You stare at your screen, throat tightening.

Something about the way he says it. The way he sees it.

Then another ping.

Dr. Alhaitham : You’re… kind of incredible, you know. Even with stickers on your pants.

You slap a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound that leaves it. A sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a scream.

Because you look down—and yep. There they are.

Two sparkly dinosaur stickers on your thigh.

And suddenly, you don’t feel quite so exhausted anymore.

—usagii’s note

I wish alhaitham was real :(

[itsnesss]

Please a junho x shy!reader and she’s American girlfriend of junho? Like the season 1, she’s a VIP and unknowingly to the other VIPs and the frontman who he has a soft spot for shy!reader, she’s secretly planning to take down the games. In season 2, after the games, shy!reader and junho met & known each other for 1 year then got together the next year and they’re expecting a son a year later. Shy!reader wants to help Gi-hun but everyone agrees that shy!reader won’t go because currently she’s in the hospital and just given birth a son who’s relax around shy!reader. Before Gi-hun leaves the private room, the part where Gi-hun talks the frontman in the car, shy!reader tells her friend Gi-hun to be careful and she’ll be back helping him take down the games as a VIP (I heard that the VIPs, the wealthy spectators from Season 1 of "Squid Game," are confirmed to be returning in Season 3).

𝐭𝐰𝐨-𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐝 | hwang jun-ho × fem!reader

summary | you’re a secret vip in the squid game, working to take down the system. after having a child with jun-ho, you return, continuing your mission

warnings | shy!reader, gf!junho, infiltration, motherhood, mentions of violence, manipulation, deception, corruption, and psychological tension

word count | 1.1 k

author's note | it would help me a lot if you liked, commented and reposted so that more people read what I write and don't forget to follow me, thanks ᡣ𐭩

You hide behind a golden mask and a trembling voice.

To all the VIPs, you're just a quiet, American, mysterious figure. Someone who enjoys the games in silence, from the corner. No one suspects that every glance of yours is a calculation, every word a distraction, every smile a betrayal of their system.

Not even the Frontman.

He—hidden behind his own mask—seems to have a quiet weakness for you. He never pushes, never questions your choices. He leaves you alone in your silences. But he doesn’t know the truth: that from the very beginning, you’ve been playing the most dangerous game of all.

Destroying them from the inside.

You never expected to meet Jun-ho on this path. And even less that he would become your lifeline.

After the games ended, you and he crossed paths by chance at a gallery in Busan. You were nobody then. Just an American woman with too many secrets and a past that burned. He wasn’t the same either. He carried the weight of a lost brother and a system he had seen too closely.

You spent a year getting to know each other. A year of long looks, of careful conversations, of trust built like walking on thin ice. Then another year together. Closer. More real. Until love became an undeniable truth… and you were expecting his child.

You, who had always lived in shadows, found yourself embracing the light he brought.

Your child was born on a cold morning. The hospital was silent, save for the sound of his heartbeat against yours. And in that moment, you understood why it was worth continuing the plan.

But that day, Gi-hun also arrived.

He was determined. He had come back. Wanted to face the system again, with more fury and more reasons. You wanted to join him, as always, as an ally and a friend. But everyone agreed:

"No. Not this time." Jun-ho took your hand, firm. "You just gave birth. Don’t risk it now."

Gi-hun, though he hated leaving you behind, understood. Because he knew you from before. From the days when you pretended to enjoy the games, while secretly slipping information off the island, contacting victims, recording every damn move.

Before leaving, he entered the private room. You were holding your son in your arms. He was sleeping, peacefully, as if he knew you were there, strong as always.

"You have to be careful," you told Gi-hun, your voice soft, but with an edge beneath. "You know I’ll be back. I’ll return as a VIP, just like we planned. From the inside. But you… just come back alive, okay?"

Gi-hun nodded. He leaned toward you and squeezed your hand.

"You too. Take care of him."

Jun-ho came closer then, his gaze on you and the baby. And you knew that, for now, this was your battlefield. But soon you’d return to the other one.

When Gi-hun left and got into the car where the Frontman was waiting, you watched from the window, your baby sleeping on your chest. You couldn’t hear them, but you knew that tension. You knew the face behind the mask.

In-ho still didn’t know that you had been gathering information all along. Or that one of the quietest VIPs was infiltrated up to her neck.

But he would find out.

Because in the next edition, when the masks return, when the games begin again and the VIPs gather above, you’ll be there. Again.

Stronger.

More dangerous.

