#coming through with a little distraction from the election chaos i guess

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i’ll walk through hell with you

chapter 4: i’ll crawl with you on hands and knees

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A medical process begins, bringing with it a rollercoaster of emotions.

may

“If this had been a crime scene,” Jake says, looking at the medication vials lined up on their meticulously cleaned kitchen table, “my first impression would be that the people in this home are drug dealers.”

“And if you’d been a better detective,” Amy counters, “you’d have done a quick search of the names to find out they’re fertility drugs.”

“Hey! I’m a great detective!”

She points to the engagement ring on her finger and then to herself. “But I’m the best detective. No take-backs.”

“If I’d known you’d be using my proposal speech against me six years later, I would have written it down first.”

She laughs, shaking her head and unfolding the instruction paper from their doctors to reread the information for the fifteenth time. If Amy had to do a theoretical exam tomorrow on how to administer these injections, she’d get a solid A+, but, gathering the actual courage to do it isn't something you can study for. She's feeling increasingly shaky at the thought.

 It's been over a month since they made their decision. Getting insurance papers in order takes time, as does binder-making, as does confirming each micro-decision with the clinic. For an entire month, Amy's been itching with anticipation and nerves, and she’s both bursting with excitement and sighing with relief over feeling in control for the first time in seven months, but she’s also being struck by the realization of what she’s about to do. As many borderline-insane experiences as she’s lived through, she’s never done this before, and she’s clueless what to expect.

She reads through the instructions yet another time before she starts.

 Jake doesn't look much more stable. He's eyeing her carefully, biting his lip as she prepares the injection, measures up the medication and twists the needle on with minute, precise movements.

“You look like a professional,” he comments on her focused expression, and she makes a doubtful grimace. “Are you sure you haven't done this before?”

“Shot hormones into my stomach? It’s a first.”

“Are you nervous?” It could have been a teasing question, a reason to make fun of her, but when she meets his eyes she sees only concern. It peels away the tough facade - which she was barely grappling onto as it was - instantaneously.

“I'm really nervous,” she says, feeling her heart thundering in her chest like it’s about to break through her skin, and he nods.

“Me too.”

“Do you think you could give me the shot?”

Jake blinks. “You want me to do it? I… are you sure, Ames?”

“Please?” She gives him a pleading look as he looks from the syringe to her and back again, twisting his hands in his lap. “At least the first time, before I know what it feels like?”

 And we said we’d do this together, she opens her mouth as if to add, but the words feel superfluous. They’re a given, and from the way he reaches out his hand to gently hold hers, stroking his thumb over her wrist as he nods, she knows that he knows, too.

She folds the hem of her tank top to sit underneath her chest and grabs an alcohol wipe before there’s time for either of them to change their mind.

“I don’t like this,” Jake confesses as she gives him the syringe, quickly instructing him on the procedure another time. “It feels like I’m hurting you. ”

“You’re not.” She closes her eyes, grabbing the disinfected skin with both hands. “Just inject me.”

“Title of your sextape?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Fair,” he says, and then she feels the quick pinch.

 The injection burns. It’s better than she feared, but far from pleasant, and she tenses for the few everlasting seconds it takes before it's over and Jake presses a bit of gauze to the area.

“Wow,” he laughs, drawing a relieved breath when she opens her eyes again. “I can't believe I did that. I am so brave.”

She glares at him. “Excuse me?”

“Kidding, kidding.” He chuckles again before wrapping her in a tight hug. “You did great, babe.”

 She can feel the liquid stinging beneath her skin. Despite the discomfort, Amy already prefers this over the frustration of the last seven months - at least it means they’re actively doing something. The physical pain is a drop in the ocean compared to the mental agony of endless disappointments she's gone through, and she’d choose it above the latter in a heartbeat.

Maybe, she lets herself think, a timid but golden glimmer of hope shining through the grey clouds of hesitance. Maybe this could actually work.

 Jake kisses her cheek before his head moves lower. Just as she's about to ask what he thinks he's doing, she feels his lips brush against her skin, once, twice, a few inches from the injection place.

“Better?” He asks, and she manages a weak smile.

“Much.”

 -

 The second shot is easier than the first one, the third easier than the second. By the fourth night, she's gathered enough confidence to do the procedure all on her own when Jake has to stay late at work, and by the fifth night, she no longer winces at the stinging sensation.

It's absurd, she thinks as the burning slowly fades, the things you get used to.

 She plans their schedule around level checks at the clinic, taking blood tests and doing ultrasounds while Leah happily lays a puzzle on the floor of the examination room. A nurse compliments the toddler’s skill and Leah shines up like the sun itself, and after Amy’s told her body’s reacting perfectly to the stimulating hormones, they both leave the clinic grinning. She’s in such a good mood, she can’t even bring herself to say no when her daughter points to the frozen yogurt place across the store and looks at Amy with the pleading puppy-eyes that are so hard to resist. She’s not too proud about breaking their rule of ice cream being a weekend treat, but she has to admit that watching Leah shine with pride as she makes varyingly successful attempts of feeding herself without spilling is both an awesome celebration and happiness boost.

 Even without the level checks, she would have been able to tell the injections are taking. She’s sore, her head wrecks, and she feels bloated enough to consider changing into yoga pants several times a day. She’s exhausted in a way she hasn’t been since she had a newborn, nearly falling asleep at her desk in the afternoons and being nudged awake by a worried beat cop, and it takes every ounce of her willpower not to start crying herself when Leah has her third breakdown for the day over the disappearance of a puzzle piece. On day eight of injections, Amy falls asleep on the couch before it’s time to take them, and when Jake wakes her up there’s a part of her wishing he hadn’t.

“We could still change our minds and get a cat instead,” he suggests in a half-hearted attempt at a joke as she mumbles a curse when she feels the stinging. “Way fewer needles, just saying.”

“Please don’t tempt me right now,” she mutters. He laughs nervously before repeating the same action he’s taken to each time they do this together, leaning down and placing a feather-light kiss right above the injection area.

It’s transient, but for a second, she allows herself to think there’s a certain beauty to this process, too.

 -

  The night before their egg retrieval, she scratches that thought.

It’s the first evening in twelve days she’s not taking any injections. It should be a relief, a long-awaited and much well-deserved break after the previous night’s final trigger shot, but she’s too nervous about the next day to enjoy it. Jake’s working late - something about a time-sensitive lead he promised would be handled in a couple of hours - and Leah falls asleep with her head on Amy’s shoulder somewhere around their fourth reread of Guess How Much I Love You, leaving her alone with her thoughts. She brews a cup of green tea and goes to change into pajamas before sinking down on the couch to watch Jeopardy!, and she’s doing okay until she catches a proper glimpse of her body in the wardrobe’s full-length mirror and breaks down.

 The bloated feeling isn’t just in her head. She’s swollen, looking three months pregnant for the wrong reasons, and it's painful on so many levels. She thinks it would have been fine if it’d been the sole notable difference, because a bit of temporary weight-gain rarely bothers her, but it’s not the worst thing. What makes her do a double-take is the bruises scattered across her lower abdomen, an uneven pattern of dark violet, red and yellow marks after the needles. The reflection in the mirror looks like it’s been beaten up, literally punched in the stomach with a knuckle-duster, and Amy feels as if she’s entirely separate from the person she sees.

This isn’t her.

This isn’t what she’s supposed to look like.

This isn’t how it was supposed to be.

 She doesn’t feel brave or beautiful, doesn’t recognize even a shadow of a stubborn fighter in the reflection staring back at her. The only thing she sees is sheer exhaustion, a person tired of fighting for control over the uncontrollable, and it’s a haunting image nowhere close to how she’s used to seeing herself. She throws on an oversized NYPD sweatshirt and closes the wardrobe door in a swift moment before she can stare any longer, but it’s too late - the sight is etched on her memory, and the silent tears take several minutes to stop falling.

There’s no beauty in this process. If there was, surely she wouldn’t be feeling this way.

 -

 Amy doesn’t get much sleep that night. She’s tossing and turning, lying awake and staring at the ceiling between short bits of light slumber. When her alarm finally sounds, she feels less rested than before she went to bed. On top of that, she can't have coffee because of the anesthesia, and has to be satisfied with casting longing looks at Jake's takeaway Starbucks cup. She swears the paper mug is ogling her by the time they reach the clinic’s parking lot.

“Ames, I’m sure one sip won't matter if the alternative is you staring at it like a psychopath.”

“It's not a clear liquid. I'm not risking it.”

“Fine. But if you murder me for this, I will tell people I gave you the offer.” She snorts, the corners of her mouth twitching, and there's a look of pride on Jake's face when he realizes he’s made her smile. “How are you feeling? Aside from the coffee-abstinence?”

“Tired. Disappointed.”

“Ah, yes, something gave that away.”

“Not because of the coffee,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I mean of this whole thing. It's not at all what I was picturing when I suggested we’d have another baby.”

 Jake doesn't reply immediately, twisting the cup’s plastic lid back and forth while he stares out the window, watching another couple enter the building with hands intertwined.

“I know it wasn't, babe.”

“I'm sorry I suggested fertility treatments,” she mumbles, and he looks at her with a curious countenance. “I bet it's not even going to work.”

“Hey, you don't know that yet.” He places a hand on her thigh, getting a bit of coffee foam on her jeans. “We’ve gotten this far, right? Shame to give up hope now.”

“The eggs could be bad quality. They might not fertilize, they might not implant. So many things could still go wrong.”

“Sheesh. Ever the optimist, aren’t you?” She glares at him, but he’s unbothered by her bitterness, a confident smile on his lips as he finishes the last of his coffee. “If you bet it's not going to work, I'll bet it will. Mind you, I have a history of winning most of our bets.”

“You do not.”

“Agree to disagree,” he laughs, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear and stroking her cheek. “Let’s just do it and see what happens, okay? You wanted to give this a try, we’re giving it a try.”

“You have to hold my hand.”

“I’ll hold your hand.”

“We’re going for coffee as soon as they release me.”

“I thought we were trying to save money?”

“We are going for coffee.”

“Okay, so non-negotiable. Cool.”

 It might be the cup of coffee she finally gets to consume when they stop by Starbucks on the way, or that she’s feeling less like a hormone-inflated alien after the procedure, but Amy’s mood is much improved by the time they’re back home. For a few days, it’s all out of her hands. She can’t do anything but hold onto the thought of six eggs, less than ideal but more than the zero she feared, about to be fertilized and left to grow in perfect lab conditions for at least five to six days. On the one hand, she’s powerless, but on the other hand, it’s outside her realm of control, literally taking place outside of her body. In a certain sense, it's relieving.

 She’s dizzy after the anesthesia. She claims she’s fine, because dizziness is nothing compared to the pain and crushing anxiety she felt before, but she stumbles over their doorstep and nearly loses her balance, so Jake takes a careful grip of both her shoulders as he leads her to their bed and helps her lay down.

“You should take a nap,” he whispers, stroking her hair as she gives him a faint smile.

“I’m not that tired.”

“I have to pick up our two-year-old from daycare in two hours.”

“On second thought I will be taking that nap.”

They end up taking it together. Jake’s arm is wrapped around her waist, their heads are resting so close together that the tips of their noses touch, and when she wakes up a punctual thirty minutes later, she wonders if it’s the first romantic thing they’ve gotten up to this month where needles haven’t been involved.

“If I get pregnant,” she whispers in his ear, daring to pronounce the word for the first time in weeks, “I promise you we’ll take an honest-to-god babymoon or something. Just the two of us on a beach somewhere.”

He responds with a loud snore, and it takes more of Amy’s self-control than it should not to laugh at him.

 She must have both fallen asleep again and slept through Jake disentangling himself from her, because the next time she regains conscience, it’s to the feeling of her favorite three-feet-tall human climbing on top of her back while giggling uncontrollably.

“Carefully, bumblebee, I said carefully,” she hears Jake’s exasperated voice, and then a high-pitched complaint from her daughter as he lifts her off of Amy. “Most people like it when you wake them up more calmly.”

“It’s okay,” Amy says, sensing without opening her eyes that Leah's close to bursting out into tears. “Do you want to snuggle with me for a bit, Lee? You're invited too, Jake.”

“Oh, yeah, Lee, what do you think?”

“Go to the park,” the toddler insists, shaking her head. “Swinging!”

“If you cuddle with us in bed for two minutes, I will take you to the park after.”

“Swinging,” Leah repeats grumpily.

“But first cuddling?” Jake tries.

“Swinging!” Her expression softens, lower lip pouting and eyes widening like she's learned to do so masterfully. “Please?”

She can't yet pronounce the word correctly, so it comes out more like a pleath, but it's the cutest thing in the world and has both parents exchanging meaning looks, knowing they've already lost.

 It must be Leah's lucky day, because there's a toddler swing free already when they get to the park. Amy thinks it must be her lucky day as well, because there's also a bench free with a perfect view of the swingset, meaning she can watch Jake and Leah play while she soaks up the afternoon sun. The toddler is squealing with joy, her excitement getting louder with each push of the swing. Jake’s asking her if she wants to go higher, urging her to hold on tight while he pushes the swing slightly higher than Amy would prefer, but Leah’s thrilled and Jake is beaming as he watches their daughter have the time of her life.

 Amy doubts she’ll ever tire of watching the two of them interact. Part of her always knew he’d make an amazing father - despite his own doubts, she’s never wavered. Still, she could never have imagined just how present, loving and dedicated of a parent he would become, and she feels blessed to get to see it in action day after day. Although she wishes she was hanging out in the shadow and pushing a sleeping baby in a stroller, or feeling them move around inside her, she has this. She’ll always have this. Nothing can take the family she already has away from her, and as difficult as it is to feel grateful for anything after nearly two weeks’ worth of needles, she's indescribably thankful for them.

 “Monkey!” Leah exclaims, pointing at a squirrel rushing between trees while Amy tries to feed her small pieces of dried fruit-bar. They’re taking a snack break to replenish their energy, but the toddler is distracted to say the least.

“That’s a squirrel, baby.”

“Monkey,” Leah repeats, pointing to another squirrel.

“Still a squirrel. Monkeys are bigger.”

“Also much less commonly found in New York,” Jake adds. “Presumably. I’ve never been sure about Hitchcock.”

“Monkeys!”

“Ames, did we ever teach her animals?”

“We must have. I distinctly remember reading those god-awful books about animals at the zoo over and over for three months.”

“Oh, right!” Jake lights up. “How could I ever forget your incredible dolphin voice? Truly haunting. You turned her against SeaWorld from the start, babe.”

“Shut up, your gorilla voice wasn’t much better.”

“Monkeys,” Leah repeats in a serious tone as if to remind them of the matter at hand, and then she’s almost up and chasing after another squirrel before Amy catches her and tickles her. She falls back against the picnic blanket, squirming to get away while she keeps laughing her infectious toddler laugh, and Amy’s trying hard to keep a poker-face but she’s overtired and relieved and so absolutely happy, it’s worthless. It’s mere seconds before all three of them are laughing uncontrollably, and for a moment, every bit of heartache she’s felt over the last days is cured.

  -

  The day before the transfer, they have to go in for a meeting to decide how many embryos to transfer. It’s an interesting discussion, with Amy and their doctor arguing in favor of one and Jake hung up on the idea that an increased chance of twins would be the coolest thing ever and they should do two, but they eventually end up making the decision to transfer one and freeze the remaining two embryos.

“Chicken,” Jake tells her when they’re leaving the clinic. “Two for the price of one, right?”

“You try being pregnant with one child before deciding you want to try two.”

“Fine,” he laughs. “So you think it’s going to stick, huh?”

Amy blushes. “Maybe? She did say they were high-quality.”

“I'm sure she'll give you a gold star if you ask.”

“Ha-ha.”

“Keep up the optimism,” he says, and the wide grin he gives her makes her want to follow his advice. “You know, in two weeks you might be pregnant.”

 Hearing the words makes her heart flutter with joy, making her halt suddenly to wrap her arms around him, kissing him so hard it takes him by surprise. His hands wave, hesitating before they find their spot on her waist, but then he’s as wrapped up in it as she is. She cups his chin with one hand, stroking her thumb over the light stubble and pouring all of her cautious hope into this kiss, soaking him up, taking him in. The moment is short-lived, but it’s enough to bring out the spark she hopes they’ll never lose.

“What was that for?” He asks when she pulls away.

“Luck,” she smiles.

 -

  It feels like a monumental day when they pull into the parking lot the next morning. Amy supposes if everything goes well, it will be, and then she reflects upon how in that case, she'll always know the exact date and hour for when something could have started to grow.

Her first pregnancy had been such a shock in the beginning; not unplanned, but happening way faster than she’d anticipated. Amy wonders if she glorified the welcome surprise in her memories, romanticizing the feeling that this little person had, in a sense, chosen them. If their first round of IVF works, it's going to be a result of medicines and treatments and them being so proactive about wanting this, and although she places no value in the discrepancy, it feels clearly dissimilar. Equally as beautiful, but in an entirely different way.

 She clings to the beautiful parts. The long hug Jake gives her before they go in because he can tell she's shaking, and how nice and considerate everyone who introduces themselves to them is. She focuses on Jake's hand squeezing hers throughout the short procedure, and on getting to see the quick flash happen on the ultrasound screen. The giddiness between them as they drive home after, the way he insists on tucking her into bed for her advised day of bed rest, and the buffet of snacks he runs and gets them.

Most of all, she clings to the monochrome printed picture of the embryo, looking like nothing but a tiny bubble against some light background but giving her hope all the same.

Please, she thinks before they turn out the light that evening, clutching the thin paper over her heart.

Please, please, stick.

  ~

  june

If Amy found the days between egg retrieval and transfer were nerve-wracking, the ten days between her transfer and blood test prove to be yet more agonizing. She tries her best to stay distracted, letting the days pass by in a flurry of work shifts, toddler meltdowns and even a visit to Shaw’s Bar for a sense of normalcy on a night when Karen is babysitting. Charles gives her bottle of non-alcoholic beer meaning looks throughout the whole night, and she mumbles something about her low alcohol tolerance to which he just nods, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. She tries to ignore the persistent thought in the back of her head, reminding her his suspicions could technically be correct.