With an even more powerful reason to finish what you started: your son.

Jun-ho will wait outside. Gi-hun will move his pieces. And you, as always, will strike from within. With shy eyes. And a perfect plan.

...

Your dress is gold. The masks, again. The fake laughter. The champagne. And you, there, walking among them like you belong.

But you don’t belong. You never did.

The other VIPs joke, bet, murmur about the new edition of the games. You smile when you have to, nod when they look at you, but inside, every second is a countdown.

In-ho—the Leader—is present. You feel his gaze on you sometimes, as if there’s still something human left in him. He doesn’t know the truth. He doesn’t know that the timid woman he once protected from a distance is the same one now planning his downfall.

Years ago, you never thought you’d return to this world. But you did. For Gi-hun. For the victims. For your son.

Your baby walks now. Says his first words. Jun-ho sends you videos, photos, messages in code. He knows what you’re risking. But he also knows he couldn’t stop you.

Not when you decided to fight a system from the inside.

"Stay in control," he told you before you left.

"Take care of our son," was your reply.

That night, you enter the main hall. There’s a new kind of game. Crueler. More twisted. The screens show participants running, screaming, obeying. You don’t look away, even though your blood boils. Every face is a reminder. Every shot, a wound in your memory.

A VIP sits beside you. He speaks with a thick, vulgar voice, laughing at the tragedy on screen. He doesn’t know who you really are. Doesn’t know that in your dress pocket, there’s a micro recorder. Or that you’re carrying a device copying data from the internal system in real-time.

"What do you think of this game, darling?" he asks.

You look at him with your shyest, softest eyes. The ones that have disarmed soldiers and monsters alike.

"It’s… entertaining," you whisper.

A lie.

Everything you say is a lie.

And yet, every step brings you closer to the truth.

Later, you pretend to go to the bathroom. But you enter an empty room, where you hide a drive behind a panel, just as you agreed with Gi-hun. He’ll know where to look. He’s always been good at reading your silences.

You stop in front of the mirror.

Your reflection isn’t the same. There’s more strength in your posture. More scars in your gaze.

But there’s something else, too.

Hope.

Because this time, you’re not alone.

That night, when the session ends, In-ho walks toward you. His mask on. His voice, neutral.

"You seem stronger than before," he says.

"Motherhood, maybe," you reply, with a casual air.

He doesn’t answer. Just nods, almost like he… doubts. Like he suspects something and still doesn’t want to confirm it.

And you… you pray that when all this collapses, he remembers the part of himself that was once human.

Hours later, in your private room, you open a hidden message in a photo sent by Jun-ho.

Your baby is laughing, with the same smile he has.

"Everything’s fine over here," says the coded text.

You sigh. Your heart aches, but it also burns with a steady fire.

You’re getting closer. You know it.

The games won’t last forever.

Not as long as you keep pretending to belong.

And the end is near.

[starryeyedwolves]

Loosened Tongues and Spilled Secrets

It’s past two in the morning when James finds himself regretting every decision that led him to this moment — particularly the one where he agreed to be Sirius' designated Apparition partner for the night.

"I told you not to mix firewhisky and goblin mead," James mutters as he tightens his grip on Sirius’ waist, trying to keep him from toppling into the nearest garden hedge.

Sirius stumbles, giggling. "Remus woulda let me. Remus likes when I’m a little stupid."

James pauses. "That… doesn’t sound like Remus."

Sirius waves a hand dramatically. "You don’t know him like I do."

"I’ve known him since we were eleven."

"Yeah, but not like I know him. I know how he likes his tea. I know he reads the last page of a book first, like a monster. I know he hums when he’s nervous, and bites his thumb when he’s concentrating, and he has this tiny scar on his collarbone that he says is from a werewolf but I bet it’s from falling out of a tree like a dumbass."

James blinks. "Alright," he says slowly. "That’s… more detail than I needed."

Sirius slumps against him, suddenly quiet. "He has these eyes," he mumbles into James’ shoulder. "Like... amber in the sun. And sometimes they go all stormy when he’s angry, but not at me, he never looks at me like that."

James exhales through his nose. "Padfoot, are you—are you in love with him?"

Silence. A hiccup. Then—

"Oh fuck, I am," Sirius says, horrified. "James. Jamie. I’m in love with Remus. Like in love. Like, I want to kiss him until his breath runs out."

James snorts. "Yeah, mate, you’ve only been mooning over him for three years. Everyone knows."

Sirius gasps. "He doesn’t!"

"He does."

"NO."

"Yes. And he’s been mooning over you right back, you blind git."

Sirius goes silent again, eyes wide and glassy. Then, in a wobbling voice: "What do I do?"

"You go home. Sleep it off. And maybe, maybe, tomorrow you tell him."

Sirius looks vaguely terrified. "What if he doesn’t want me?"

James snorts again. "He calls you 'Siri' like it’s a prayer and saves you the last chocolate biscuit every bloody time. He wants you."

There’s a long pause.

Then Sirius grins.

"He’s gonna kill me when I tell him I puked in your fireplace, isn’t he?"

James sighs, defeated. "You what—?"

Remus is halfway through a mug of peppermint tea and the third re-read of Wuthering Heights when he hears the sharp crack of Apparition, followed by a muffled thud.

He freezes. Then sighs.

Sirius.

Of course it’s Sirius.

Remus glances at the clock. 2:07 a.m. Predictable.

He pads barefoot to the front door and opens it to find James supporting an entirely sloshed Sirius, who’s grinning like sin and slurring something about "beautiful, brilliant boys with scarred knuckles and sad eyes."

Remus raises a brow.

James looks like he’s aged ten years. "I can’t do this anymore. He tried to snog a lamppost."

Remus pinches the bridge of his nose. "Bring him in."

James all but drags Sirius inside, depositing him onto Remus’ worn sofa.

"I’ve sobered him up enough to not choke on his own tongue," James mutters. "The rest is your problem now."

"Thanks, mate," Remus deadpans.

James gives a helpless little salute and Disapparates without another word.

Silence settles over the flat, warm and uncomfortable.

Sirius lies sprawled on the couch, hair in his eyes, shirt unbuttoned enough to reveal that stupid tattoo of a star on his collarbone — the one Remus has absolutely never stared at.

Sirius looks up at him, blinking. "Moony."

"Pads."

"You have… really nice hands," Sirius mumbles, eyes fixed on where Remus grips his mug. "Elegant. But, like, also strong. Like you could strangle a man or knit a very sexy jumper."

Remus blinks. "You’re pissed."

"Painfully," Sirius agrees. "But still honest."

Remus exhales and sets his tea down. "Let’s get you into bed."

Sirius smirks. "Remus, you flirt."

Remus gives him a flat look. "I’ll drop you on the floor."

"You’d never," Sirius says, eyes going wide and dramatic.

Remus hauls him up. It’s like trying to carry a very talkative, flirtatious sack of potatoes. Who keeps trying to nuzzle his neck.

"Merlin’s pants, Pads, hold still."

"You smell like cinnamon," Sirius murmurs. "And books. And... heartbreak."

Remus swallows.

He doesn’t want to ask.

He knows he shouldn’t ask.

But Sirius’ head is heavy against his shoulder, and his voice is soft in a way that makes something deep in Remus ache.

So he asks.

"Heartbreak?"

Sirius lets out a drunken, breathless laugh.

"Remus, you bloody idiot. You really don’t see it?"

"See what?"

"You. Me. I talk about you constantly. Ask James. I write poetry about your bloody eyelashes. I’m in love with you, you stupid, gorgeous man."

Time stops.

Remus blinks. "What?"

Sirius looks at him, eyes too bright. "Don’t make me say it again. It already slipped out once tonight."

"You’re… in love with me?"

Sirius nods, then immediately frowns. "Unless I’m dreaming. Am I dreaming? If I kiss you, will you disappear?"

Remus laughs — soft, disbelieving. "I’m very real. And you’re very drunk."

"I’ll say it again sober," Sirius promises. "A hundred times. A thousand. Just — don’t hate me."

Remus swallows. "I couldn’t."

Sirius’ eyes widen. "Really?"

"I couldn’t hate you, Siri," Remus says, his voice quieter now. "But I… I didn’t think you felt the same way. You never…"

Sirius leans in, voice now almost a whisper. "I do. I always have. But you’re bloody oblivious."

Remus presses a hand to his face, trying to keep his own thoughts in order.

"I’m sorry," Sirius says suddenly, his voice breaking through Remus’ overwhelmed silence. "I didn’t mean to ruin everything. I just thought you—"

Remus cuts him off, gently cupping his face, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

It’s messy and far too desperate to be perfect, but Remus leans in, hands tangling in his hair, and it feels like coming home.

When they break apart, Sirius grins.

The Next Morning, Sirius wakes up to the smell of coffee and the suspicious weight of regret.

His head pounds. His mouth tastes like ash. And his chest—

His chest hurts.