 Hope is a dangerous thing, Amy thinks as she goes through the first pages of the diary she kept during her first pregnancy, desperately trying to remember what early signs she felt the first time. Hope makes you crazy. Hope is what’s making her overanalyze her every sensation and shift in mood until she barely trusts herself anymore. Is she experiencing the first hints of first-trimester fatigue, or has Leah just woken up at four-thirty a.m. for the last three mornings? Is she nauseous, or did she simply drink coffee on an empty stomach and forget to eat until early afternoon? Is her sense of smell heightened, or did Charles bring an extra eye-watering lunch today? The question marks are endless, and they make the ten days until her blood test feel eternal.

 The day before the test, Leah and the rest of the kids in her daycare group put on a little show for the parents. It’s the sort of thing Amy always suspected parents lied about or greatly exaggerated, but it turns out watching her daughter proudly march in uneven circles while happily singing along to songs about numbers and letters all while waving to her parents is more than enough to ensure there are tears of pride in Amy’s eyes throughout the performance.

“You’re not going to stop crying, are you?” Jake teases her as they’re pulling out of the parking lot, Leah still singing a song about cows.

“I’m emotional,” she laughs through the tears, and she can tell from the way his eyes narrow that he’s thinking it, too - even more than usual.

-

  The following night, Amy jolts awake at 3 a.m.

She tries to fall asleep again for a good thirty minutes, tossing and turning and snuggling closer to Jake to make herself calm down, but nothing works and she's as awake as if she’d just chugged a thermos of black coffee. She solves a crossword puzzle on the Times app on her phone, hoping for it to either distract her or tire her out, but it manages neither. She is physically unable to relax. There’s no way for her to stop thinking about how today’s the day, today’s the day they’ll find out whether or not the money, time and bruises led to somewhere, if they’ll be adding another member to their family in nine months, whether or not she’s finally pregnant.

There are five hours left until her scheduled appointment. It’s not a long time, not when Leah will be up in three hours, but it feels like forever. She wants to know now, and she’s not going to fall asleep again before she does.

One at-home test can’t hurt, she decides.

 Grabbing her phone and a sweater Jake must have thrown on the floor yesterday, she crawls out of bed and pads into their modestly sized bathroom, praying there’s an unused test left somewhere.

It takes her a couple of minutes to find one. The package is stashed deep in their cupboard behind bottles of shampoo, its hiddenness former evidence of a moment’s weakness when she must have been unable to even see it. It’s been a long and frustrating eight months, but as Amy places the plastic stick down on the floor to let the result develop, washing her hands carefully before starting a timer and putting in contact lenses, she can’t help but wonder if their struggle has come to a much yearned-for end.

A small hourglass flashes on the little digital display, and her heart is full-on racing, pounding with each appearance and disappearance of the symbol.

Then, with thirty seconds left on the three-minute timer, the result appears and she swears fireworks go off outside.

 There aren’t any actual fireworks, of course. To anyone else, it’s an ordinary night in early June, but to Amy, it’s the night of a forthright miracle. It’s an indignity there are no fireworks.

 The screen reads Pregnant, 1-2 Weeks, and she feels happy tears form in her eyes as the relief floods her, a maelstrom of emotions coming at her without warning.

Pregnant.

They’re having another baby.

Her hand goes instinctively to her lower abdomen, where the bruises from the injections are still fading, and something unimaginably small but existing, has started to grow.

 “Jake.” She shakes his shoulder as she repeats his name. “Jake. Babe.”

There's a low groan and a sigh, but he doesn't open his eyes. She shakes him carefully again.

“Jake, please wake up.”

“Hmm. No.”

“I promise you're going to want to wake up for this.”

He makes another gruff sound, somewhere between a grunt and a yawn. “S’the middle of the night. S’ anything wrong?”

“No, no. The opposite,” she says, and he looks at her for a second before his eyes fall shut again.

“What d’you mean?”

She leans closer, kissing the back of his neck before she whispers the words. “Babe, I'm pregnant.”

“What?” He sits up straight so quickly, Amy almost flies back on the bed as she loses her balance. “Wait - how d'you know - what?”

She laughs, because she's barely believing it either, and hands him the minutes-old test so he can see for himself. “I couldn't sleep, so I took one to see, and… it's positive.”

“Oh my god,” he blinks, twisting the test in his hands while a wide grin takes shape on his lips, his expression morphing from sleep-deprived toddler parent to overjoyed child on Christmas morning. “Oh my god, Ames.”

“I know!”

“This is - we're having another baby?”

“Yeah! It worked!”

“I can’t believe it.” He shakes his head, and then he wraps her in a tight hug while pressing kisses to her cheeks, her neck, her shoulder, every spot he can reach. “You did it, babe.”

“You helped.”

“Eh, barely. You were the one who took all those shots.”

“I did,” she grimaces. “They were worth it, though.”

“We’re having a baby,” he whispers, and the smile on her lips grows impossibly wider.

“We’re having a baby.”

It’s dusky inside their bedroom, but the world has never felt brighter.

  -

  Neither of them gets more sleep that night. All they can do is lay next to each other, watch the sun rise through the window and repeat their shock and immeasurable happiness to one another.

They’re having another child, and they are going to be the two-kid-family she always pictured. She is going to experience the few magical parts of pregnancy and times with a newborn she couldn't accept never experiencing again, Leah will have a sibling to grow up next to and possibly an automatic best friend for life. For the last few months, Amy's been scared to death it wouldn’t ever happen to them again, and now she's blessed with the knowledge it will.

She's not broken. Her body can still do this, albeit with a bit of help to get there, but it can and it is, and she feels like the luckiest woman in the world.

 It's the first time she's purely confident when they park outside the fertility doctor. A quick little blood test to confirm what she already knows to be true, and she can move on with her life, pregnant, and put all this behind her.

“Did you take a home test?” The friendly nurse asks as she adjusts the tight band around Amy’s upper arm. Amy’s not even making an effort to hide her proud smile.

“Maybe,” she confesses, and it makes the young woman chuckle.

“Congratulations.”

The results will take a couple of hours, she's informed, and the clinic will call and leave a voicemail when her numbers are in. The screen lights up when she's in the middle of a conversation with Detective Alvarado later in the afternoon, and it takes a lot more self-control than it should for Amy to not instantly reach for her phone. The last hours of her workday seem to stretch forever, and by the time she meets up with Jake in the precinct’s garage to listen to the message, she's bursting with excitement and joy.

 He’s not much better, looking at her with the heart-eyes that still make her blush as she gets into the passenger seat. The happiness is infectious, so she leans over to kiss him a few seconds longer than she'd deem appropriate for technically being inside the workplace.

“I was thinking we should celebrate with pizza tonight,” he says when they break it off. “Both because well, pizza, and also because I couldn’t have pizza at home for months last time you were pregnant or you’d be sick. I figure I need to take my chance while I can.”

“Planning ahead.” Amy raises an eyebrow. “Impressive.”

“Well, I’m a super-experienced dad now, right?” He leans back in the seat, crossing his arms behind his head. “I’m going to have two kids! That’s grown-up for realz.”

“As opposed to having one?”

“I’m just saying it’s next level,” he remarks and it makes her laugh. “Let's hear the voicemail, shall we?”

She nods and reaches for his hand before pressing play on the voicemail recording.

 It only takes the few seconds their nurse takes to say who she is and why she’s calling for Amy to realize something is wrong.

 It’s in the worried tone, the hesitant atmosphere emanating from the speakers, and it feels like her heart has stopped dead in her chest when she hears it.

“So you’re in a bit of a gray area,” the nurse explains, pronouncing each word with great care. “Your level showed up at a 13. As you know, any hcG level above 25 is pregnant and anything below 5 is not. Anything in between needs a retest.”

Jake squeezes her hand harder, and she can sense his eyes on her as if he’s trying to read her reaction. She tries to squeeze back but finds she can’t move her fingers or turn her face, can’t do anything but stare straight ahead with her lips pursed.

“This could, of course, be nothing and your pregnancy could just be slow-starting,” the message continues, each word still being spoken as slowly. “But since we would prefer to see your levels above 50 to be certain, you’ll have to come in for a retest in two days to see if they’ve increased.” The nurse sighs. “I am so sorry about this trouble. You two take care and I’ll see you again soon.”

There’s a click and a dial tone as the message ends, and they’re left with a silence that seems to weigh tons.

 She notices her tears first when Jake wipes them away with the pad of his thumb, his hand warm against her cheek.

“It’s just slow-starting, babe. The test said you’re pregnant.”

“Not pregnant enough, apparently.”

“You don’t know that yet,” he says, decisively. “Our kids are stubborn as hell. It’ll be okay.”

“You really think so?”

“I do.” The hand still intertwined with hers squeezes harder again. It’s an effort, but she manages to squeeze his back. “Somehow, we always end up okay.”

 She nearly makes a snarky comment about death threats and witness protection, trials and prison sentences, but stops herself. It’s not comparable, and she knows the Amy who stayed up all night working on her boyfriend’s case before crying herself to sleep in the early hours of the morning would probably have been content with never having any kids at all if it meant Jake could come back home, but times have changed since then. It doesn’t matter that she knows they’ve been through worse, because the level of pain and worry still feels unbearable when they’re in the thick of it, the letdowns and disappointments so present here and now.

“I hope so,” she whispers and lets his warm smile give her an ounce of comfort, a sliver of sparkling hope. “Can we go pick up Lee now? I just… need to think about something else, for a while.”

“Yeah, of course.” His lips brush against her forehead for a second. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“It’ll be okay, Amy.”

She nods, undecided as to whether or not she believes him.

 -

 She knows the next day must pass, because she wakes up two mornings later when it's time for the retest, but there aren't any memories there when she tries to think back at. It's like she's been sleepwalking for the entire day. Nothing feels real except the overwhelming worry and the voice in her head repeating you’re worthless, a failure, your body can't even do this.

She peels away the skin on her lips and fingertips until both are bleeding in an attempt to feel something. She doesn't remember this, either, but there are bandaids on her fingers when she wakes up the next morning and her lips are all cracked even though it's summer.

 “You know it’s not over yet,” Jake mumbles as they’re waking up and she gets stuck on the edge of the bed, unable to tear her eyes away from the embryo picture on her nightstand.

It looks like a foggy soap bubble, she thinks, and wonders how she could pour so much hope, love and blind faith into something that might never make it past the very first steps of existence.

She nods and abstains from telling him what she’s really thinking.

It feels like it is.

 There’s a dull ache in her stomach as she takes the blood test. At first, she chalks it down to nerves and that all she could get down for breakfast was coffee and half of an apple, but as the pain level increases and begins imitating an all too familiar sensation, she realizes what it could be. There aren’t any tampons in her bag, so she curses her past, temporarily optimistic, self for not putting new ones there the last time she ran out, and drives to the nearest CVS.

 When they were starting the procedure, she was worried and desperate, clinging onto the little bit of faith that came with knowing they were at least being proactive about it. After the transfer, she was cautiously optimistic, reading into each sign and even daring to feel hopeful about the outcome. Now, she’s just numb. She can’t think, can’t feel, can’t react to what’s happening around her if so somebody slapped her in the face. Amy has lived her life being anxiously alert to every shifting detail around her, but as she browses the CVS aisles in a coma, she’s never felt more cut off from reality.

She does note how the cashier in the checkout has a pronounced baby bump. It feels like a sick joke.

 The joke continues, because she’s just stepped out of the building when her phone vibrates with the call from the fertility doctor’s office.

“Amy Santiago.”

“Hi, yes.” It’s a different nurse than for the previous call, Amy notes, but the serious tone is the same. “I’m calling with your results from today’s blood test.”

She bites her lip, tasting blood from the already broken skin. “They’re not good, are they?”

“Your hCG was down to an 11.”

“Oh.”

“Unfortunately, it means you’re going to lose this pregnancy.”

“Yeah. I… figured.”

“I truly am so sorry about this,” the nurse assures her. “If it’s any comfort, know this means the pregnancy wasn’t ever viable, and your body simply did what’s best and terminated it before anything ever fully implanted. You’ll possibly get a bit of a more painful period, but after, nothing should stop you from trying again as soon as you feel ready.”

“Okay.”

“I know that might not make it feel better, but this is not uncommon, and it’s not something you could have prevented, either. Sometimes it isn’t meant to be.”

“No, I understand,” Amy manages to get out, and the nurse hums at the other end of the phone.

“You can take as much time as you need, and then get back to us about whether you��d like to start another cycle. Does it sound okay?”

“Sure.”

“Perfect, then. Take care,” the voice advises, and two repeated beep-sounds signal the end of the call.

 There aren’t any benches nearby. Thus, when Amy feels her legs give way in the next second, all she can do is slide down until she’s sitting down on the sidewalk outside the store, her back against the wall and her arms around her knees as the panic crashes over her. Her lungs feel tight, getting tighter as she gasps for air between the ugly crying that’s slipping out of her before she can control it. Although she’s cried her fair share of tears in the last few weeks, it’s been a long time since she cried like this, forceful and broken in a wounded animal-type of way that earns her weird glances from the people walking past, but she resolutely shakes her head when a stranger tries to come closer. With trembling hands she manages to press the favorites button, calling Jake, and then she tries to take a deep breath and force air into her lungs while she waits for him to pick up.

 “Ames?”

She can’t get out a single word before her voice breaks. Instead of a comprehensible pair of sentences comes a blubbering string of words, not one of them sounding the way they’re supposed to, and she can hear his confusion as he repeats her name in a questioning tone but she can’t explain. Her head hurts, her lungs hurt, and hearing the sudden worried edge in Jake’s voice hurts.

“Where are you? Send me your location.” She stutters a vague description. “Okay, stay where you are and I’ll be there in ten.”

 It ends up only being seven minutes before he’s kneeling in front of her, still wearing his badge and all out of breath as he helps her stand up and leads her to their car without asking a single question of what she’s doing here or what’s happened. She figures he understands - or at least, has drawn the conclusion from her wrecked appearance. She makes several attempts of opening her mouth, trying to apologize for her shattered state as the traces of her eye makeup are smudging on her cheek and she’s fighting for breath, crying so hard it feels like she’s going to throw up from the mix of snot and hysteria stuck in her throat, but it's impossible to speak.

“Ames, can you try to breathe for me, please? In for three and out for three.” He’s holding both of her hands as he guides her, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over her knuckles. She manages to hold her breath for two seconds, shaking as she exhales, and he nods. “Good, you’re doing great. Try another time.”

They go on like that for several minutes. Eventually, the vigorous bawling calms into a quieter sobbing, and she nearly collapses into his arms as he strokes her hair, whispering soft I love yous to which she can only respond with more crying.

“Let’s go home,” he suggests, his voice stable and solid even as everything is crumbling around them.

 -

 “Are you sure you don’t have to go back to work?”

“Yeah. Rosa owed me one.”

“Did you call Holt?”

“I will.” His lips brush against her neck. “Later.”

They're laying on the bed, Amy being the little spoon for once. The waves of intense panic have quietened down thanks to exhaustion, and she's breathing properly, in and out as Jake holds her. Rays of sunlight are shining through the curtains, alerting her to the beautiful summer’s day outside, and she wishes Jake would close them. She doesn’t want to be reminded of the outside world. It means nothing to her, anyway.

 They should have been celebrating, making sure to get off work early, picking up Leah from daycare and going for celebratory ice-cream in the middle of the week. Now they’re here, her wrapped in an extra blanket because she couldn’t stop shivering, Jake playing with her hair in a fruitless attempt of making her feel better. He’s made her coffee and a sandwich, too, insisting she needed to refill her energy after the panic attack, but she hasn’t managed more than a couple of bites. The picture of the embryo she’s about to lose still sits on her nightstand, and she’s tried but she can’t stop staring at it.

“I’m so stupid,” it slips out of her without thinking, and Jake freezes.

“You’re not stupid, Ames.”

“I really thought it was going to last,” she continues, unaffected by his protest. “I really did.”

“So did I.”

She ignores that too, finally tearing her focus away from the picture and rolling on her back so she’s looking up at the ceiling instead. “You know it barely counts as a miscarriage at this point?”

“Hmm?”

“It’s called a chemical pregnancy because it didn’t get far enough to be visible on an ultrasound. Chemical. Like it’s just… an error.” She snivels. “That’s what I feel like. An error.”

“You’re not an error,” he says, in a low voice like it’s hurting him to hear her say it. “We’ll try again.”

“How many times, Jake? How many damn times do we have to try again?”

“We said two before we reevaluate - “

“I know what we said,” she cuts him off. “But I’m exhausted.”

“We could take a break?”

“No, we’re trying again.”

“Okay.” His fingers move over her cheek, cupping her jaw and pulling her towards him so they’re face to face. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She swallows the tears that seem to be on their way back. “I can't believe I thought it was real.”

“It felt real.”

“So real,” she breathes, and he hugs her tighter.

 She's gotten so tired of crying.

[dramioneficrecommendations]

Best Draco/Hermione Fics Dramione Shippers Read in 2020

A few days ago, I asked you what were the best Dramione fics you'd read in 2020. Here's the huge list of your excellent recs (in alphabetical order):

A Creature Most Unusual by JMilz: Draco Malfoy is on a mission. Unfortunately, Hermione Granger catches him in the act. When she sees that he has adopted a rather unusual magical creature, she becomes determined to make sure he takes care of it. Little does she know, the animal may hold her key to eternal glory . . . and a whirlwind romance. M, 9 Chapters, 24,460 Words

A Little More Alive, Far Less Lost by MGL_Dramione_Lover: After Draco's post-war trial, he finds himself attending his 8th year at Hogwarts with Hermione. As remorse and acceptance replace anger and hate, the old enemies begin a friendship that sparks into much more than they ever hoped for. Hermione's goal as Head Girl is to banish old prejudices and unite the school while Draco's only wish is to become a man worthy of her love. M, 22 Chapters, 84,823

A New Light by mithrilstarlight: Draco spent six years doing his best to keep his head down. Then he runs into Hermione Granger. Turns out, they actually have a lot in common.Chapters posted M/W/F. T, 18 Chapters, 33,876 Words

A Second Look by RiverWriter: Her best friend's life was a mess and she would have done anything to make things better for him and his sons. So, when she found her former enemy in a similar situation her heart went out to him as well... and the beautiful blond baby in his arms didn't hurt his case. It was certainly enough for her to give him a second look. M, 30 Chapters, 127,243 Words

All that is Rare by smithandbarrowman: In the wizarding world, it has long been assumed that men are Alphas and women are Omegas. However, when Hermione Granger discovers that assumptions are rarely factual, her status as one of only a handful of female alphas that has ever existed has men falling at her feet.But there’s only one man she wants, and like the male alphas before her, the hunt is on until he bears her mark. E, 31 Chapters, 119,755 Words

All the Wrong Things by LovesBitca8: Sequel to "The Right Thing to Do" - Draco's POV. Part 2 of the "Rights and Wrongs" series. E, 24 Chapters, 160,297 Words

All You Want by senlinyu: Eighth Year at Hogwarts was supposed to be Hermione’s. And it is, just not in the way she expects. Omegaverse fic. E, 36 Chapters, 172,651

apples & cream by LovesBitca8: She could have taken her things and gone through his Floo without a word. She could have ignored him on Monday morning, as though last night had been no more than a fever dream and too much Firewhisky. But she’d come back to bed. Inspired by the lovely NikitaJuice's "apples & cream." E, 1 Chapter, 1,426 Words

Beginning and End by mightbewriting: Years. Broken into months into weeks into days—into hours, minutes, seconds—into moments. Simple at one end, complex at the other. In Draco’s experience, moments, even when simple, had a habit of becoming irretrievable. Moments grew, stretched, multiplied into ages and eras that defined whole stretches of measurable time. Draco regretted several moments in his life, some within his control, some without: all of them irretrievable in nature. At a certain point, wedged between ‘what-ifs’ of his own devising, he’d stopped trying to keep track of those regrettable moments: now and then, pushing and pulling, coming and going, beginning and end. Moments were only moments for just as long. After that, he had no control. A Draco POV prequel to Wait and Hope. E, 48 Chapters, 242,100 Words

Bells on a Hill by HeyJude19: Left by his fiancée a month before the ceremony, Draco never got his dream wedding, so agreeing to assist Granger with her own wedding planning to distract himself from his broken engagement seems like a great idea—though Draco probably shouldn't fall in love with the bride-to-be. Based very (very) loosely on The Wedding Singer. T, WIP

Bending Light by scullymurphy: Draco Malfoy was in exile, though they called it protection. It was the summer after sixth year and he'd taken Dumbledore's offer, defected to the other side and been sent away to a small town in Italy for his troubles. No magic, few rules, and not a lot to do - until Hermione Granger showed up. M, WIP

Break for me by Ada_P_Rix: COMPLETE _______________ "-I told them this wouldn’t work.” He cut in through gritted teeth as he kept his eyes on Hermione, making her pulse quicken and she couldn’t help but clench her thighs together at the rough, husky tone of his voice. He didn’t miss it; his eyes landed on her thighs and they darkened even further. “I can’t help her when all I feel like I want to do is pin her down and fuck her into the mattress.” _______________ Hermione gets into a little accident at work and is infected with a hybrid potion created to cause certain heightened side effects. Draco offers to stick around to give his work partner a little support ... if he can Occlude long enough to resist her... E, 7 Chapters, 45,107 Words

Breath Mints / Battle Scars by Onyx_and_Elm: For a moment, she's almost giddy. Because Draco Malfoy's been ruined by this war and he's as out of place as she is and — yes, he has scars too. He's got an even bigger one. She wonders whether one day they'll compare sizes. E, 51 Chapters, 148,908 Words

Bring Him to His Knees by Musyc: Draco is on the case of a murderer, but to investigate, he needs a fake relationship - and a kink club play partner. When Hermione volunteers to take the role, both do their best to maintain the lie without letting each other know the truth: neither of them are acting. E, WIP

Calendar Boys by anne_ammons, Nadiapolyakova (Rijaya83): She had thrown out the idea on a lark, but now Hermione Granger was tasked with bringing the charity calendar to life. What was one more thing on her list? An art/writing collaboration between nadiapolyakova and anne_ammons - twelve photos and a piece of the story behind them. M, WIP

Cherry Mint by dirtymudblood: "He could smell her. Even multiple train cars away, he could smell her. Except, Draco didn’t know who she was. He ignored his natural instincts to pant like a dog and follow the scent to the omega in the beginning stages of heat. Instead he willed himself to rub his knuckles against the rough wood of the table in front of him." E, 27 Chapters, 58,081 Words

Dark Water and Dying Eyebrights by bexchan: One of them is desperately trying to remember their past while the other is forever trying to escape theirs. It's seven years after the war and Draco has managed to avoid almost everyone from Hogwarts, living a lonely life on a small island, far away from the wizarding community. But a familiar face in a cafe window capsizes his world into chaos. Dramione. EWE. Memory fic. M, WIP

Difficult by provocative envy: COMPLETE: "I should," I repeated. "But I don't want to." And then he smiled, and I was wrecked. HG/DM. M, 30 Chapters, 87,041 Words

Don't Look Back by Onyx_and_Elm: It’s the smell of it. Chemical. Bitter and sharp as a raw edge on metal. Just a hint of it as she passes him at breakfast — but enough to stop her dead, mid-step. There is Wolfsbane in his tea. E, WIP

Don't Threaten Me with a Good Time by monsterleadmehome: She scoffs. “If you must know, he ‘elected’ me because he thinks our shared animosity will keep you in check. He’s also not worried about you trying to shag me as a distraction.” He leans back, stubbing out his cigarette on the banister. His eyes rove over her from crown to toe and back. She lifts her chin and tries not to shiver. “Well, he’s right about that.” Lucius Malfoy hires Hermione Granger to whip his son into shape so he can find a pure-blood bride and receive his inheritance. What could go wrong? E, 10 Chapters, 48,092 Words

Draco's Gift by TriDogMom: Draco gives Hermione a gift because of an instructional YouTube video. M, 1 Chapter, 1,705 Words

Dragon in the Dark by GracefulLioness: The battle is won, Voldemort is dead, but the war is far from over. In the new Death Eater regime, Draco Malfoy does what he must to survive and keep his mother safe. Now a highly trained assassin, Draco has learned to think of his targets as inhuman beings, but when he is tasked with killing someone from his past, he can no longer hide from the horrors of the world around him. E, 31 Chapters, 164,782 Words

For a Present Under the Tree by grace_lou_freebush: When Draco and Hermione eloped, the Wizarding World turned against them. Hermione is stuck in a low level, low paying Ministry job with no hope of upward movement. Draco can't even convince someone to hire him. Now, it's Christmas, and Draco knows Hermione deserves the world - or at the least a Christmas gift. He finds the perfect hair comb to replace the horrid Muggle brush she's been making due with, and he'll do anything to afford the paltry present so he can have something to put under the Christmas tree for his wife. Making a beeline for the jewelry box containing the hair combs, Draco rifled through them, landing on an ivory comb with queen anne rose carvings and gold filigree detailing. He brought it to the startled shopkeeper and set it down gently. Pulling his sixth generation Malfoy heirloom pocket watch from his coat, he shoved it in the wizard's face without second guessing himself. "I would like to make an exchange." E, 1 Chapter, 10,141 Words

Fortuitous by MrsRen: Recently divorced Draco doesn't believe in the ideology of having one true love. He certainly doesn't expect to meet his match in a Halloween themed coffee shop, but fate has a peculiar way of giving you just what you need. M, 13 Chapters, 93,695 Words

Fuck, Marry, Avada by Lilian_Silver: Some years after the war, the gang meets up at the Leaky to play a silly game, with very real consequences. E, 1 Chapter, 3,106 Words

Give Me An Hour by RZZMG: As the war continues to rage on around them, Hermione Granger decides to seduce fellow Order Member, Draco Malfoy, one night while at Grimmauld Place... and everything between them changes after that. Fic follows the "five times" trope, and is dedicated to raspberryjukebox. One-shot. A/U-Extended War scenario. Dramione. Drama-Romance-Hot Shag! COMPLETE! M, 1 Chapter, 3,251 Words

Good Girl by arabellaleyes: Hermione is tired of their normal routine in the bedroom. What will happen when she asks Draco to spice things up? One-shot. Complete. M, 1 Chapter, 9,000 Words

Hindsight by floorcoaster: It's a New Year and Hermione decides it's time to make some changes. T, 12 Chapters, 167,694 Words

How to Love Thy Neighbour by WhatSoMalfoy: After her relationship with Ron falls apart, Hermione attempts to juggle a personal muggle life with a professional wizarding one. After encountering her high school nemesis in the most unlikely place, Hermione adds another ball to the juggling mix. M, 14 Chapters, 41,992 Words

How to Move On by longdistance: It's been nearly a decade since the war. A long time since she locked herself away. A long time since he faced his mistakes. She's what he wants. He's what she needs. It's time for both of them to figure out how to move on. M, WIP

Hydrotherapy by eilonwy: Draco finds a trip to the showers after playing Quidditch... enlightening. E, 2 Chapters, 7,163 Words

I Choose You by melanoradrood: At the end of Fifth Year, Hermione finds out why It is that none have approached her with a Marital Contract, the only way she can remain in the Wizarding World after Graduation. It has already been signed by her Magical Guardian, someone she has never met - she is to be the next Lady Malfoy. A year and a half later, she is a married witch, but still, Draco Malfoy, who had chosen her above all others, had not spoken of it. In fact, they barely spoke at all. And when trouble heads their way, Hermione means to change that. Really, she means to change a lot of things. E, 5 Chapters, 24,527 Words

Isolation by Bex-chan: He can't leave the room. Her room. And it's all the Order's fault. Confined to a small space with only the Mudblood for company, something's going to give. Maybe his sanity. Maybe not. "There," she spat. "Now your Blood's filthy too!" DM/HG. PostHBP. Now complete with epilogue. M, 49 Chapters, 284,050 Words

It Happened in Egypt by bionically: Wandless in Egypt: Draco's stranded in Egypt, but luckily, there's a Granger in sight. Now, if only he could be prevented from strangling her. Fun times abroad: It was supposed to be a leisurely solo trip down the Nile. Hermione didn't factor in one blond man from her past and all his drama. Then, of course, there's the fact that everyone's after him. Much hilarity ensues. Maybe. *** A rom-com adventure/mystery featuring two unwilling partners on the run from Lucius Malfoy, alien-hunters, Muggle police, and local wizards engaged in a civil war. T, WIP

Love and Other Misfortunes by senlinyu: Draco Malfoy is dying. He's part-Veela and needs his mate to survive. Post-war, Hermione Granger is a workaholic, up to her eyeballs in legal activism on behalf of Magical Beings, and hasn't yet noticed that Malfoy is the Magical Being who needs her most. “Because I don’t want to be saved by you just because you feel like you have to.” He was properly furious now. “I’m in love with you." Hermione stared at him. She knew but somehow hearing him say it made the air shimmer with magic. "I’m in love with you,” he said again, despairingly. “And that means I want you to be as happy as you possibly can. And you won’t be, not with me.” M, 23 Chapters, 98,584 Words 

Manacled by senlinyu: Harry Potter is dead. In the aftermath of the war, in order to strengthen the might of the magical world, Voldemort enacts a repopulation effort. Hermione Granger has an Order secret, lost but hidden in her mind, so she is sent as an enslaved surrogate to the High Reeve until her mind can be cracked.Now illustrated by Avendell. E, 77 Chapters, 370,473 Words

Measure Of A Man by inadaze22: To truly know someone is to differentiate between who they once were, who they are now, and who they're capable of being. Hermione realises the duality of one man as she rectifies what she knows of the past and begins to understand the pieces of who Draco Malfoy is now: a father, a son, and a man. E, WIP

Meet the Malfoys by raven_maiden: 4 Works, 21, 442 Words

of flavoured names and coloured sounds by Pink Panda (Ejacyeolation): "He doesn’t question it at first, the fact that sounds have colours and words have flavours. He grows up with it, grows up seeing powerful ruptures of colour when his mother plays the piano and softer, translucent bursts when the people around him speak. His father’s voice fills his vision with sombre oranges and lilacs while his mother’s is a pleasant mix of delicate greens, blues, and greys. The word father tastes like wet wood and the word mother tastes like the pumpkin juice the house-elves frequently serve him."In which Draco just wants to know what colour Hermione's moans would be. He also wants to know if her skin would taste as sweet as her surname or maybe as intoxicating as her given name. E, 2 Chapters, 10,351

Once Upon a Night by longdistance: One night will change everything. M, 17 Chapters, 57,444 Words

One and Done by PacificRimbaud: Hermione Granger has a career she loves, friends she can depend on, and a nice set of hand towels for her new flat. She's single and tired of tiresome men, but that doesn't stop her from wearing beautiful lingerie underneath her serious Ministry skirts. Or having pictures taken in naughty knickers. Just once. For herself. Draco Malfoy doesn't get upset at the sight of blood, which is good, because he sees a lot of it. What he doesn't see a lot of is Hermione Granger in her unmentionables. Usually. A series of meetings and mix-ups in which one cannot possibly mean done. E, 4 Chapters, 35,011 Words

Our shared silence by Vofastudum: She wakes up one morning and everyone is just gone, vanished like they never existed at all. Everyone but Him. And in this silent solitude, he's all she has. Hermione and Draco alone in empty castle. Mystery and a plot twist you didn't see coming! EDITED 10/2020 M, 17 Chapters, 40,149 Words

Pinned by bionically: Draco doesn't know what he's expecting when he follows Blaise down a dark alley, but it certainly isn't this. For a man with an addictive personality, this isn't going to turn out well. Assigned trope: Voyeurism *** Or, a chance encounter with a frizzy-haired witch from his misbegotten past in the last place anyone should have expected to see her sets Draco's disordered life on its ear. The path to redemption is truly paved with unexpected surprises. E, 20 Chapters, 110,886 Words

Really Sell It by RoseHarperMaxwell: Draco's having a rough eighth year, and Hermione's going to make it better for him. "Well, it’s clear what needs to happen.” She gripped his chin, tilting his head to make sure she hadn’t missed any injuries, before looking straight into his eyes. “You’re my boyfriend now.” *Featuring fake dating, exhibitionism, and sex-positive Hermione Granger. Submission for Farewell to Summer: The 31 Flavors of Smut Fest. E, 1 Chapters, 7,612 Words

Remain Nameless by HeyJude19: How did it feel? It felt like he was barely holding it together. She, of all people, should shun him. Or yell at him. Curse him. Spit at him. Take out her wand and blast him off the face of the earth. It was crushing guilt and relief and confusion all at once when he looked at Hermione Granger. The monotony of Draco’s daily routine had become both a lifeline and a noose. But this new habit of grabbing coffee with Hermione Granger is quickly becoming a reason to get out of bed and is unfortunately forcing him to re-evaluate his inconsequential existence. Hermione is living her life in fragments, separate pieces scattered about, and she can’t find a way to step back and let the full picture form. Why are morning meetings with Draco Malfoy the only thing that make sense anymore? E, 51 Chapters, 312,315 Words

Remember Us As War (but call us forgiveness) by Anyaparadox: Following the devastation of the Battle of Hogwarts, The Wizarding Population Growth Act is put into effect. All witches and wizards will be matched with their most compatible partner. Failure to comply will not be tolerated. Survival is key. Hermione reminds herself of this. Survival. She can fix this, if only she can survive. The war has made this a task she is equipped for. Marrying Draco Malfoy will hardly be the worst thing she's ever endured. M, WIP

Ring A Ring O' Roses by Gallivant: Dark Magic, Dark Wizards and a mysterious and deadly Dark Flux, which, in the wrong hands, has the terrifying potential to mass-murder Muggles and Muggle-borns ... It’s been fourteen years since the end of the Second Wizarding War and the Wizarding World is settled, stable and seemingly safe… Hermione Weasley has it all: a loving family, a successful career - and happiness… of sorts. But a series of unexpected events is about to turn her life upside-down, threatening those she loves, fatally undermining the peace between worlds that has prevailed for centuries … changing life as she knows it, possibly forever. If working with Draco Malfoy was the last thing Hermione Weasley ever wanted, falling for your enemy was the least expected. A quest to thwart a magical weapon of mass destruction has devastating consequences. A race to save the world, becomes a race to save themselves… M, 65 Chapters, 527,141 Chapters

Set Fire to the Rain by HarleyQuinn1317: What happens when the one you're destined for is the last person you should ever be with... When the Ministry of Magic asks for volunteers for their Marriage Initiative, Hermione Granger must come to terms with the one terrible deed she committed during the Second Wizarding War. Can she find it in her heart to forgive herself and finally learn to let love in? E, WIP

Sex and Occlumency by Graendoll: Hermione didn't escape from the war unscathed, and when she finally decides on a solution to her problems she's left to explore it on her own. A chance encounter with Draco Malfoy sets her world on it's head and leads her down a path towards healing that she would never have anticipated. E, 18 Chapters, 65,079 Words

The Art of Seating Etiquette by inadaze22: Hermione believes that every problem has a solution, and that solution can be found in a book. That is, until Draco starts sitting to her right every Friday. She has no answers until help comes in the form of an unlikely source: Ron Weasley. E, 1 Chapter, 9,734 Words

The Auction by LovesBitca8: In the wake of the Dark Lord’s triumph over Harry Potter, the defeated must learn their new place. Hermione Granger, former Golden Girl, has been captured and reduced to human chattel. Sold to the highest bidder as the top prize at an auction of Order members and sympathizers, she is thrust into the rabid, waiting hands of the Death Eaters. But despite the horrors of Voldemort’s new world, help—and hope—seem to arise from the most unlikely of places. PART 3 of the RIGHTS AND WRONGS series. E, 41 Chapters, 325,702 Words

The Binding by Curly_Kay: “Okay, what we know so far.” Hermione listed, "One, our magic is drawing us together. Two, we can use each other’s wands. Three, there were actual sparks when you touched me."After an infant binding ritual magically joins Hermione and Draco to counteract the Black family blood curse, they must navigate the secret binding through their years together at Hogwarts. E, 35 Chapters, 175,451 Words

The Carnal Club by Ada_P_Rix: COMPLETE The Halloween Ball is fast approaching with Hermione at the helm.... What a delightful time to suddenly learn of a centuries old secret sex-game club that is currently ran by a Blonde haired Slytherin. Oh, and it only happens once a year every October, when the winner takes all at the Halloween Ball ...The First Rule of Carnal Club: You do not talk about Carnal Club. E, 8 Chapters, 43,306 Words