He sits up slowly, trying to piece together the fragments of last night.

He remembers James. The lamppost. The staggering. The—

Oh god.

Remus.

He told him. Didn’t he?

He definitely told him.

"Shit," Sirius whispers into his hands.

"Morning," comes a voice from the kitchen.

Sirius looks up, heart in his throat.

Remus stands there, holding two mugs, wearing an old jumper and a look that’s unreadable.

"You’re awake," Remus says. "Good. You owe me."

"For?"

"You puked in my laundry bin."

Sirius winces. "Shit. Sorry. I’ll buy you new—wait, why was your laundry bin in the living room?"

Remus shrugs. "You were chasing the cat. The bin was your ‘spaceship’."

"Oh god."

Remus crosses the room and hands him a mug. Their fingers brush.

Sirius looks up. "Did I… say anything weird last night?"

Remus hesitates. "Yeah. You did."

"Oh.:"

"You said you were in love with me."

Sirius closes his eyes. "Fuck."

Remus sits beside him. Not too close. Not far either.

"And I said I couldn’t hate you."

Sirius’ eyes open. Wide.

Remus looks at him, something gentle and terrifying in his face.

"You meant it?" Sirius asks, voice raw.

Remus nods. "I’ve been in love with you for years, Sirius. I just thought you’d never want—"

Sirius kisses him before he can finish. This time, it’s slow, deliberate, soft, and with all the things they’ve kept hidden for too long.

When they break apart, Remus smiles, and Sirius feels like he might fly apart from the sheer intensity of everything that’s changed in a single night.

"You’re gonna make me write more poems, aren’t you?"

Remus chuckles, his voice low and warm. "Only if I get to read them this time."

Sirius grins. "Deal."

And with that, the evening of spilled secrets and drunken confessions gives way to a new kind of beginning for the two of them — one where Sirius's poetry finally gets an audience, and Remus’ heart no longer beats alone.

[polycrowtruther]

Okay but so this is so interesting to me

I write polycrows, yeah? And in my version of polycrows Wylan is an equal and cherished person in the relationship - and that relationship includes Inej and Nina. I've had people question me for this, and ask how I could justify putting an explicitly gay man in a relationship including feminine-presenting partners.

Excluding the fact that for one - it's fanfiction so it's already by default not canon, the thing that interests me most is they always use this specific exchange in Crooked Kingdom to argue their point:

“You’re stupid about a lot of things, Wylan, but you are not stupid. And if I ever hear you call yourself a moron again, I’m going to tell Matthias you tried to kiss Nina. With tongue.” Wylan wiped his nose on his sleeve. “He’ll never believe it.” “Then I’ll tell Nina you tried to kiss Matthias. With tongue.”

The arguer tells me that this is empirical evidence that Wylan is gay. Strictly homosexual. Does not have an iota of interest in women. And don't get me wrong, in the larger scope of the books and the Grishaverse as a whole Wylan is overwhelmingly written as a queer man. A gay man. A person who identifies as a man very much in love with another person who identifies as a man. I don't think anyone would argue that point, and what's more I would never try to rewrite that or take that away from him because in the canon text having that representation means so much to me.

But when I read these lines for the first time, I did not think it was the proof that Wylan was gay. Actually I didn't think this exchange had to do with Wylan's sexuality at all. I thought the joke was supposed to be that Jesper was threatening to go tell Nina that Wylan did something they both knew Wylan wouldn't do anyways. You see, to me the only characters who blatantly state their sexualities out loud in the text are Nina and Jesper. They stand out as having explicit moments where they confirm that they are attracted to both genders. Inej, Matthias, Kaz, and Wylan to me feel like their sexualities are sub-textual. That you come to understand who they are attracted to and why they are attracted to them as you come to understand who they are as people.

When Wylan reminds Jesper that Matthias would never believe what he just said, I did not think it was because Jesper was trying to claim Wylan would kiss a woman, to me it was because Jesper was trying to claim Wylan would kiss Nina Zenik. Someone who is so unashamed of herself, of her sexuality, of her intimacy. Matthias would not believe that Wylan tried to kiss Nina with tongue because no one would get away with something like that. Nina is confident, she is bold, and she's fucking LOUD. If Wylan tried to kiss Nina it would not remain a secret for long, and if he tried to slip tongue in his first kiss with her he would never live that down. She'd tease him to his grave.