The Disappearances of Draco Malfoy by Speechwriter (batmansymbol): The night that Harry and Dumbledore return from the cave, the Death Eaters are delayed from reaching the top of the Astronomy Tower for one more minute. Draco Malfoy lowers his wand. A Deathly Hallows rewrite in which Draco accepts Dumbledore's offer to fake his death and go into hiding with the Order of the Phoenix. T, WIP

The Erised Effect by Ada_P_Rix: Hermione and Pansy work in a shop together. Draco, Harry, Theo and Blaise all work together at the Ministry. They all meet up every Friday at the pub to have drinks. Pansy has a new fantasy potion that she likes to call 'The Erised Effect' that she's keen to try out on willing participants ... Boys are so easy to manipulate when alcohol is involved .... E, 13 Chapters, 88,852 Words

The Fallout by everythursday: Hermione learns about growing up through the redemption of Draco Malfoy. E, 49 Chapters, 310,229 Words

The Figures of Figuring Out by Vofastudum: You were the biggest riddle in my life. You were the one I couldn't figure out. You were the only thing I couldn't find a pattern to. You were something I couldn't look up from any book. Unwritten, with no instructions. And I was used to finding solutions! Post-war eight-year secret romance. Edited 12/2020 M, 13 Chapters, 26,951 Words

The Flat in Bath by Ada_P_Rix: Loosely inspired by 365 Days...-- Malfoy grabbed her chin, forcing her to look directly at him. “Don’t you dare, Granger...” He told her roughly as his intense gaze bored into her own. “I fucking forbid you to come until I’ve had enough of you...” Draco caught her cheeks now between the fingers of his free hand and then snapped her head to the side and licked her earlobe, trailing down to her jawline. “...one flutter of those delicious walls of yours and you’re going to wish you never opened your legs for me.” -- __________________ Hermione is kidnapped during a raid and taken captive by someone who doesn't plan on 'torturing' her in the conventional way... E, WIP

The Gloriana Set by ThebeMoon: The War is won, and Hermione Granger is back at Hogwarts as an “Eighth Year”, feeling reckless and determined to shed her prim bookworm persona. She will do as she pleases, and anyone who doesn’t like it will see the business end of her wand. Also returning is Draco Malfoy, universally hated but determined to restore his family’s name. Hermione’s hopes for a quiet school year are quickly dashed as she contends with mischievous First Years, killer plants, enchanted hair accessories, a totally inappropriate Moaning Myrtle, renegade Death Eaters, a nice vampire, a poorly named study group, a depraved party, and mysterious, threatening blood messages on the castle walls. We have redemption, partial redemption and (sadly or hilariously) no redemption at all. Throw in a snarky, disturbingly attractive Draco with his own secret agenda, and we have a very slow-burn Dramione with a side of who-dun-it. COMPLETE! M, 81 Chapters, 271,830 Words

The Library of Alexandria by senlinyu: The Library of Alexandria is not for just any witch or wizard. Many bookworms may try but few are permitted to pass through its doors. The books residing there are ancient and powerful and, if one happens to make a mistake, the consequences can be rather—novel. E, 6 Chapters, 26,383 Words

The List by AureliaBlack90: After her divorce, Hermione decides to get out of town to recover from the pain of her lost relationship and the miscarriage she suffered a year previously. She arrives in the Cotswolds depressed and aimless but compiles a list of things to do that she hopes will help her get back on her feet. In the midst of her journey to find healing she keeps running into Draco Malfoy, who is nothing like she remembered him. He invites her into his world, and Hermione finds exactly what she was looking for - in the place she least expected it. E, 10 Chapters, 70,526 Words

The Manuscript by alexandra_emerson: Five 1/2 years after the war, in the middle of a big fight with Draco, Hermione finds a manuscript. It’s a retelling of her and Draco’s love story, written by him. She never realized how much he was struggling before she read his words. Snippet: I could spend my whole life apologizing to you Hermione, and it would never be enough. Post-war, angst-filled Dramione with a happy ending. M, 21 Chapters, 154,918 Words

The Memory of You by PotionChemist: Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger fell in love against all odds, but there was one big problem — he was already married. Pressured, Hermione does something she promised herself she would never do again and erases their affair from his memory. Completely devastated, she avoids seeing Draco or the Malfoys at all costs. But is their love too strong? Are they inevitable? What will happen if he finds out about their previous relationship? E, WIP

The Mountain and The Sea by AlexisDanaan: Hermione Granger was perfectly happy with her life, her job as a Healer Trainee, her ugly cat and her cute little house in the countryside. And then Draco Malfoy had to go and mess that all up, typical git. Post-Hogwarts, EWE, OOC, creature!fic. E, 12 Chapters, 40,441 Words

The Nietzsche Classes by Beringae: The Ministry takes action against the remaining prejudice in the wizarding society and asks Hermione for help. “What do you want? Money? Power? Name your price, Granger. I’m not about to let pride get in my way when an Azkaban sentence is on the line.” M, 15 Chapters, 45,807 Words

The Phoenix Potion by FedonCiadale: Twenty years after the battle of Hogwarts.... Harry is head auror and is worried about cases where Muggleborn children meet with accidents, Ron is a famous Quidditch keeper. Both haven't talked to Hermione for ages and certainly not to her husband, Draco Malfoy. Narcissa Malfoy struggles with a curse, and Neville and Luna try to stay friends with all. The key to solving the problems may lie in the past, a time nobody really wants to revisit and some can't. T, 111 Chapters, 237,745 Words

The Potioneers by omnenomnom: They need each other unfortunately. Hermione has tricked Draco under her tutelage, arrogant attitude and all. But she would be simple to think he would accept it quietly. They have both have secrets to hide, old wounds better left to fester, and a world full of mermaids, dragons, and magic to explore. T, 53 Chapters, 196,559 Words

The Pretense by Colubrina: Voldemort died, but the Death Eaters live on. Hermione Granger traded herself to Draco Malfoy in exchange for safe passage for core Order members. Now he's pretending to love her, Narcissa is pretending to believe that, and Hermione is walking a tightrope behind enemy lines as she figures out what is going on. Unfortunately, people fall off tightropes. (no non-con) T, 50 Chapters, 108,164 Words

The Right Thing To Do by LovesBitca8: Hermione felt the pounding in her ears again. She would see him for the first time since the Great Hall, gaunt and stricken at the Slytherin table with his mother clutching his arm. She hadn't meant to look for him. Not in the corridors, not beneath the white sheets of the fallen, not on the way to the Chamber of Secrets with Ron, but she was a stupid girl. E, 36 Chapters, 174,911 Words

The Seven Year Witch by TheLastLynx: A boy and a girl have been meeting – coincidentally – for seven summers. While they pretty much hate one another most of the year, for those secret summer moments, they manage to see each other in a different light. But will that be enough to bring them together? A Dramione story about growing up and changing perspective, told along - and in-between - the lines of canon. M, WIP

Thirty Times Lucky by galfoy: "Granger, I can't hire you on any longer," Draco said. Hermione stared at him. Losing her job might actually mean losing the War, and she had to bargain, but there was literally nothing she had that he would want. Or was there? M, 2 Chapters, 7,128 Words

Traditions by raven_maiden: She straddled him slowly, still biting her lip, her hands on his shoulders. He held her hips tightly as he stared up at her. “So beautiful,” he whispered, and she flushed prettily, like she always did from his compliments. “You never need to hide from me.” ** Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy fell in love during the war. One year later, they're heading home for the holidays so he can finally meet her parents. There's just one teeny little problem: her parents think they're both Muggles. E, 14 Chapters, 68,767 Words

Waifs and Strays by Kyonomiko: War leaves a lot of orphans in its wake. Hermione is one, by her own hand, and she struggles with the realities of her situation. When she finds an orphaned familiar, it seems meant to be, giving and receiving comfort helping to heal her fractured heart. Unfortunately, the animal is actually a wizard, and he has his own issues. M, 31 Chapters, 118,152 Words

What You Think Is Right by icepower55: Six years after the war, Hermione parents are dying and her marriage to Draco is crumbling. Nothing seems logical in her life anymore. Her healer tells her to start writing about it, so she does, as a way to figure things out, and remind herself along the way. Hell is proximity without intimacy -Dante's Inferno M, WIP

When the Bell Tolls by everythursday: As a Dark revival begins to rise four years after the war, Hermione Granger is placed on the assignment of putting an end to them – and her first task is to recruit the Ministry's best hope and last option in the form of Draco Malfoy. E, 20 Chapters, 148,033 Words

Wreck by JMilz: Serving as Minister for Magic, Hermione Granger is finally at the peak of her career. With a beautiful family, a successful book, and the public on her side, her life should be a fairytale. Unfortunately, there is trouble in paradise, and when Draco Malfoy pays her a visit, she begins recalling their history and questioning her marriage. The reality is: every relationship is hard. M, 53 Chapters, 187,992 Words

Thanks to every person who contributed (I hope I've mentioned everyone. If not, let me know. 😊): @certified-arsehole @fedonciadale kiwim22 @really-sad-devil-guy endless-musings @headfullofnargles @pinksunsets-world @rosseliz01 @dramioneden @all-consuming @elricsister @injailoutsoon12 reclusivebird @mariakov81 @notthatchhavi @mordanbooqs @haaatch @hpsassenach @ybaeby @farmgirl-in @coyg-81 @eiramrelyat metterschling-plus-two @a-maidens-fantasy @sansacat @vofastudum @lexayeon @1800-rewrite @aneiria-writes @anonymouslydramione 

It took much longer to compile this list than I thought it would. Hopefully, I didn’t skip anything. 🙈

Happy New Year. May it be better than the previous one and full of great Dramione fics and fanarts! 🥳🥳🥳

And here’s the 2019 list: https://dramioneficrecommendations.tumblr.com/post/190216354767/what-is-the-best-dramione-fic-you-read-in-2019

[jangofctts]

Mirrored Heart (captain rex x fem!reader)

rated: 18+ explicit 

word count: 5.6k

warnings: smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampies, fingering, blow jobs, clone space racism?  

a/n: ANYWAY HERE IT IS. ive had this draft saved since like a year ago and just now finished it. anyway kwjrkejh here YALL GO. also thank you @jango-fettish​ FOR LETTING ME BORROW SYRENA 

It's curious. 

Well, you, as a whole are curious—completely outside the realm of what Rex considers normal. As far as senators go, that is. 

You're grumpy for one—worse than Skywalker and far more snide than Kenobi—a near gargantuan task bordering impossible. Wit and cleverness come to you easier than breathing, but it's your unwavering kindness towards himself and his brothers that sticks out like a blaster burn against alabaster white walls.  

He passed it off as a joke—some sort of mockery. Rex’s existence has been full of them. The past year it’s been made glaringly clear as to what the clones are to the people of the republic—tools. Mindless war machines dressed with flesh and bone, heart and sinew instead of durasteel and a circuitboard. Humanity has been skimmed over with excuses and debates over the hollow argument that clones were created for the sole purpose of war—nothing more. Ignorance is bliss when you are not the one fighting tooth and nail for petty skirmishes and the survival of your family.        

Ithyea, your home monarchal planet, is a newer member of the Galatic Republic—one of the firsts to advocate for clone rights—cutting through each argument with the steel headed javelin of hope and determination. Controversial in the eyes of the galaxy but no less than true. Yet with controversy, comes chaos. 

Wedged between Takodana and the Cerean Reach hyperspace lane—it’s an essential key to accessing more neutral space sectors without stepping on any toes. While the planet does mirror the size of a larger than average moon, there’s nothing but grandeur with the cutting edge advances in space travel and military innovations. An arts district too, one that’s presented multiple times for the Senate apparently. Rex has yet to see it. It’s an easy guess as to why Ithyea has gone under pointed attacks from the Separatists—it’d be foolish not to try.     

And of course comes the intergalactic mess of politics. You are not Ithyea’s first senator. Or second…or third. Just in the last six months, three of your predecessors have been picked off—two disappearances and a suspicious poisoning sandwiched between them. Which sides these assassinations stem from is anybody’s guess—a mix of both perhaps—all to silence and stamp the voice of your people out.

Heavy are the shoulders that wear those abhorrent senatorial robes, and Maker did it take some convincing for another Ithyean to step to the chopping block. It’s just…no one thought  it’d be you. The infamous captain of King Arrian Felian’s elite guard—trained in combat levels high enough to contend some of those within the ranks of the Jedi Order. When your name comes up in conversation, it certainly doesn’t scream diplomacy.     

Rex is not surprised that you hold the current record of Ithyean senators for surviving the longest. Evading an astonishing two attempts on your life by the skin of your teeth. You were just downright lucky the third assassin missed their mark. Sure, the blade of Syrena Aster skimmed the right side of your cheek and left behind a nasty scar to remember her by, but kriff—even with your background and low levels of public presence, you’re a high priced target. Whoever placed an order with the Heretics, really wants to see you six feet under.     

Rex hasn’t been given the full report on exactly who the Heretics are—a rag tag bunch of untrained Force users and skilled assassins from what he’s gathered—but regardless, this attack is just the beginning. Until the Senate and the Jedi are able to retract the price on your head, you’re stuck under protective custody. Usually ushered away into the Jedi Temple or tagging along with General Kenobi and Skywalker. Despondently, no matter the circumstances of your protection, it can’t shield you from the dreadful invitations to senatorial luncheons.

 And yes, you tried to slip by for this one. 

You don't brush elbows with other senator’s like many of the members in the Jedi Order and your own cohort do. In fact, you actively avoid even speaking to them unless necessary, let alone stand in the same room with seven of them. Odd for an elected official of diplomacy such as yourself to be so cold shouldered—Rex would think senators wanted to mingle.    

It's curious because you're standing in plain sight and yet no one pays you any passing thought. General Kenobi and Skywalker hold the majority of their attentions, shoulders already taught with exasperation at keeping everyone from tearing out each other's throats for, kriffing five minutes. Yet you...you are completely at ease, leaning up against a stone pillar, observing the unfolding chaos from afar with a keen eye. 

Before Rex realizes he's stepping towards your position, you glance over and dip your chin in greeting. The ghost of a smirk pulls at your normally grim facade—his heart skips. "Captain."

"Senator," he mimics, posting himself to your right. There’s still a thin, healing scab from the assassin’s blade that extends from the swell of your cheek to your ear. Ouch. “Enjoying the evening?" 

You snort. "Hardly enjoying it, Rex."

Stars—you shouldn't be allowed to say his name. Your words are razor-sharp like a jagged vibroblade, meant to jab and pierce through armor—tear a person to pieces without having to lift a finger. Everything about you is rough, gritty, brutal, unbecoming of what a senator should be, but— 

You mouth his name, purring out the singular syllable with such tenderness that it's like a punch to the gut. 

It's hard to swallow and he needs to clear his throat—an embarrassing act on his part, but your attention has already returned back towards the meandering senators. "How d'you mean?"

"Well," you sigh, "let's just say smalltalk isn’t my strong suit." 

"Aren't you senators s'pposed to like diplomacy n' such?" 

Your thumb smoothes over your bottom lip in thought as you shrug. "Diplomacy? Sure. Politicians? Can’t say I like them. I just—"

You wave your hand around, gesturing vaguely to the crowd. "I just don't understand why they can't say what they mean. Telling someone to have a nice day shouldn't entail certain death, y'know?"

"Speaking from experience?" He teases, gently prying into that harder than beskar wall you've created for yourself. There's fissions in your foundation and he means to tear it down all for just a mere scrap of information. 

Your eyes flick over, your lips curling into a vulpine grin. “Perhaps...Though, it was partially my fault, I have to admit.” 

“You’ll have to tell me the story sometime, Senator.” 

You nod. “Yes, one day—when there aren’t so many political ears jumping at the chance of gossip.” 

A swell of laughter interrupts your chat, your attention gravitating to Obi-Wan—ever the charmer with the crowds. The end of your mouth pulls into a frown as you sigh and carefully scratch at your brow with the back of your thumb. Rex might be pulling at straws, but what he mistook as you being standoffish may just be your nerves. Socially awkward and flustered when speaking in such an intimate setting. 

Rex’s first instinct is to reach out and place a hand over your shoulder in comfort, but he’s not sure how you’ll respond to the touch. Flip him over your shoulder probably—

Instead he forces himself to jumpstart the conversation—something to distract from your anxieties. “I hope you don’t mind me asking—“ His heart beat kicks up into a flurry of wild beats as you turn you head. “What uh..wh—did you want to become a senator?”

He likes it when you smile—like you’re letting him on some sort of coy secret. You shift your weight and shrug. “The king asked me personally. I’m flattered he thinks I’m clever enough—insulted he sends me to these abysmal gatherings like some sort of show pony.”

Rex chuckles. “Yeah, can’t say I like ‘em either.” 

“Although…” Your thumb runs over your lip again, a sparkle of mischief igniting behind your eyes. “As a senator, I do get the occasional tidbit of gossip. Here, I’ll catch you up—“

The captain startles when you snatch his elbow and yank him closer. Maker he’s glad for his helmet because your lips brush against his earpiece as he leans down to reach your height. 

“Look." You whisper, nodding casually in the direction of a particularly young senator with a shock of white hair. She's swathed in a pool of royal blue silk, much too large for her tiny frame, and all but hanging off Skywalker's arm with glittered nails filed into points. "That is Senator Ceci Paare of Corellia. She looks innocent, no?"

She does. Wide, crystalline green eyes stare up at the Jedi Knight as a pretty giggle escapes past her ruby painted lips. Skywalker grimaces. 

"I quite like her," you continue with a sly grin. "Even if she does try to influence public opinion by an invitation to bed." 

There's no time to process as you focus in on an older man. His hazy blue skin, ash white lips and vermillion green eyes cut an almost nightmarish profile, accentuated by mountains of black robes. Rex can’t recall what planet the senator represents. The senator holds his head stiffer than rebar to keep the ornate golden circlet from slipping off, his white lips curling in distaste as Orn Free Taa of Ryloth places a meaty hand over his slender shoulder. 

"He is Lord Tal’en Sol Ra'ah. Cunning, but sympathetic to the pleasures of gambling."

It's a game to you—of perceptions and nuances only a trained eye can roll over. Rex expects nothing less. This sort of thing has been hammered into the very essence of your being since you were little—reading an enemy before they can strike. It works on politicians marvelously well. 

Truth be told Rex should be paying more attention—but the closeness of your face to his helmet is maddening. His heart twists and coils as your bare hand skims along his gloved one—kriff. He’s not gonna make it before he bursts into a thousand little pieces.  

Rex’s spell of lovesick yearning recedes as you swear under your breath. It was only a matter of time before someone approached your little corner.  

"Oh, Maker save me," you hiss under your breath as a young Mirialan saunters over, the swatches of rich red and brilliant gold accentuate his violet skin like a bloody bruise. "Pretend you're speaking with me." 

"I am speaking with you," Rex snorts. 

Your hand waves in dismissal as your brows stitch together, hands balling into fists. Your jaw clenches as the senator in question puts on a dazzling smile. You look downright panicked. Rex has witnessed you face down numerous senators older than dirt and close to blowing away in the wind with plucky fervor, assassination attempts, being held captive, and you're frightened…by this? 

This is too good. 

Rex has half a mind to help you, wheel you away from your little predicament, but his intrigue with seeing your oh-so-solid resolve crumble is much too valuable and entertaining to pass up. He's going to remember this for years.  

"Rex."

"Senator," he mimics, not at all frightened by your poisonous glare. "Some diplomacy might do you good."

You begin to snarl out a threat but are decidedly cut off by your object of horror planting himself before your hiding spot. You cower into the corner like a boxed in loth-cat. "Ah, my favorite Ithyean! I had begun to worry you would not make it, my dear friend."

"Senator Lin," you sigh. The smile you offer is tight and thin; a nervous one much in the same way one would be if presented with a box of toenails for a birthday gift. “How pleasant to see you."

Senator Lin’s deep violet lips part with an easy smile. He waves a hand in dismissal, his silver rings glinting in the warm lighting. "Please—call me Toluka. No need to bother with such formalities between companions." 

Rex suddenly understands your trepidation with the Mirialan—he’s slimy. And, not to mention, not at all ashamed with the lecherous looks as his eyes sweep down your body. Rex clenches his teeth and folds his arms behind his back. He’s regretting not heeding your warning now…  

Try as you might through brutal small talk and chilly answers, Senator Lin refuses to take the hint. A dark plume of venom green lashes through Rex’s chest as the Mirialan places a friendly hand over your shoulder. You grimace as Rex bristles and glares through the visor of his helmet.  

Senator Lin’s lips pull into a gaudy smile as he glances at Rex and then at you.“My dear, don’t you know? It’s not worth wasting your time with a clone. After all, they’re all the same person. How boorish—come join us at the table.”

Your teeth bite into your cheek as your temper, like the silver of blade through the darkness, cuts through your steely irises. With poised nonchalance, you lift your hand and pinch Senator’s Lin’s fingers between your own and pry them off your shoulder. “Is that so?”

“Your campaign, valuable as it may be,” Lin continues, “is a useless endeavor. They are not our equals and never will be--you must know that." 

Rex forces himself to remain calm—collected and certainly not imaging a thousand and one ways he’d like to see his fist breaking the fragile bones of the senator’s face.  

"Fine buttons stitched upon your shoulders do not compel your worth, Senator,” the harshness of your words is a blow straight to Lin’s ego. His well-groomed brows furrow drastically as his tongue struggles to play catch up and find words to repair his shattered pride. 

There’s no chance for Senator Lin to regain his footing as your snatch Rex’s wrist and sweep him out into the hall. Rex can feel your anger roll off of you in waves, frighting and holding the same caliber of roaring waves thundering against black, craggy rocks. It’s a miracle the night didn’t end with your hands wrapped around the senator’s throat or a blaster shot through the chest. 

When you reach the lower halls of the cruise ship is when you release Rex’s wrist. You pinch the bridge of your nose between your fingers and release a long, dramatic sigh.   

"You are worth far more than that pompous ass," you say with enough edge to slice through a droideka's shields. "He has no right to say those things to you." 

“It’s alright,” Rex soothes, placing a hand over your bristling shoulder. “I’ve heard worse.” 

Your features scrunch up into a wince. “That...that doesn’t mean you have to suffer through more of it, Rex.”

Sighing, you run a hand through your hair and loosen the heavy outer robes strung around your shoulders. You shrug out of them and fold the thick swaths of fabric over you arm—revealing the under layers of your uniform. You toss the bundle of fabric to the floor with a disgusted grimace and sit on the cargo crate closest to your left. 

“Really—it’s ok.” Rex assures again. “I—“

You hold up a hand and shake your head. His mouth snaps shut. “I won’t hear it. To me you are nothing short of perfect and I refuse to argue about it. Maker knows I already do that for a kriffing living.”

There’s a fragile lull in the hollow space—the distant chatter of voices and strange music collecting in the corners. You stand once again, toe to toe with the Captain and there it is again, that elated pitter patter of his heart thrumming through his veins. The nerves of being so close to you—you sweet face and not being able to touch you.  

“Let me see your face.”

His hands come up to the edges of his helmet without hesitation, a hiss of hair escaping the seal once he pries it off. You smile and take a step closer until the only thing separating you and him is his helmet. 

Rex’s eyes flutter shut, leaning into your hand you gingerly place over his jaw. “I wish the entire galaxy could see you through my eyes,” you whisper, the warmth of your soft palm radiating out and warming his entire body.  

It’s a matchstick to kerosene—his helmet clatters to the ground and there’s only a second to spare as both hands move to cup his cheeks, dragging him into a mouthwatering kiss. 

He hasn’t kissed many people—save for those rare times at 79’s, head swimming under the haze of one too many shots of Corellian fire whiskeys where he could barely distinguish his ass from his hand. Those drunken make-outs were nothing like this. 

No—this…this is what a kiss should be like.   

He dreams about you all the time—so constantly ravenous that all he can feel some days is pure ache. Every and all words that spin around his head starts with you and finishes with his pounding heart close to bursting free from his ribcage. Not in the same way a flood rips through an unsuspecting village—more like the brilliance of a thousand doves, marble white plumage thrashing free from their gilded cage. Your lips taste like the core of a newborn star—scorching and yet still so sweet upon the tongue the same way caramelized sugar sticks to the roof your mouth. You are his first and last everything. 

There’s a certain kind of tragedy hidden beneath your tongue, fragile promises and the eggshell thin shards of hope stapled to the roof of your mouth. Rex will take it—seize any threadbare strand and run with it—spool it into the palm of his hand until you’re wound so tightly together it’ll be impossible to untangle.     

Just when the dizziness sets in from elation and not enough air, you part and leave a sticky trail of warm kisses up his jaw. Rex groans and hugs you closer, you humid breath blooming across his skin. “Let me take care of you.”

The words on his tongue crumble to ash once he nods in agreement. Your kisses dip lower, not even stopping when the reach the edge of his chest plate. Stars, you’re…he never entertained the idea that your lips could look so divine in contrast to the battered plastoid. When you fold onto your knees his heart leaps to his mouth, a flare of arousal flashing through his groin. 

You rest your chin over his codpiece and smile. “Do you like seeing me on my knees, sir?”

Rex huffs and studies at the opposing wall—

“I’ll take that as a yes.” Your fingers find the claps over his codpiece. “Can I take this off?”

Rex jerks his head in a yes but grabs your wrist. Not a rough hold—a tentative one as hesitation swirls in his eyes. “Don’t—don’t have t’ do this for me—“

You quirk a brow. “I want to because I like you, Rexy.”

A rosy blush blooms over his sharp cheekbones. The captain nods again.

The codpiece clatters to the ground and immediately you move your hand to palm him through his blacks. He grunts and squeezes his eyes shut. There we go.      

Biting your lip, you pull down his blacks as far as the plastoid plating allows, greeted with the hard length of his cock, beautiful and flushed a rosy brown. Fuck—he’s thicker than you thought. You wrap your fingers around the base, delighted by Rex’s airy gasp as he throbs in your palm. A bead of liquid shines at the tip and just the sight of it makes your mouth water. 

Moons—you should’ve done this sooner.

With a stuttering inhale, Rex trails his forefinger along your cheek and tucks a stray hair behind your ear. The pads of his fingertips skim lower and lightly pinch your chin between his forefinger and thumb. Your eyes lift to meet his. “You—you sure?”

You answer with a kiss over the dip of his navel, the skin searing hot under your lips. Rex curses and rolls his head back onto his shoulders when your palm slides up the length of his cock and then back down. Your grip is firm and tight as Rex slumps onto the crate, goosebumps rushing up his exposed flesh. Stars, when’s the last time he’s gotten release like this? 

You lean forward and lick a languid line from the velvety skin of his balls all the way up to the tip. Rex’s hips jolt. You purse your lips and suckle at the head, dipping your tongue over the slit then down to trace the ridge of his frenulum all the while your hand rolls up and down his shaft. Rex tangles his fingers into your hair with a hiss. You open your jaw a bit wider and take him down a few inches into the wet heat of your mouth, feeling your lips stretch around his cock. You you drag the flat of your tongue along the underside of his shaft to make the thickness easier to swallow down, but he's still only halfway into your mouth when he hits the back of your throat.

“Fuck—" Rex moans as his hips strain to remain still. “S’good—such a good girl.”

You glance up, eyes devouring the attractive length of his clean shaven throat and the underside of his chin. Rex swallows and let’s out another little sound. You whine softly in return and slip a hand into your pants, pressing your fingertips against your throbbing clit as you start to carefully bob your head up and down. Yeah—your jaw already aches just from holding his cock in in your mouth but fuck it—it’s worth it.   

Rex's chest heaves with exertion as he mindfully rocks his hips up, pushing and rolling his cock deeper into your mouth until his shaft is nearly seated all the way in. Ditching your own pleasure entirely, you swallow around him, forcing down the urge to gag and simply hold him here. Allowing him a moment to just enjoy the soft warmth of your mouth before launching into the main event.  

Rex murmurs your name and strokes his thumb over your cheek. “You’re beautiful—so pretty like—like this..ah—” 

You pointedly hollow your cheeks and suck, his flattery warming your chest with pride. You swallow around him another time, squeeze his shaft, your fist following your mouth as you lift up then back down to the base. You grunt at the abrupt jolt of his hips. There’s no distinctive rhythm you can follow as you pull halfway up and let Rex rock his hips into your mouth—seeking out his pleasure without a coherent thought in sight. Just a cacophony of gasping breaths and rough moans of your name. 

Soon enough he’s twitching in your mouth, his eyes fluttering shut as his head tips back onto his shoulders. The gloved hand sweetly cradling your cheek slips to the nape of your neck, tangling his fingers into you hair to anchor himself. He’s close—quiet gasps and broken curses tumbling out, hips unconsciously rocking into your mouth in search of release.

Rex whimpers your name, his leg jolting as you work your jaw wider and swallow him down, the dark curls tickling your nose once it brushes his groin. “Oh, fuck.” 

You hum around him, delighting in the mumbled praises. Almost there…That’s it. 

He’s dangling on the precipice—on tiny shove away from euphoria—

“Wait—“ Saliva dribbles down your chin when his cock pops out from your swollen lips, throbbing from the unintentional tease. “Maker—shit.” 

If not for the gloves covering his hands, you’re sure they’d be turning white from how tightly he grips the edge of the crate. His eyes are squeezed shut, slightly bent forward as he falls away from the edge of his release. Rex sucks in a steadying breath, amber eyes meeting your confused ones. 

“I don’t—can we—“ Rex’s eyes flit and focus on anything but you as he stutters and works up the courage to ask for what he wants. “Do we have time—“

You rolls your eyes and rest your cheek on his thigh. Silly man. “You wanna fuck me, Rexy?”

“Kriff, yes.”

You smile and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “I don’t think they’ll miss us."

Rex doesn’t complain when you take his hands and yank him onto the grubby floor and over your senatorial robes. He props his back against the crate as you shuck off everything below the waste and clamber into his lap. His hands, warm even through the leather, land over the swell of your hips and wrench you closer until your front presses up against his chest plate. 

The rough prickle of his stubble is, in all sense of the word, addictive. He tilts his head to kiss you, the slick touch of his tongue on your bottom lip adding jet fuel to the fire low in your belly. Rex groans and cups your jaw, holding your mouth open to dance his tongue along the length of yours. You whine and shudder as he purses his lips and lightly sucks on your tongue before you both part. 

Rex drags his teeth over your bottom lip as you both pant for precious air. His dark lashes sweep up his cheeks when he looks at you. This close you bare witness to the dazzling color of his eyes—crystalized pearls of amber over the crackled bark of pine tree in the midmorning sun. Muted gold threaded through the brown like fine lace and the slow shimmer of the sun dappled through water. To think such a man like him is dredged through the bloodied mud of war is despicable.

You blink away the swell of tears prickling at your eyes and kiss him once more. Sighing, you whisper down, mouthing soft nibbles and teasing kisses over his jaw and down his neck. Rex squirms and rock his hips up, your cunt clenching around nothing. You need him.   

“Rex,” you groan. You slide your hand between your bodies and grab at his thick length. Rex gasps into your mouth, long fingers clamping onto your waist in a death grip. “I want you.”

“I’m yours.” 

Your nibble at his earlobe as you grind your hips against his length, the folds of your cunt teasingly out of reach. “Touch me, Captain.” 

Rex tears off his vambraces and gloves, hand wedging between your thighs, touching the very tips of his fingers to your throbbing clit. You whine and clench your jaw—the pleasure is raw—sizzling electricity that crackles with the deadly promises of your pleasure. It’s as if you’ve had the breath knocked out of your lungs the second he bears down a bit more on your clit, drawing tentative circles, each completion sending a shockwave of tightly spooled ecstasy through each and every nerve. You nearly sob as his fingers slip away. 

“So wet already,” Rex moans as you tip your head back when two of his fingers begin circle your dripping cunt. They’re thick and long and perfect. Your hips stutter as your cunt easily accepts his fingers, the heel of his palm slotting perfectly against your pussy to stimulate your clit. 

Maker you’re seeing stars as Rex rocks his hand into you—the bend of his fingers the perfect angle to catch all the right places that make you tremble. He kisses your cheek and moans your name into your ear, all low and gravelly— 

Your body seizes up tight as you soar, plummeting off the edge only to tumble so fast and so hard that tears prick the corner of your eyes. Rex peppers kisses over your cheeks and runs his free hand through your hair, purring praise and adoration as you shudder—your mouth parted in a silent cry as you cum and dissolve into his hands. 

When you suck in a steadying breath and open your eyes, Rex is gazing upon you with starstruck eyes—pure adoration that makes your cheeks flare hotter than the surface of two mini suns. Your teeth catch your bottom lip. You’re not sure you deserve to be looked at like this…

However, you’re impatient and running on stolen seconds. As much as you’d like to just simply stare at him—there’s not enough time. Rex wraps his fingers around the base of his cock and slides the tip of himself through your soaking folds. Each stroke against your still throbbing clit makes you buckle into yourself, but the angle that your knees are propped over his hips means you're stuck here. 

Rex pauses and cups your cheek. His thumb scrapes over your cheekbone. “You want this?”

You place your hand over his and turn your head to mouth a kiss over the lines of his palm. Oh, fuck yeah. Kind of him to ask as if hadn’t just cum over his fingers but—no. “I need you to fuck me, Rex. That’s an order.”

Rex huffs out a low chuckle and bumps the crown of his forehead against yours. “As you wish, Senator.” 

Rex runs the blunt head of his cock through your folds again, slicking himself up with your arousal. You mewl and dig your nails into the hard plastoid as the wide tip of him pushes into your entrance—he shudders as you clench and wiggle. It doesn’t hurt, but he’s in no small. You’ll feel him for days, you’re sure of it as your cunt swallows inch after inch. 

You both groan as he finally bottoms out. His jaw his clenched tight as sweat beads at his blonde hairline—Stars above, he’s a sight, struggling not to loose control the second he’s buried inside of you. Desire tickles up your spine, tugging at the fabrics of your being until all you can focus on his how Rex isn’t moving. You shift your hips in tiny, almost imperceptible motions, and squeeze around him. 

“Damn—“ A ragged moans slices through his words as your gentle rocking morphs into needy jolts. It’s easy to fuck yourself onto his cock like this, but the measly thrusts are meant to tempt him. “Fuck, cyare, you’re tight.” 

You smirk and grab at his sculpted shoulders—it’s the push he needs. Rex snarls your name, cups his hands under the globes of your ass and pulls you off his cock nearly all the way out only to slam back in. There’s no time to adjust before Rex sets a pace, fevered and rabid All pent up energy collecting over the weeks you’ve known each other. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end after being denied for what feels like ages. 

You squeal in surprise as Rex pushes you onto your back and hoists your legs around his hips. Rex buries his nose into the crook of your neck and moans your name like a sweet prayer wrapped in honeycomb. Rex shifts his weight, widening his knees to sink deeper into your cunt—his stubble tickling your throat as his staggered exhales burn hot over your skin. 

You choke out a groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter. Electric heat sears down each vertebrae in your spine, scorching through each and every veins with the catastrophic brilliance of an imploding star. Shit—

“So good t’me—so perfect,” he huffs into your ear. Rex turns his head and steals a kiss. “Feel fuckin’ good stretched around my cock."

You clench around him hard as Rex’s hand sneaks between your bodies and rubs tight, little circles over you swollen clit. There’s barely any build up to your orgasm—just a blinding surge of devastating warmth that sweeps through your body, from your aching center down to your toes. It steals away all the air left in your lungs and leaves your clutching his arm and shuddering for a hold in your own reality—the steady warmth of his body that’s unburdened by armor a much needed anchor for the madness that threatens to drown you. 

His gentle, and pliant kisses morph into little pricks of his teeth over your neck and collar bone as his hips struggle to keep a definitive pattern. Rex’s curses string together and blur into nonsensical noises and loose tongue admittances that are comparable to moving inches from an imploding star.   

“Where can—can I?”

You grab at his head and whine his name. “Anywhere—in me—you can cum in me.”

With a loving caress over back of his neck and a sweet whisper of his name, he reaches release. Rex’s moan is airy as his eyes slam shut and captures your mouth in a sizzling kiss. He’s twitching in your arms as his hips erratically jerk, hot spurts of his release coating your insides and beginning to leak over your robes you lay over. Whatever. 