Conversely, if Wylan tried to kiss Matthias, who is both more reserved and more of a 'private' person, it could stand to reason that Matthias would not make that information known amongst the rest of the group. He would be more likely to keep that to himself, which means that could be something that would be somewhat believable news to Nina. That's why the joke still lands, even though Jesper and Wylan both know Wylan wouldn't actually go kiss Matthias either. But he is equally unlikely to kiss Matthias OR Nina, because by this point in Crooked Kingdom they both know Nina and Matthias have rekindled their love for each other and they both respect that love. Even more importantly, they know Wylan is not so bold as to kiss a person out of the blue with no prior flirtation/confirmation that both parties would be interested in it.

To illustrate the case more, let me show you what I mean. Here is the scene rewritten with a different character in the same scenario:

Kaz scoffed, trying to step past Jesper and out the doorway. "Don't try it," Jesper warned, "Because you're wrong. You're not a monster, and I better not ever hear you try to convince yourself otherwise. I mean it. If you do, I'll go run to Matthias and tell him you were trying to kiss Nina. With tongue." "I cannot think of a single soul who would believe you," Kaz retorted easily, his voice wet with fondness. "Fine," Jesper shrugged, "Then I'll just go tell Nina you were trying to kiss Matthias. With tongue."

See what I mean? The context of that 'evidence' is not arguing the point I think people are trying to argue. There are other much stronger examples of Wylan lamenting on himself and his attraction to Jesper. But the interesting thing is that's just my interpretation. I've read people's interpretation that cannot think of this as anything else but Wylan saying that no one would believe he'd try to kiss a girl. And I just think it's so so interesting that words and scenes can mean something "obvious" to one person and something entirely different to another.

And this is not to say that my interpretation is right and the other is wrong, or vice versa. This is literature, this is art, and the moment the creator relinquishes that art to the world it takes a thousand different shapes. Everyone is different and they will understand things in different ways. I just think it's honestly kind of funny this scene in is used in the proposed argument specifically because I fundamentally read that scene differently than they did. It's not even that I disagree necessarily, I mean in terms of the "canon" endings and the "canon" interpretation of Six of Crows and Crooked Kingdom I wholeheartedly adore Wesper. It was such an important example of love for me.

But at the same time I don't "ship" things only because they make sense in canon. I ship things because I like the stories I can tell with the characters involved, and I love how overwhelmed I am with polycrows stories. They all have such deep capabilities to love and such unique ways about doing it. And more than that I think Wylan could love Inej and Nina as individuals even if he isn't necessarily attracted to women in the broader sense. In my mind he could love their personalities, their identities, the shapes of their souls and yes even their physical features even though he still chooses to identify as 'gay'. But that's just me, that's just how I think. That is by no means what has to be universally "right" or "understood" about Wylan's character.

So like, yeah. The argument of asking me how I could justify shipping Wylan in polycrows is valid. It's just super interesting to me that this quote specifically was used in that argument.

[stereopticons]

On This Day in Schitt's Creek: April 16

2019

hang on every word... [david/patrick, T, 761] by @startswithhope

Part 3 of my missing kisses series. This one we have the benefit of knowing was filmed, even if we never saw it. ;) Set at the end of “Open Mic”.

Mission: Craft Fair [david/patrick, E, 12,342, CW: violence] by falconeggs

When the Secret Organization of Investigative Espionage fell, the last thing it did was hide its top Operative unit, codename Family, in a little town in the middle of nowhere. Four years in the town of Schitt’s Creek, and no violent memories of their past have caught up to them, and their cover hasn’t been blown once. Or, the au where everything is the same, but the Roses are secretly the best spies in the world.

Pre-Open Mic Performance [david/patrick, G, 717] by liquidgaze

Patrick is about to perform in front of everyone, and most importantly, David. He needs to tell him how he feels and this is the perfect opportunity to do so. Here are some of Patrick's thoughts right before he sings his heart out.

What a Feeling in My Soul [david/patrick, G, 740] by orphan_account

I just needed to know how Patrick asked David to dance because that's the only way I see that happening.

2020

Cleanser [david/patrick, T, 5,136] by cypress_tree

David teaches Patrick about skincare (David teaches Patrick about a lot of things).

Diamonds They Don't Turn to Dust or Fade Away [david/patrick, G, 1,478, CW: MCD] by loveisallyouneed21

“Can you imagine an alternate universe in which I’ve actually died.”–Moira Rose Season 4 Episode 5, RIP Moira Rose

Just as you Are [david/patrick, G, 7,628] by @agoodpersonrose

“I’ll do it properly.” Patrick said decisively, “I’ll propose to you properly.” “Um, excuse you, who said you’d be the one to propose?” David asked, looking mortally offended when Patrick raised an eyebrow unbelievably at him, “What? I could propose to you for all you know!”