Rex nips at your skin as the last dregs of pleasure jolt up your spine. Neither of you say a word as Rex’s hips come to a slow. Time trickles through your fingers like sand through an hourglass half empty but instead of rushing to dress, you choose to lie on the ground—two halves of a mess someone’s been meaning to clean up for the better part of a long while. You feel at home here—content as your fingers run up and down the back of his head, a bit irked by the armor still covering his back. You’re terrified of the months to come—but at least you have each other. After all, gardens will bloom and flourish with fresh blooded love and wild mistakes sculpted from passion forever if you believe hard enough…wont they?

[kyouxa]

Diabolik lovers Chaos Lineage: Shu Sakamaki (Story 06+CG)

In terms of the gameplay: The black choices lead up to a bad ending, the white choices lead up to a good ending. Please no reposting onto other sites, ask me before translating this into another language too! I’m an amateur translator, but I hope you do enjoy it anyway!♡

Monologue

The attack on Violet’s mansion was virtually unsuccessful. Because no one was able to take someone's life.

But because of that, I claimed this attack as my own little victory.

Even though it seemed like a fierce battle, Reiji-san and his team were not hurt.

Kino-kun started teasing Shu-san after he saw him being the only one who got injured in the fight.

Place: Scarlet mansion — living room

Kino: My older brother Shu really got injured even if he was only supposed to hide in the shadows.

Fufu, amusing.

Shu: It‘s not like I care, as long as I returned here safely it’s fine.

Yui: (Shu-san, he‘s kinda grumpy)

(It wasn’t even Shu-san‘s fault that he got injured that badly. I was the one who got in his way...)

(At the end we lost. Only because of my actions...)

Shu: Haa... I‘m tired. I‘m going to sleep.

*Shu leaves*

Yui: (No matter how much he acts as if he wouldn’t care, Shu-san eventually really got horribly injured because of me)

(Once again, I have to apologize properly...)

Place: Scarlet mansion — Corridor

Yui: I‘m sorry, I know you‘re tired. But may I enter?

Shu: .....

Yui: (I wonder if he is just ignoring me again... if it’s like that, that kinda hurts my feelings)

(But for now I’m worried about his injuries)

Shu-san, excuse me.

*Yui enters*

Place: Scarlet mansion — Shu‘s bedroom

Shu: .....

Yui: (Oh... he really is sleeping. I guess he was as tired as he told us)

(I wonder why he got so tired all of the sudden to fall asleep that fast...)

(Since nobody was deprived of their own lives, Shu-san was injured as a result ...)

... Shu-san. I‘m sorry that you got injured.

You know... even if you think I‘m Eve, I still want to thank you for protecting me.

Shu: Nn...

Yui: (Did I woke him up just now!?)

Shu: Nn... nn...

*Shu grabs Yui*

Yui: Eh... ? Um, Shu-san? I can’t move if you grab my arm like that.

Kyaa!?

Shu: .....

Yui: (Nh... I was pulled. Is it really okay to lie down and be hugged by him while he is unconsciously?)

Shu: Nn... Nh...

*Shu kisses Yui*

Yui: ..... !?

(He kissed... my forehead!? Is this because he is sleeping!?)

S-Shu-san! Please wake up... !

Shu: Zzz... Zzz...

Yui: (No... he is still sleeping. He’s not showing a single movement)

(It might be too bad to wake him up forcibly because he might be sleeping comfortably)

♡ Roses ♡

Shu’s neck: Nn... it’s tickling...

Shu’s hand: Nh...*sniffs*... ngh... this smell is really nostalgic...

Yui: (Shu-san’s sleeping face... it’s been so long since I’ve seen his face like this)

Ahh...

(Somehow, the way his arm is wrapped around me makes me feel nostalgic... I feel as if I can finally fall asleep safely again)

Shu-san... I was honestly scared of the painful blood sucking and your cold attitude.

It’s harder than anything else for me to get your old memories back to yourself as they used to be.

Actually I only know the gentle Shu-san, so it's frustrating and sad not to be close to him.

Just once again... I want you to call me by my name. Not Eve, the real name I have...

(My vision already starts to get blurry. If I cry right now, I will surely wake Shu-san up)

(I need to close my eyes. For now, I only want to feel Shu-san right besides me—)

*time passed*

Shu: Nn... Haa...

Hn... ? Why is that woman laying right next to me?

Yui: Zzz... Zzz...

Shu: She’s moreover sleeping... Did she come to my room and laid down? Just what should I do with her.

(Hm? I must have turned my arm around her like this without even noticing)

(No way, did she fell asleep while being hugged from me like that?)

Shu: (Although I was unconscious, I wonder why my body moved on its own...)

(Speaking of which, when she was about to be sucked by Reiji in front of my eyes, my body also stopped him without my own permission)

(I don’t understand what’s that supposed to mean...)

Yui: Nn... Nh...

Shu: Haa... I might be thinking too much.

(This woman’s comfort is unexpectedly not as bad as I thought... it somehow feels familiar)

(Her warmth makes me feel nostalgic for some reason...)

(Why am I so satisfied with that kind of feeling... ?)

Yui: Zzz... Zzz...

*Shu blushes*

Shu: (And this sleeping face... it feels like I’ve already seen it so many times before this moment)

Shu: (An unfamiliar sight which feels as if I liked it a lot. Haa... just what is that?)

... Whatever, it’s okay. It’s useless to think about it.

Yui: Nn... Shu-san... I’m sorry...

Shu: Are you still insulting yourself because of my injuries? If you think it’s bad, don’t get up then. Become my pillow for the time being.

This will do it as punishment for you... even better, you will also be hugged from me.

(If we stay a little more like this... we surely will together oversleep the meeting tomorrow—)

*time passed*

Place: Scarlet mansion — living room

Yui: (After all, I fell asleep yesterday. And I didn't even expect Shu-san to stand up before me)

(Shu-san was not in the room when I woke up, but did he know that I was sleeping next to him?)

(I haven’t heard anything from him until now and here I am sitting trying to eat...)

Reiji: After watching yesterday's battle, I decided that Shu was lacking as an escort for Eve.

You will need to elect a new escort for yourself today.

Yui: Huh... !? Don’t tell me that this is because of what happened yesterday... ?

Yuma: It’s not like it matters. Shu was a real pain in ass to begin with. Why don’t you choose me then?

Yui: Even if you say so...

(If Shu-san quits the escort, the time we can spend together will be reduced)

(We may lose our chance to regain his memories if he really quits... but)

Reiji: Is there any problem with my judgment?

Yui: No...

(I can't go against Reiji-san. Just what should I answer... ?)

Shu: ... I will continue the escort even though I did bad last time. Eve was the one who chose me. That’s why I’ll continue to do it until the end.

Yui: ...Eh?

Yuma: Hah?

Shu: We will put this woman into my room instead.

Reiji: What is that nonesense about? Do you think it is okay to decide things without my permission?

Shu: If you want me to continue escorting her, it’s easier to put her in my room. That’s my conclusion.

Yui: Shu-san...

(Does that mean, that he will continue to escort me, and I’ll be able to stay in the same room as he does?)

Kino: Heh, what a troublesome kind of emotional change are you going through? Are you starting to like Eve or sum?

Shu: It’s nothing like that... she just makes a really good pillow for me.

Yui: (... After all, that’s the only reason why...)

Reiji: I see that your power shortages as a problem. This certainly is not a solution to any of our given problems.

...But, regardless of the reason, I appreciate the attitude of you trying to complete your given task.

This is indeed a rare and exceptional effort from you. This time you may be given another chance to prove your powers.

However, I will advice you this only once more. You are only necessary for Eve's escort. It is me who owns Eve and becomes the king.

Shu: ...Whatever you say.

Yui: (We finally got Reiji-san’s permission. That’s good, I can continue to stay on Shu-san’s side)

(Even as a pillow, I‘ll be able to stay by Shu-san‘s side... I’m really happy)

Shu: .....

Yui: (Eh? Shu-san?)

(Just now... why is he looking like this...)

Place: Scarlet mansion — Shu’s bedroom

Yui: Shu-san, I need to thank you.

Shu: For what?

Yui: About the story with your escorting role. I was nervous that I was supposed to choose someone else, but now I’m glad.

Shu: Are you nervous enough to be happy to have me watch over you all the time?

Or would it have been better for me to let anyone else come closer to you? I chose this for myself not for anyone else.

Yui: Nn, I don’t want to betrayed anyone like this, but...

I surely want to be closer to Shu-san than anyone else in this mansion.

Shu: Nh... You really are a strange woman...

No, maybe it‘s me who‘s the strange one.

Yui: Eh?

Shu: If someone would usually sleep besides me, I’d be distracted and not be able to sleep. But I was completely fine with you.

I honestly don't know what that means. I wonder if this is one of Eve’s abilities which is able to calm me down.

But it doesn’t feel like that...

Yui: (..... ? Shu-san?)

Is that something you care and worry about?

Shu: Hah? What do you mean?

Yui: It’s not usual for Shu-san to talk about himself or the worries he cares with him all the time, that’s why I asked...

Shu: ... It just feel as if I already knew you.

Yui: (I know that he won’t believe me even if I told him everything...)

Shu: Well, while talking to you I already feel a strange sensation going through my body. It’s strange...

Also every time I suck your blood, my head starts hurting. It’s not even just my head. I can also see an unfamiliar sight.

Yui: Every time you suck my blood?

Shu: Yes. At first I thought it was because of the power of your blood, but apparently it’s not like that.

It’s a kitchen in a mansion somewhere. There also is a living room with 5 men in there... there also is your sleeping face.

Yui: Eh...

Shu: None of them are obvious. When I try to think about it, my head starts to go dizzy. It’s clearly uncomfortable for me.

That’s why I don't want to think about it, but when I try to, I can’t help but remember this certain scenario.

Yui: (The mansion... the living room... are those memories of the Sakamaki mansion?)

(Could it be that his memories are slowly coming back every time he sucks my blood?)

(In that case, I definitely want him to keep drinking my blood—!)

Shu: ... I assume this sounds like crap. There’s no meaning behind it anyways, it’s probably just nonesense.

*Shu yawns*

Shu: ... Once I talked about it, I got tired again.

Yui: Eh, aren’t we still supposed to work... ?

Shu: That doesn’t matter. Just lend me your body.

*Shu pulls Yui closer*

Yui: Kyaa... Shu-san!? Why are you pulling me so suddenly?

Shu: Hasn’t it been decided? I’m going to sleep on your body like you are my pillow.

Yui: Didn’t you just made that up as an excuse?

Shu: Be quiet. It’s not like you’re uncomfortable with this, right? Your expression definitely tells me otherwise.

Yui: Eh, that is...

(That’s unfair. It’s not like I can refute anything if he’s playing those cards at me)

Shu: Fufu... now you’re the quiet one. You said it yourself already. You want to be beside me no matter what.

Just why? Why do you want me to like you so much?

Yui: (Rather than wanting him to like me, my feelings for him didn’t change at all)

(I just want Shu-san to go back to normal...)

Shu: You can’t answer? Or maybe are you in need for my fangs? Is it because you are in desperate need for pleasure?

Yui: T-T-That’s wrong!

Shu: Fufu... you really are easy to understand.

*Shu hugs Yui closer*

Yui: ..... ! Shu-san...

Shu: If you really want me to start liking you, continue holding me like this for awhile.

As long as I can sleep comfortably on you as my pillow, I don’t mind you admitting your secret desires.

Yui: (Shu-san just hugged me tighter. Shu-san’s scent... all his warmth is transmitted to me)

(I want him to hold me in his arms again. But... I can just dream about this for now)

(The only opportunity to regain his memories seems to be my blood. In that case, I can’t allow him to sleep—)

Shu-san, I have a request before you go to bed. Could you get up, just a little bit?

Shu: Nh... be quiet. Even though I was trying to sleep... you really are annoying.

Haa, by the way... wasn’t the sleeping princess woken up by a kiss?

Yui: Eh... ah, yes. You told me that this was some kind of tradition if I remember.

Shu: You were woken up like this, and don’t even remember that it happened?

What would you do if I also want you to wake me up like this?

Yui: Eh... ? D-Do you mean kissing you?

Shu: Exactly.

Yui: B-But I woke up by myself in the church. No one has woken me up by a kiss.

Shu: Is that so? ... Hm? If nobody did so, then why aren’t you sleeping anymore?

Yui: (Uhh, I don’t really have a reasonable explanation... what should I do... ?)

Choices

1) — Kiss him (white) ♡ ♡ ♡

2) — Reject him (black)

— Kiss him ♡

Yui: (I'm way too embarrassed to kiss him, but if I really need to do this... !)

Shu-san ... could you please cover your eyes?

Shu: No.

Yui: B-But that’s a request.

Shu: Do you think you are in the position to request something?

Yui: I-I’m not.

— Reject him

Yui: I’m sorry... but that’s embarrassing so I can’t...

Shu: Are you pretending to be embarrassed just now? How stupid.

end Choices

Shu: If you can't do it, the story is over. I’ll go back to sleep so don't bother me.

Yui: N-No please wait! Listen!

Wouldn’t you rather suck my blood!?

Shu: ... You... are your thoughts finally going insane?

Yui: No, it’s different. I'm not sure how to explain it myself but...

Anyways, please!

(That’s what should surely return Shu-san’s memories—)

Shu: Hmph... I don't know what your sudden mind change means, but if you really want me to suck your blood you should say it more sexy. Now unbutton your clothes.

Yui: Ehh!?

(Uhh, I can't be helped... it’s just my blouse...)

*Yui undressed herself*

Yui: N-Now... I’m begging you to please suck my blood, Shu-san...

Shu: That was a pretty useless sexual appeal. I maybe expected too much from an idiot like you.

Yui: (Somehow I feel sorry now...)

Shu: But... it really looks as if you’ve completely lost your mind. You usually are the shy type, so I’m not complaining.

This is really special... Nh... Nh ...

Yui: Ah... Nn...

(Blood is coming out. But I don’t... feel pain...)

Shu: Fufu... That face... it tells me that you really are satisfied with what I’m doing.

Having your strong sweet smell all around my room like that... are you really inviting me to take more? ... Nh...

Yui: N-Ngh...

(His gentle bite... it makes me lose myself...)

Nh ... Shu-san...

Shu: If you want more, then please me with your face. You’re able to do that, aren’t you? This time you should show it to me properly.

Yui: Shu-san, please... please take more...

Shu: Just for your current given face I’ll do so. I want you to feel the pleasure I give you... Ahh... Nh...

Yui: (Ah... I’m losing my consciousness... I can’t keep my eyes open anymore...)

(Shu-san, I hope... he was pleased...)

*Yui faints*

Shu: Hm? Did you already pass out? You were the one inviting me though.

*strange noise*

Shu: Kuh... it’s this again...

Kch...

Haa... Haa... What is it now? Why were we laughing together and even called each other's names ...

... Name? Just what did I call this woman after?

... I can't remember... shit...

[spraxinoscope]

Oct. 14: Why I still think Trump has a ~75% chance of winning

Epistemic status: Who even am I? You shouldn’t listen to me. But see the final section for details.

By ‘winning,’ I mean still being president on 1/22/21, and there being no serious actionable plan to get him out.

2500 words of paranoia and bad math after the cut.

Polling factors:

Today, 538 gives Trump a 13% chance of an EC victory, so let’s use that as a starting point. As Nate Silver will tell you every chance he gets, 2016 presidential polls were only off by a few percentage points, and that’s probably still true. But a similar (or even smaller) systematic polling error would be enough to flip some battlegrounds, bumping Trump up to something like 25-30%. Have pollsters managed to correct for the systemic errors of 2016? There’s true meaningful debate around this, but the balance of evidence seems to be that the pollsters never figured out what caused the errors, and so were not able to fix them.

Note that Trump’s decline in the polls is driven by voters who approved of the president until very recently. Consider the sort of person who still had a favorable of opinion of Trump right up until fall 2020. Generally, dips in Trump’s favorability ratings seem to have been due to conservative infighting. Often, when a person stops supporting Trump, it’s because he is being insufficiently racist. These constituents’ loyalty may be wavering, but they are not likely to switch sides.

As a complete asspull hypothesis, I’d guess that some people who tell pollsters they no longer support Trump are trying to pressure him into adopting more hardline policy and will never vote for a Democrat.

I would posit that the 13% number is the absolute hard minimum chance of Trump winning an EC victory, fair and square. Error bars push that number higher. Taking average polling data over time also pushes that number higher, since it’s almost never been this low.

Dysfunction factors:

So, those are the odds for a free and fair election. What are the odds of the election being free and fair? I’m glad you asked! Zero. 

Election integrity has taken major hits recently. Citizens United turned elections into ad campaigns. Shelby County v. Holder made laws against discriminatory election practices unenforceable. The Hatch Act is also not being enforced. The numerous alleged campaign finance law violations brought against the 2016 Trump campaign all amounted to nothing (except jail time, and subsequent pardons, for some functionaries).

Fine, let’s say elections can never be perfectly fair, but even if we grade on a curve and request that elections be as fair as possible, we’re still not doing great, and it’s been getting worse since 2010.

Hey, remember all those jokes from like 2004 onwards about how unreliable and insecure electronic voting machines are? That shit never got fixed. Remember the story from this week about some 90,000 New Yorkers getting the wrong mail-in ballots?

Remember when the Russians got into the Illinois voter database in 2016? The institutions that were supposed to defend against that kind of thing have since been gutted or captured by republicans.

Hey, remember when the Iowa primary was so dysfunctional that they ended the vote count without ever producing a final tally or figuring out what the problems were?

Election integrity groups have been sounding the alarm continuously on this one. Electoral commissions and underfunded, understaffed, and undertrained in use of modern systems. This is a huge problem all by itself, and it gets worse when applied to the next issue.

Malfeasance factors:

In my American public school civics education, I learned that Richard Nixon was a crook who paid some burglars to spy on the democrats, because of how crooked he was. I did not learn that ratfucking is bog-standard procedure, in every election, all over the world. I had to learn that on my own, later. Generally speaking, the election integrity talking heads take the opinion that most countries routinely interfere in the elections of most countries, and the Ds and the Rs have never not been spying on each other. The extraordinary thing about Watergate was that Republican congressmen were weirdly amenable to allowing an investigation into one of their own, a mistake they have never since repeated.

Some amount of ratfucking is to be expected. The nation has weathered this factor before. But, like electoral competence, this may be getting worse over time. State governments have very wide purview when it comes to voting procedure, and Republican states are wasting no time in finding creative new ways to toss out ballots. The most common reason for a mail-in ballot to be rejected is that the signature on the envelope doesn’t match the voter’s signature on file. There is no official criteria or standard practice for how close a signature has to be to count as a match. Signatures are not useful security for anything, anyway.

Georgia’s 2018 election was arguably illegitimate. Irregularities included voting sites closed at the last minute for unclear reasons and fraudulent ballot collectors stealing ballots. Calls for recounts all failed. Other southern states are on thin ice. All the big Texan cities are getting one ballot drop box each, in case you thought Texas would be allowed to turn blue.

Red states already have various laws permitting them to throw out ballots that arrive after the election. Sabotaging the post office or throwing out all uncounted ballots soon after the election, as most sitting Republicans in congress and governors have already gone on record to suggest may be necessary, is a violation of the letter but not the spirit of existing restrictive voting laws.

The big thing, of course, is that the right wing media landscape has been fully saturated with the idea that Democrats will engage in conspiracies to steal the election, and action will need to be taken to thwart these plots. To that end, Republicans at all levels of government, including at the DOJ, have repeatedly signaled willingness to take unprecedented measures to stamp out fraud. These include numerous voter purge plans, new criteria for dismissing ballots, and sending the DHS or other law enforcement agencies to take custody of ballots.

In addition, the MAGAs are organizing ‘poll watcher’ groups to secure urban voting sites. Even if these groups fully obey the law and do not engage in anything that could legally be termed intimidation or harassment, that’s still a lot of leeway. Of course, over the last couple years, we’ve all learned that right wing protesters can sometimes bend or break the law and get away with it, and sometimes receive cooperation from the police. This goes triple for blue cities in red states, which is exactly what we’re worried about.

Malfeasance in general is made easier by the unprecedented levels of geographically-sorted voting blocs. It is trivially easy to tell whether a district will go hard for Trump or hard for Biden. So, whether interference is coming from law enforcement officers, protesters, or semi-sanctioned militias, they will know which lines to intimidate and which boxes to steal.

Russiagate set a clear precedent: It doesn’t matter if it’s blatant, outrageous, or corrupt. Republicans do not want to defect, and right wing media will keep the base in line. Democrats will be outraged, and then fold. There are no remaining nonpartisan referees to appeal to.

Pundits like to imagine that sitting Republicans in congress will not blatantly steal an election for fear that it will lead to them getting voted out of office, to which I would suggest that the obvious answer is the correct one: Voted out how?

Democrats shooting themselves in the goddamn foot factors:

Trump likes to say that the election will be illegitimate if he loses. Mainstream news outlets like to push back against this. The NYT, for instance, has been loudly insistent that the election is totally secure all year.

It’s not, and they’re morons. No experts agree with them on this. Trump fabricating a bunch of fictional threats does not invalidate the numerous actual threats.

Biden, Pelosi, and Schumer would not be anyone’s first pick for the task of contesting an election, but that’s who we got.

Possible October surprises:

Hey, what do you guys think this year’s James Comey is going to be? The only real prediction I have is that something very destabilizing happens in the week before the election, but the particulars could be anything. Some fun possibilities:

DNC hacked again

Federally sanctioned repeat of the 1985 MOVE bombing

Hunter Biden cocaine sex tape

Anything that startles people, destabilizes institutions, and distracts from other issues is a viable possibility.

Scenarios after a contested election:

There are plenty of bluechecks and think tanks who have already gamed this out in detail. You don’t have to take my word for any of this part. The choices are:

There are rival sets of state electors, and Congress decides which ones count. Result: McConnell and Barr play Calvinball until they get the outcome they like, Trump remains in office.

The supreme court decides. Result: Trump remains in office.

The militias decide. Result: Trump remains in office, plus the Handmaid’s Tale happens.

There’s an orange revolution. After months of protracted struggle, Trump is ousted from office. However, in the meantime, ~8 states have seceded and Russia has annexed Alaska. In the ensuing chaos, John McAfee claims the presidency.

Probability estimates:

Trump’s odds of a ‘legitimate’ EC victory are only at 13% as of this moment, but the running average is higher, with occasional spikes above 30%. Polling errors add a little extra. Let’s say 25%.

Trump’s odds of losing the EC vote, but clawing it back through malfeasance until enough Republicans agree that he’s won, are very low in the case of a Biden landslide. But a landslide is unlikely, and as the results are closer, the probability of Republicans declaring themselves winners approach one. Note that, at least from mainstream news coverage, this won’t look like the power grab that many democrats fear. It will look like a lot of confusion and disarray, with an unclear EC count, followed by a cascade of authorities and sources declaring Trump the winner and securing the acceptance from government bodies one at a time. For the most likely election outcomes in which Trump doesn’t win straight up, I’d say a 30% chance Trump remains in office.

The election being a total dysfunctional disaster, with multiple states unable to certify results, is at least 5%. At least! In such a case, I’d give Trump an 80% chance of remaining in office.

In general, I believe that the only way that Biden gets to be president is if everything basically holds together and works like it’s supposed to, and also Trump legitimately loses the EC. There is one way for everything to go right. There are many ways it can go wrong.

The NYT has fixated on the possibility that Trump clearly loses, but refuses to leave office anyway. I’d give this no more than a 1% chance of happening. But I think there’s a major blind spot around the possibility that we have no idea who won, because the whole thing is obfuscated by multiple layers of confusion and malfeasance. What tools to democrats have for investigating malfeasance? What tools do they have for persuading people that they won when the results are in question? What tools to they have for enforcing election laws that they didn’t have in 2017?

I think they have approximately one asset, and it’s a populace that’s willing to rise up in defense of their rights. But the DNC spent the last five-ish years antagonizing and alienating anyone left of Dianne Feinstein, so, the efficacy of a potential national mobilization has been severely compromised.

Any protracted contested election scenario either favors Trump remaining in power, or the eventual balkanization of the US. One reason there are no good scenarios for a contested election is that mainstream media has been so adamant that the election is secure. When the Democrats are trying to contest results, they will be struggling against their own narrative.

Then, I add a 10% chance that a last minute October surprise tips the race to Trump. It happened last time, and Comey wasn’t even trying; now that every government office is staffed with Trump appointees who are trying, they have a decent shot at this.

Summing up these odds, I arrive at Trump having around a 70% chance.

Then, I add another 5%, because I bet there’s things I haven’t thought of, and every year there’s some small chance that the far right will go all in on a race war, and this would be a good opportunity for them.

I will take actual bets on these odds.

My biases:

Numerous.

I grew up in a red community in a red state and was bullied a lot by kids who grew up to be far-right; I have a chip on my shoulder about this that precludes dispassionate analysis.

I believe the RNC has looked at US demographic trends and likely consequences of climate change, and has accepted a certain amount of fascistic will to power as a necessary evil. This is mere supposition on my part.

Despite the fact that I am more or less an asshole stoner burnout weeb, I remain convinced that the editorial staff at the NYT and several other major American journalistic institutions are somehow even dumber than I am. Although this may sound unlikely, this assumption has been invaluable for making predictions about the world.

I am a paranoid person.

My motivations for writing this:

Believe it or not, I’m only doing this to assuage anxiety. I’ve been convinced that Trump’s odds for remaining in office have been significantly higher than polls would suggest since 2018, and it’s maddening to see so few other people agree even though my core assumptions keep not going away.

If anyone read this far: I’m sorry, and I hope this motivates you to vote, if you weren’t going to already. If Trump remains in office, protests against him will benefit from having the mandate of a clear popular vote win, even if not an EC win, so I do believe that even people outside battleground states should vote.

I don’t know about Tumblr, but on Twitter, ‘no-hopers’ are characterized (fairly or not) as being defeatist Bernie bros who think that Trump should win the election to teach the DNC a lesson. I disavow this idea in the strongest possible terms. I think Biden can win and urgently should win. But every time I see someone talking about the Biden presidency as if it were a sure thing, it takes another year off my lifespan.

No matter what happens, we will be fighting racism and corruption for the rest of our lives, because that’s what ethical behavior entails in this world. But a Biden term vs. a second Trump term are in no way equivalent, and things can still get worse.

In conclusion, [that picture of the guy at the folding table with the ‘prove me wrong’ sign]

[out-of-this-dimension]

Rescue with Star Wolf?

9 ALW; GALACTIC CORNERIAN BANK SATELLITE STATION M5, NEAR ZONESS --

The first punch landed on Panther’s chin and he could taste his own blood immediately.  Spitting thick droplets out, the feline looked up at the two thugs that had bound him to the chair.  A defiant smile crossed his bloody muzzle, his rounded ears back against his head.  Though the ropes they had used to tie his hands behind his back cut through his ebony fur and nipped at his skin, he maintained his calm confident demeanor.  He hated the feeling of being bound like this-- it brought back too many bad memories.  

The two interrogators were brutish security guards hired by the Galactic Cornerian Bank.  They were donned in their blue and black uniforms.  At their hips were small blasters and rods that unfurled into proper bats-- used for beating thieves senseless.  Thieves like Panther Caroso.  

“I got someone from the CDF on their way right now to arrest you,” the first interrogator, a spotted dog, sneered down at Panther.  

“And before you think we’re dumb and think you’re just a petty thief… think again!” the other guard, a floppy-eared red setter, declared.  “We know exactly who you are, Panther Caroso… er… or is it Caruso…. Anyways… we know who you are!  And most importantly…”

The setter pulled a small metallic device from his pocket.  He set it on the table in front of Panther and it projected a small hologram of his own mugshot along with his criminal record.  The feline could not suppress a truly delighted smirk.  

“We know you’re with Star Wolf and he probably doesn’t wanna leave any loose ends to muck up his plans,” the setter said haughtily. 

“What were you doing raiding this station?  What were you looking for?” the spotted dog asked Panther, already balling up another fist.  

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Panther remarked and braced himself for the hit that came a few quick moments later. This one landed nearly where the first did and that made it sting a little bit more.

“Does it matter what they were looking for?” the setter asked his companion warily. “We got Panther Caroso right here! Star Wolf is gonna come back for him and when they do, we can nab ‘em too!  And then we’ll be off this hunk of scrap metal.  We won’t have to work for this crappy bank anymore.”

“I mean, I guess you’re right,” the spotted dog shrugged then ungracefully scratched his rump. “I just like punching people.”

The wail of an alarm alerted both dogs and they turned to look at the door behind them.  Red emergency lights were flashing in the outside corridor.  At once, they drew their blasters and began towards the door.  

“Stay there, cat.  You’re gonna be our ticket outta here,” the setter said over his shoulder as they departed the room.  

Panther waited a moment before he wriggled his arms out from around the back of the chair.  He was bound by his wrists but he could tell they had done a poor job of it.  They were not standard military-- they were just poor sods that had been hired to beat up people that had tried to steal from the bank.  He almost felt sorry for them.  They had no idea what they were about to walk into.

He lifted his arms, his double-jointed shoulders and elbows twisting around.  He moved his arms up and over his head, bringing them down into his lap. Wolf had selected him for this mission specifically because of him being double-jointed.  It trivialized his part in the mission and would make escape that much easier.

“Amateurs,” rumbled the feline with a pleased laugh as he looked down at his bound hands.

With a fang, he picked apart the clumsy knot they had tied him with and quickly freed himself of his bonds.  Why they had elected to tie him with rope instead of cuff him properly, he did not understand-- they seemed like they shared a single collective braincell, so maybe that was it.  Not that it would have mattered much… Panther was certain he would have been able to fulfill his part of the mission cuffed or not.  

He tapped the communication device on his left forearm and Wolf’s disgruntled image appeared a second later.

“Hello, Boss,” Panther said with a cheeky grin, his face still bloodstained.

“You’ve looked better,” Wolf commented. “What’s your status?”

“I’m in,” Panther replied with the roll of his shoulders.  “Two security guards went to investigate the alarm.  They left me alone in here.”

“Clearly they’re the cream of the crop,” Wolf retorted. “Leon will take care of them.  I’m sending the blueprints through the comm channel.  I’ll help guide you if you get lost.  Remember-- don’t get spotted near the room or they’ll suspect it’s been tampered with.  And we don’t want that.”

“Right, right,” Panther replied.  He walked towards a nearby countertop, where they had placed his blaster and a few other pieces of gear-- a few barrier shields and some small-radius flash grenades.  “By the way, they want you to come.  They say they’re going to catch you and turn you into the CDF so they can get rewarded.”

“Is that right?” Wolf asked with a quirked brow.  “Well, I suppose everyone has their dreams.  When you’re done, go down the left hall.  Leon should have made a large enough distraction to clear the guards out.”

Panther departed the room with his blaster in hand.  He switched it to stun mode.  This mission was not about leaving a trail of bodies behind-- it was about stealth.  And though Leon was the master in that department, Panther knew he was adequate enough for the mission. 

The red flashing lights overhead cast an eerie ambiance and the screaming of the sirens all around made his fur rise.  He moved at a slow jog, keeping the blueprints pulled up on his communications device.  Wolf had been kind enough to pinpoint the computer room, signifying its location with a red dot.  As the feline moved, he slightly turned the blueprints so that he could see the station from a side glance.  It looked like the computer room was a floor above the one he was on. 

“Elevator comin’ up to your left,” Wolf said, as if reading his mind.

Panther hit the button on the elevator, blaster still in hand.  He pressed himself into the outcrop near the elevator doors as to try to conceal himself from anyone coming down the hall.  Between the pulsing wails of the sirens, there was mostly silence.  He could hear occasionally the sound of footsteps but they seemed to be retreating from him.  

The beep of the elevator doors startled him.  He pointed his blaster at the metal doors as they opened, relieved to see no one inside.  Panther stepped in and punched the correct button.  The doors closed and he was left with his thoughts for a few moments.  

Usually hitting banks was a little too high profile for Star Wolf.  Despite the team being notorious in the Lylat Wars, they had largely begun to keep to themselves.  Certain zones in Meteo had become safe havens for pirates.  The asteroids made it difficult for the Cornerians to navigate-- they would have rather just picked off what ruffians they found rather than dive deep into the thick of the meteor fields.  

But the Galactic Cornerian Bank was said to be moving a massive amount of funds from Corneria to Zoness sometime within the next few weeks.  Usually, Wolf hungered for something a bit less materialistic.  But even space pirates needed money every now and then.  Money to keep the booze flowing back home.  Money to keep getting fuel cells for their ships.  Money to get food.  Panther understood the necessity of their mission.  He understood what it meant to fail.  

“The guards told me they had someone from the CDF on their way,” Panther said to Wolf. 

“I’m sitting outside the station.  Whoever they send won’t make it there,” Wolf replied.

“I thought we weren’t leaving a trail of bodies?” Panther asked coyly.

“Eh.  One won’t raise too much alarm.  Besides, they’ll just think we’re here to get you.  They won’t know what you’ve done.  Not until it’s too late,” Wolf answered.

“Heartless,” Panther smirked.

The elevator stopped and the doors opened.  Panther stood with his blaster at the ready, pausing for a moment to make sure no one was trying to get the jump on him.  He proceeded out the doors after a small pause.  These halls were quieter than the ones below.  He could still hear the sirens blaring but they were muffled here.  Thankfully, there were no guards or personnel on this floor-- or at least what he could see.  He glanced at the dot on his map and moved towards it.  

A blank door at the far end of the hall lay the computer room.  He opened the door, glancing at the security camera nearby.  Those would be trivialized in a moment.  Panther walked to the large computer screen sitting at the far end of the room and sat down in front of it.  The chair he sat in was one with wheels so he rolled over to where the computer tower was.  He popped open the top panel and fished a tiny device out.  It was a metallic rectangle with two wires attached to either side.

Panther glanced at the device then looked down at the mess of cables and wires inside.

“I was never good at this sort of thing,” Panther admitted as he began to delicately place the device within the computer.

“A good time for you to expand your horizons, Panther,” Wolf said snidely.

“You know, this would be much simpler if you were here to do this,” the feline said with his ears back.  He had plugged in half of the device’s wires already.  “My paws are too big for this kind of intricate work.”

“I can’t do everything on this team,” Wolf remarked back.

“Next time, you can have your face pummelled in and I will sit comfy in my Wolfen,” Panther smirked and finished the job.  He slid the panel back on top of the tower then stood up.  “It’s done.  Our CDF friend?” 

“Nothing yet.  Must be taking their time to get here.  Typical Cornerians,” Wolf said.

“And Leon?”

“He’s on Level 1.  Causing some chaos.”

“I’ll join him then.”

Down the elevator and to level 1, Panther found himself immediately greeted with darkness.  The artificial lights had been knocked out.  The occasional emergency light had kicked in, illuminating the hallways eerily.  The sirens kept their obnoxious screams.  Panther walked carefully in the shadows, knowing that his fur did much to help him blend in.  He walked with his blaster in hand.  

Even with the ghastly silent between the siren’s wails, he did not hear anyone coming.  He did not even know someone was behind him until he was suddenly on the ground.  His blaster fell from his paw.  Panther hit the ground face first, bracing himself with his forearms. 

“Ugh,” the feline groaned.

“Oh, what’s this?” a voice sneered from behind.

“Ugh…” Panther rolled over, coming face-to-face with the red setter from before. 

“And where do ya think you’re going?” the setter sneered.  “Don’t you know you’re my ticket outta here?”

He raised his blaster to bash over Panther’s head.  Panther reached for his own gun but it was just a little too far away.  The setter began to swing down but his eyes suddenly bulged out in fear.  He crumpled to the ground moments later, his gun clanging to the floor.  Leon stood behind him, holding his rifle up over his head with his two thin arms.  He lowered it and quickly moved to Panther’s side, offering a hand.  Panther clasped it and Leon helped him to his feet.

“My hero,” Panther smiled at Leon sweetly and the lizard rolled his eyes.

“Please don’t,” the Venomian scowled.

“What’s going on?” Wolf’s voice alerted them both.  

Leon tapped into his communication device, then said, “I’ve rendezvoused with Panther.  We’re on our way out now.”