Today and All the Days that Follow [david/patrick, E, 8,880] by @unfolded73

An exploration of relationships, both on the wedding day and in the future.

Wrong Number [david/patrick, M, 52,431] by @deenerann

Slight AU- What if Patrick and David meet via text the first night David winds up in Schitt's Creek? David spent so much time on his phone in season 1, and WHO WAS HE TEXTING? This is my take on that.

2021

Business man [david/patrick, G, 324] by @pine67

“There was a point to this tangent, I’m sure of it,” Patrick huffs out a charming laugh-smirk combination to the audience to give the appearance that his mind isn't spiralling.

Got You [patrick & alexis, T, 3,231] by @colourcodedbinders

“Not gonna get much sleeping done,” he says, shoe laces fastened, reaching for the door, “I think I’d rather get you home safe so I don’t have to worry about some creep following you, okay?” A second goes by that she’s quiet, and Patrick almost calls her name again, patience wearing thin, before she speaks again. “You don’t have to worry about me,” she says, finally. “Well I do, Alexis. Tell me where you are.” OR Alexis needs her brother, and Patrick lives to serve.

Laos [johnny/moira, G, 300] by Rosey_Peach

our beautiful rhythms [david/patrick, E, 5,708] by orphan_account

What if David's heat and Patrick's rut happened at the same time? This follows You're my end and my beginning .

Suddenly, You're Mine [david/patrick, G, 980] by @fictasticvoyage

David gives Patrick a present. Sentimental conversations ensue.

Take Me, Excite Me, Erase Me, Rewrite Me: A Schitt's Creek Smut Collection [alexis/twyla, M, 6,064] by @turningtimeinthetardis

Decided to put a handful of smut prompt requests I got in one place. Mostly Twylexis with a smattering of Ted/Twyla/Alexis. Hope you enjoy!

The Art of Customer Service [david/patrick, T, 10,750] by Woodsarelovely

"Because standing at craft services, eating a cookie in almost a single bite and still somehow looking perfect, was David Rose.This was bad. This was very bad. This was not at all good. In any way.Except it was. Obviously. Patrick couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t daydreamed a moment like this; just once or twice as his mind wandered during Miss Henderson’s drier physics classes. But, in the comfort of his own brain, he had imagined a meeting of eyes across a music store, perhaps a chance encounter on a scenic hike. He would be suave and charming and he would know what to do with his hands.Patrick did not currently know what to do with his hands." When Rose Video head office puts out a request for employees to act in its customer service training videos, Patrick Brewer jumps at the chance. What he wasn't prepared for, was his scene partner...

Word Play [david/patrick, M, 664] by @dazedwriter1

A Sunday morning trolling by one Patrick Brewer involving one thesaurus, one annoyed David Rose and one assist by Stevie Budd.

2022

Burning Through the Hours Talking [david/patrick, G, 1,070] by @fictasticvoyage

Early in their relationship, David and Patrick spend a lot of time getting to know each other in the car.

getting by [david/patrick, T, 20,261] by alldaydream

And Patrick likes to think he’s seen it all by now, not much really phases him anymore. But the sight of his ex-husband sitting in the middle booth of a run down cafe in the middle of nowhere with maple syrup in his hair is definitely something he did not see coming. or David and Patrick have a whirlwind romance that ends in divorce. Or perhaps begins in growth.

How David's Fragrance Launch Party Was Absolutely Ruined [david/patrick, E, 5,103, CW: rape/noncon]

A group of totally wasted college bros crash David's fragrance launch party. But hey, one of them is kinda cute

2023

I'll Let You Set The Pace ('Cause I'm Not Thinking Straight) [david/patrick, E, 2,693] by @fictasticvoyage

Five firsts that Patrick wants to make sure he and David take slowly, and one time they have no choice but to barrel ahead.

In Every Sense [david/patrick, E, 2,752] by @beaiola

In which Patrick considers the things he loves about David and the impact he's had on his life through each of the five senses.

2024

Well I Did. [alexis & david, G, 100] by mallpretzles

A coda to the ride back from Heather Warner’s farm.

Stats:

No fanworks for 2017 or 2018 2019: 4 fics/14,560 words 2020: 5 fics/75,553 words 2021: 8 fics/28,021 words 2022: 3 fics/26,434 words 2023: 2 fics/5,445 words 2024: 1 fic/100 words Total: 23 fics/150,113 words

[isaiahking]

Isaiah grinned, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he listened to Violet, the warmth of their shared history wrapping around him like a familiar blanket. She was right—they had a good crew, even if it was bittersweet to think about their brothers. They’d been through so much together, and the weight of their past only made the bond between them stronger. He knew that no matter what came next, nothing could change that connection. He watched her carefully as she spoke, the light in her eyes making him smile even more. “You’ve got a good eye, he's hot” he said, teasing, but there was a tenderness to his voice. “If he’s got all that going for him, then maybe you’ve finally found the one, huh?” Isaiah raised an eyebrow, an affectionate smirk tugging at his lips. "You deserve it. You’ve been through enough to know what you want. If he makes you happy, then that’s all that matters." When Violet joked about being Batman and Robin, he couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head. “Nah, we’re definitely more like Winter Soldier and Falcon,” he agreed with a grin, “two badasses who have each other’s backs, no questions asked. No need for sidekicks when we’re both in this together.” But when she mentioned his willingness to step up as an uncle, he felt a soft warmth spread in his chest. He’d always been ready to be there for his family, for Violet, for Leo, and for anyone else who needed him. It was just who he was. “Yeah, three years," he mused, a small chuckle escaping his lips. "It’s been a hell of a ride, but not as crazy as your dating life, huh?" He winked, enjoying the playful back and forth they always had. “Hey, you got there eventually. Better late than never, right? You dated a couple of assholes and ended up with someone better than the other two combined." He nodded when she offered to share her secrets, though the twinkle in his eye showed he was already planning how much fun he’d have with whatever juicy details she gave him. "I swear, I’m a vault. Nothing's getting out of me," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "But sure, I’ll keep it to myself, no roasting Reign... for now," he added, clearly unable to resist a little teasing. Isaiah chuckled at her story, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “You almost let him go in raw the first time?” He leaned back, arms crossed, clearly amused. His eyes wide as a laugh escaped from him. "But hey, as long as you were safe, I’ll take the sweet part as a win. And yeah, let’s call it good - too much straightness for my brain to handle if you go in any more detail." For all the jokes and teasing, there was something undeniably comforting about these moments—about knowing that, no matter what, they’d always have each other’s backs. "Okay, no telling my husband I told you this , but do you remember when all of us went on that friends trip in that van? We fucked in one of the public bathroom stalls at a gas station. I'm the top, mostly, but let me tell you my husband can be just as horny. He was flirting with me the whole time I was driving."

isaiah and leo had always been close, nothing was going to change that. he had been there when they lost their brothers, when she gave birth to ayden, and she had been there for him when he got married. that list of shared moments would only keep growing over time. they weren't just friends; they were platonic soulmates, tied together by an invisible string. "we have a good crew," she nodded, a warm smile tugging at the corners of her lips as she saw the way nostalgia settled on her best friend. it was sad to think about how both of their brothers were gone. the thought of it could take the light from violet's happiness. "you're nosy and invested, let me correct you," she joked, shaking her head at his playful wink. "he's nice and hot, what else could i ask for?" she laughed, a smile spreading across her face. reign was the safe option, the nice guy who made her happy. maybe her past relationships hadn't been the best, but maybe, just maybe, she had found the person she wanted to spend her life with. "you're the sidekick? so, we're batman and robin?" she chuckled. "what’s the marvel version of that? i think we’re more like winter soldier and falcon—both heroes who work together," she smiled, "without hating each other," she added with a laugh. promising to always be there for each other didn’t need words; they both knew they'd always have each other’s back. but hearing isaiah's willingness to step up and take on his uncle duties so fast warmed her heart. "it's been how long… three years?" she laughed. "it's not like you and leo, though. you two are lucky. i had to meet three assholes before i found a nice one," she joked. "okay, if we both exchange details, fine, i’ll share my secrets," she nodded, "just make sure not to tell anyone at the office and don’t make fun of him. i’d feel bad for reign," she teased, knowing isaiah would probably roast the other cop once he knew the details. "okay, so... it was like having my first time all over again. he was so sweet," she mused. "and i was lucky he had protection, because the ones i had were expired," she laughed. "more details, or does it work like this?"

[elvenoracled]

Matching pfp idea for you and the fucking creature on your Minecraft server <333

[cruel-hiraeth]

desperately humping a huge bulge and trembling with both desire and nervous excitement because you can feel how impossibly large it is even though several layers separate you

[corrodedcoughin]

I commissioned @robbie-verse to fuel my clown Eddie needs and they did more than I could ever have hoped for

[sylus-hds-7213]

Sylus’ eyes never once leave her face—not when she draws in that breath, not when her voice trembles like it’s made of something soft and uncertain, not even when she tries to look away. And that alone, that quiet kind of vulnerability she lays bare in front of him, has his chest tightening in the best possible way.

He watches her pout at her plate and try to hide her fluster in a bite of food, but the second those words fall from her lips again—how could I not—he lets a low, indulgent laugh slip past his lips, not mocking, never mocking, but warm, fond, and entirely wrapped around her.

The second time she says it, slower this time, with those soft eyes on him again, he can feel something stir deep in him. Want. Wonder. A thousand-year-old ache that he's never had a name for until she started looking at him like this.

And when she says he’s not a monster, Sylus lowers his gaze, just for a moment.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his voice velvet. “You say things like that, and I’ll start thinking there’s no end to the ways you’ll unravel me.”

His gaze lifts again, unwavering now, the usual gleam of confidence in his eyes tempered by something quieter. Tender. Longing. It’s a look reserved for her alone.

And then—she’s offering him another bite, so sweetly, so shyly, and still trying to meet expectations.

He leans forward slowly, deliberately, brushing her fingers with his lips as he takes the offered bite. His hand comes up, smooth and sure, to catch hers when she tries to pull it back, and he keeps it there between them, his thumb gently brushing her knuckles.

“Sweetie,” he says, “you don’t ever have to meet anyone’s expectations.”

He leans in a little closer, the soft flicker of candlelight catching the glint of his eyes.

“Not mine. Not the world’s. The only thing I want from you—truly—is for you to just be you. The girl who pouts at her plate. The one who wants to cook for me even when she’s not sure she can. The one who reaches back when I reach for her.”

His voice drops a little, just enough to make it feel like a secret between them.

“That’s all I want. That, and maybe…” A smile curves his lips again—teasing now, rich with affection. “That you let me spoil you like this more often. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

He kisses her knuckles gently, then finally lets her hand go, but the warmth of his touch lingers like a promise.

“So, tell me, my bird,” he says, a small smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “How are we rating this dish? Between the food and feeding me, I’d say this appetizer’s already earned full marks.”

🍓 ︴ i was waiting for you, too. closed rp with @sylus-hds-7213.

There was something comforting in the melancholy of the night.

Quiet steps padded the pavement, and perhaps usually she would rather not stay out so late, but the stillness of the city offered a quiet that she knew she wouldn't find elsewhere. The occasional car would rush by her, city lights would flicker off... And yet, one glance into the sky could have her picking up enough stars to make the darkness not so unbearable.

Approaching a railing looking out towards the rest of the city, she walked over and drew closer to her chest the music sheets she'd used for her earlier midnight gig at the bar.

Linkon was pretty. She truly believed it.

And with a little smile on her face, she pulled out her phone and snapped a little picture.

[ to :: tweetybird ] hi! you're still up... i think? ;; right?;; i just finished up at the bar, i know you wanted me to text you after...

[ to :: tweetybird ] —picture attached—

[ to :: tweetybird ] linkon is pretty tonight.

[ to :: tweetybird ] you stay in the n109 zone too much qwq you need prettier views too...

Her thumbs hovered over the keypad for a moment, realizing that her first instinct really had been to turn to Sylus immediately. The thought brought a little blush to her face, and the next message went through a series of rewrites before she could send it:

[ to :: tweetybird ] you could come here...

[ to :: tweetybird ] when will i see you again?

[ to :: tweetybird ] if you're not busy;;;

[ to :: tweetybird ] i think i miss you

Yet, there was never enough courage for her to be so bold in front of him, even through a phone screen. Nevermind that this was only a crush in the first place; she figured that she couldn't dream of being so forward regardless.

So instead, what she really could send—

[ to :: tweetybird ] are you going to sleep soon?

[jimmyspades]

The Blacklist is the funniest possible show the insane conspiracy theory-ridden alt-right could’ve latched onto but it’s also not very funny is it. Yet still fascinating how a particular group can obsess over something without understanding it at all

[lesbiansanemi]

In a turn of shocking events absolutely stunning no one more than myself, I might actually enjoy cooking and not only that, be good at it

[automaticllamacycle]

I really wonder if I am moots with any of you on Twitter sometimes