“Hurry up.  I think the CDF sent more than one bogey and I don’t wanna deal with it,” Wolf commanded.

“Roger that,” Leon replied and the two slipped their way down the dark hall towards the hangar.

[writinginavacuum]

On Sweeter Tides

Terra is the captain of a proud ship full of marauders. It's no surprise that people across the seven seas want to join his crew. How was he to know that one boy would be the start of such a grand adventure?

Written for Terraqua Day 2019

Words:10k Rating: T Read it on AO3!

Terra leaned his weight against the sturdy wooden railing, staring out toward the sunset as it dipped itself into the ocean horizon. His hair, scraggly and the color of damp, fresh earth, blew in the wind that surrounded the ship as he pondered the reflections of light on the water’s surface. How had things gone so wrong so quickly? It felt like just last week that he’d been sitting in some pub at the end of the world, grinning ear from ear as he’d bragged about how great his crew was.

“Best damn crew on the seas,” he’d boasted over a flagon of warm, cool and refreshing against calloused palms. “Nothing could stop us.”

But he’d been wrong, hadn’t he? His damn mouth always served to get him into trouble. First with their newest crew member, and now with this.

Terra scrubbed his face with his hands, pressing his palms into his eyes until bright spots danced against the blackness of his eyelids. It wasn’t even their fault, he reasoned. Terra had let himself get ahead of all his carefully laid plans, full of confidence and warming rum and the laughter of good company. His crew was easy to brag over. He had a crew of warriors, from Lea (who lived for cannonfire like he’d been born with a cannonball as a twin) to Sora, a scrawny boy who wielded a sword with something like insanity in his grip. They even had a great doctor in Even, who had put together men Terra swore wouldn’t survive the night. And there there was Ven, his first mate, a man always eager and ready to take on the world. He climbed rigging like nobody Terra had ever seen, except maybe their new recruit.

---

They’d picked the new guy up a few months ago, in a small seaside port. He was calm as he approached the crew in the inn, one of the only people not giving the raucous group of men side eye as they enjoyed their first day on land in weeks. Terra noticed that while the young man had been trying to appear confident, his body language implied that he didn’t want to be noticed. By them? Or by the others in the bar? Terra wasn’t sure, and the young man had approached before Terra could give it any further thought.

“You looking for any new crew?” the young man asked, settling himself down in an empty chair across from Terra. The captain looked the boy up and down slowly. He noticed the softness of his jawline and the softness of his arms. His hair, the unusual color of a clear sea sky, was cropped unevenly, falling in pieces around his face. He looked like a child, Terra thought, the kind of boy who had never seen a day of hard work.

“Sorry,” Terra said, leaning back in his chair. “Ship’s full.”

The boy looked crestfallen for a moment, the delicacy of his face even more pronounced in his defeat, before the boy gathered himself visibly and sat in the seat across from Terra, much to Terra’s surprise. Usually the people he turned down either threw a fit or sulked away in shame.

“Room  for a drinking partner, at least?” the young boy asked, already waving down one of the ladies from behind the bar. “First round’s on me.”

Terra, never one to turn down a free mug of ale, shrugged. What was the harm in drinking with the boy, after all? It wasn’t like the boy would change Terra’s mind, and Terra had no problems with drinking on another’s coin.

“Alright then,” Terra agreed as he leaned forward again. “Terra. Captain Terra Maduro.” He held his hand out across the table. The boy’s grip was firm.

“Aqua,” he replied. “Aqua Maki.”

Terra resisted the urge to snort at the feminine name. No wonder the boy seemed so desperate for some adventure. “Mum wanted a little lady, aye?”

The boy laughed as he fished for a couple coins from the pouch at his pocket, exchanging it to the woman carrying two mugs of ale. He passed one over to Terra before lifting the other, tilting it toward Terra in a mocking salute. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Terra laughed and downed half his mug. Across from him, Aqua did the same. Terra took in a moment to soak in all the things he enjoyed about being on land- the warm fire in the grate, the sound of people he didn’t know laughing and living their lives around him, the steadiness of the ground. It had been a while since his crew had been to port, and after tonight, it would be a while before they were again. They were scheduled to make a supply run, something that would take a month or two at the least if they didn’t allow themselves any distractions.

They had never made a trip without distractions before. Terra doubted this trip would be the first.

From behind him, someone shouted his name before colliding heavily with his back. Terra jerked forward, nearly choking on his mouthful of ale. A cacophony of noise heralded the entry of his whole crew into the bar, headed by Lea and Sora. Everyone enjoyed port days, taking their chance to eat and drink their fill.

“Who’s this?” the weight on his back asked. Terra recognized the voice immediately.

“Ven, meet Aqua. Aqua, my first mate Ven.”

Ven grinned at the young man and released Terra’s neck, much to Terra’s relief. He rubbed his neck while Ven looked the new boy up and down.

“Is Aqua going to be joining us, then?” Ven asked. Aqua shook his head before Terra could even say anything.

“Nah. Ship’s full, I hear.” Aqua said. Terra ignored the slight bite in his voice. He’d dealt with much worse as captain of a ship than some stranger’s annoyance.

Ven shrugged, clearly already tuning out of the conversation in favor of the bar where flagons of cold ale were being poured. “Nothing to be done then, I suppose.”

Aqua knocked back the last of his ale, then stood with the empty mug in his hand. “You got it. C’mon, I’ll get another round.”

Terra watched with slight confusion as Aqua headed to the bar with his pouch already open. The confusion became surprise when he fished out a couple of gold coins and paid for his entire crew’s drinks. Who was this stranger? Where did he get the coin to spend like this?

Still, he would never be the kind of man to turn down someone else’s generosity, especially not when it involved free booze, so he pushed himself away from the table and went to join his crew. He’d enjoy his last night on shore for a while, even if it killed him.

---

The sun streaming through open portholes was enough to rip Terra, slowly and painfully, from his slumber and into consciousness. Terra grit his teeth, the slow rocking of his ship threatening to send his roiling stomach into rebellion. He swallowed heavily against the bile. Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up.

After a few moments, the immediate nausea began to subside and Terra felt like he could maybe stand up and face the day. Well, maybe not the whole day, but at least face the mess cabin long enough to get some water and maybe some food. After that, he’d retreat to his cabin until he absolutely had to show his face. Captain’s privileges.

He took a moment to look at himself in the small mirror in his room, taking in the slightly sallow look of his cheeks, the stubble showing its face along his jawline. He looked a little bit like death. It’d been a while since he’d drank like that, with no regard to his crew racking up a bill they couldn’t afford to pay. They might be pirates, but Terra tried very hard to avoid injuring innocents in the process. But their guest for the evening, Aqua, seemed to have the kind of deep pockets necessary to support a crew looking to party like they hadn’t seen dry land in months. (Which they hadn’t.) If they ever landed in that tiny port town again, he would have to find the boy and thank him for his kindness to his crew.

Terra rubbed his face, took a deep breath, and opened his cabin door to let the hellish light in. Immediately, the sun tried to stab him in the eyes. Terra frowned, ducking his head and darting half-blind in the direction of the mess cabin, where he hoped Sora had made something that would absorb all of the alcohol threatening to come back up. He was expecting the usual chaos of his crew in the morning, squabbling over the last of whatever Sora had made for breakfast that morning. He had a gift for turning preserved sea faring food into things that were almost edible, especially comparing to eating hardtack for three months in a row.

He wasn’t, however, expecting to find their patron of the evening before sitting in the center of the throng, happily telling stories and enjoying his breakfast with his crew.

Ven, who was sitting next to their new guest, grinned over at Terra and waved him over to join the crew. Terra, after a moment’s pause, elected to take his seat.

“Why the hell is he on my ship?” Terra hissed to Ven as soon as he took a seat. Ven, who was halfway through spooning out a portion of breakfast, look confused.

“Whaddya mean, ‘why is he here’?” Ven responded. “You invited him on.”

Terra frowned and stood up, grabbing Ven by the arm and janking him out of the mess hall. His stomach roared in anger, threatening to allow last night’s drinks a reappearance. When they were safely outside the hall, he turned on Ven.

“I did not invite him on my ship,” Terra said. Ven shook his head, leaning back against the wooden wall and putting his hands behind his head.

“Well, invited is a hard word, I guess. Do you not remember what happened last night?” Ven asked, a mischievous smile on his face. Terra paused, licking his dry lips and trying to remember anything about the night before. He remembered the conversation at the bar, telling Aqua that there was no more room on the ship. He remembered Aqua offering to buy their drinks for wasting his time. He remembered drinking- a lot of it, his whole crew indulging on Aqua’s seemingly endless pockets. But after that…

“Not really, no.”

Ven laughed, pushing himself away from the wall and offering Terra an impish grin. “Well, he challenged you to arm wrestling.”

Terra rolled his eyes. “I don’t want a play by play, Ven. How did he get on my ship?!”

“I’m getting there!” Ven said. “He challenged you to arm wrestling on one condition. If he won, you’d let him come along.”

Terra stared at him for a moment, his brain refusing to catch up to the reality that the scrawny boy sitting in his galley had actually managed to beat any of his crew at anything strength based, let alone him.

“You’re joking.” Terra said flatly. “This is a joke.”

Ven shook his head. “Nope. You were plastered, and he beat you. So stop throwing a fit and go welcome our new crewmate. While you’ve been sleeping,” Ven emphasized the word sleeping like it was a dirty word, “I’ve already given him a tour.”

Terra groaned. He would rather do anything other than invite this new person to his ship, but what choice did he have? If Ven said he’d given his word, then his word he would stand by.

But it didn’t mean he had to like it.

---

Terra had been telling the truth when he’d said his ship had no vacancies, but at the same time, a promise was a promise. Terra might be a pirate captain, but he never went back on a promise he made, and so Aqua became the newest member of his ragtag crew. Much to Terra’s surprise, Aqua fit into his crew rather well. His ability to swing from place to place on the mast was already nearly equal to Ven’s, with a grace Terra didn’t think Ven would ever learn.

Truthfully, everything Aqua did seemed to be with a strange grace, like he was a dancer living his day to day life. Without any definite place to put him, Terra simply assigned him to help out around the ship as necessary. Some days, Aqua worked alongside Even in the medical bay, cleaning up the messes from treating the others. Other days, he practiced his swordplay alongside Riku and Sora, usually losing but occasionally getting enough of an upper hand to disarm one of them before the other would have him by the throat.

“He’s pretty good,” Riku confided in Terra over dinner one evening, about a month and a half after . “I’m not even holding back on him anymore.”

Terra nodded, looking across the room to where Aqua was chatting with Even, taking notes as they talked about something Terra couldn’t hear. Aqua and Even had gotten very close over the last month and a half on the ship, with Aqua spending much of his time in the infirmary helping Even prepare poultices and fresh bandages, learning to deal with minor aches and pains of life on the open seas. He was fitting into Terra's crew just fine.

Finding him a place to sleep had been hard. It wasn't like he could just add room for another hammock somewhere. The ship had a finite amount of space, and Terra couldn't just make more where none existed. Aqua had ended up sleeping in a hammock strung up in the storage room, separate from the rest of the crew. Terra really hadn’t been all that apologetic about it, since he’d tricked his way onto the ship anyway, but Aqua didn’t really seem all that hurt by the separate living quarters.

Terra sighed and rubbed his face, turning back to Riku. “Do you think he could hold his own in a real fight?”

Riku grinned. “They have to catch him first.”

From outside, an alarm sounded out. There was a moment of silence as the dining hall went completely still, listening for any sort of sound, waiting for a silent cue.

The whole ship rocked with an impact, the wooden timbers creaking from the force, and it was like a fire was lit beneath the room. As one, the whole crew leapt from their chairs and benches. Terra vaulted his table, pulling the sword that was ever present at his waist and leading the charge up the stars and onto the main deck.

“We’re being boarded!” Sora called down from his spot on the top of the mast before grabbing a rope and sliding his way down to the deck. “Starboard side- it looks like Xigbar’s ship!”

Terra grit his teeth, adjusting his grip on his sword as he turned toward the side Sora indicated. Sure enough, he watched as another plank landed heavily on the side of the ship. He could see, faintly, that the impact the ship had suffered appeared to be some sort of hook stuck into the side of the ship, keeping his ship trapped against the side of the enemy ship. On the other deck, Xigbar stood amid the chaos of another crew all in black, an eyepatch covering his right eye. As if feeling Terra’s eyes on him, he turned and slowly grinned. Slowly, like the world was moving at half speed, he raised a gun and aimed it at Terra’s ship. His mouth moved as he said something taken by the wind, but the effect was immediate. With a roar, the opposing crew climbed up onto the boards connecting the two vessels and stormed the ship, swords raised toward the sky.

Terra’s crew quickly fell to battle with the opposing side, the deck filled with the sounds of swords clashing and the occasional scream of pain or terror. Terra felt no fear as he cut through the enemy crews toward the place of boarding. His crew would have is back, just like they always did. Terra trusted this crew with his life.

He knew Xigbar had been hunting for him. The pirate had never forgiven Terra for the last time they’d met. Xigbar had only intended to scare the young captain, trying to intimidate him into giving up the valuables that lay in the belly of the ship. He had never meant things to come to blows, not really. But Terra had been young and inexperienced, a first mate promoted after the loss of his own captain, Eraqus, who had treated Terra like his own son. Terra had been grieving him, terrified of losing anybody else in his little family, and when Xigbar brandished his sword at Ven, well…

Terra didn’t remember much else after that moment, but when he came back to himself, the ship was clear and his sword was soaked in blood and viscera that Terra was afraid to examine too closely. His crew had respected him more after that moment, but at what cost?

Terra finally reached the planks, his sword and coat both splattered with blood, and climbed up onto the plank.

“Xigbar!” he bellowed across the gap between the boats. “Showing your face around here again was a bad idea!”

Xigbar smirked, taking a position on the opposite side of the plank. Where Terra took a position of strength, all muscle ready to stroke, Xigbar looked completely at ease. The hair on the back of Terra’s neck prickled. Something was wrong. They might as well have been old friends catching up. “As if.”

Terra paused. “What do you want, Xigbar?” he asked. His fingers twitched on the hilt of his sword. “Here for me to take your other eye?”

A frown crossed Xigbar’s face, and behind it, a shadow of something much darker, far more dangerous. Terra tightened his grip. “You know what they say on the seas, Terra,” he said. “An eye for an eye.”

Terra lifted his sword. “Come take it if you can, then.” Xigbar laughed, a sound with no mirth. Terra fought off a shudder, keeping his eyes on Xigbar.

From behind him, Ven screamed. “Terra!”

Without even thinking, acting solely on his instincts to protect his brother, Terra looked away from Xigbar.

It was just for a second.

He hadn’t even meant to.

“Terra!” Another voice screamed. He heard footsteps.

Something slammed into him. From across the gap, he heard a deafening bang.

Terra hit the ground with a loud, painful thud. A warm weight sat heavy on his chest. His shirt felt wet. His head was spinning.

From around him, there was cheering and the sound of many feet. The other crew was retreating across the planks, chased after by various members of Terra’s crew. The whole world was shivering around him. The weight on his chest really was quite warm. It would be nice to take a nap here. His eyes drifted closed.

Hands on his shoulders. Yelling. “Someone get them to Even!”

His shoulders being shaken. Pounding in his head. The weight vanished amid the sound of feet.

A gentle hand on Terra’s shoulder. His ears were ringing.

“Terra?” Ven said quietly. His shadow shifted, blocked out the light, and the pounding in Terra’s head eased a little. “Terra, are you alright?”

Terra groaned, his head coming up to clutch his head. Was he alright? He took a slow mental check. He could still feel his limbs. Nothing seemed terribly in pain other than his head.

“I think so.”

Ven sighed in relief and gave him a tight hug. Terra slowly pulled him closer. They’d been like brothers their entire lives, training until Captain Eraqus to become true men of the sea. When Eraqus died, Ven had gone a little… off. Grief would always be hard for Ven, a boy made of so much sunlight, but for a while it was like a zombie had come and replaced Terra’s brother. When Ven finally started to reemerge after months, it was like seeing land again. He couldn’t even imagine what would happen to Ven if something happened to him.

Speaking of happening to him…

“Ven,” Terra said as he pulled away from the embrace. He politely pretended that he couldn’t see the tears dripping down Ven’s cheeks. “What happened?”

Ven wiped his eyes and visibly gathered himself, grabbing Terra’s wrist and dragging him toward Even’s office. “Xigbar tried to shoot you.”

“What?!” Terra yelled, dragging Ven to a stop. “Did he miss or something?”

Ven shook his head, yanking against Terra’s arm. “No. Just missed his target.”

Suddenly, everything clicked into place, and then he was the one pulling Ven along as they ran. His head pounded in protest, but Terra ignored it. There were far bigger problems to face right now.

“Who did he hit, Ventus?” Terra asked, already fearing the worst. Would it be Sora laying on that cold wooden table, blue eyes turning gray as the life drained away? Or would it be Vanitas, who always threw himself into danger, blood matting his black hair? Or would it be Lea or Riku or Isa or Roxas or any of the other men who called him captain, who trusted him to lead them safely?

If any of them died, it would be his fault. He might not have pulled the trigger, but it was he who would have their blood on his hands.

“It’s Aqua.”

---

When Even finally allowed Terra to enter the surgery room, the sun had already set over the horizon. They’d anchored as soon as they could, off a tiny deserted island, to give Even the steadiest seas possible. Even had locked himself in his surgery immediately, kicking the men who had carried their crewmate into the hall before they even had a chance to get more than a passing glimpse of the wound. Riku, his eyes somber, confided in Terra that Even had looked panicked as he ushered them all out of the room, already grabbing tools and herbs from jars and boxes lining the surgery walls.

Terra waited, still as a statue, just outside the room. A few of his crew had come at various times to try to tear him away, offering him food or drink or a chance to rest, but Terra refused them all.

Aqua. Why had Aqua done this? He was new to the crew, new to this life, just a child looking for adventure on the open seas. Truth be told, Terra saw a lot of himself in the boy, though they were probably rather close in age. He remembered, faintly, what he had been like when Eraqus had agreed to bring him aboard. He and Ven had both been children, barely old enough to lift a sword. No good in a fight. But Eraqus had taken them on, trained them in the ways of the sea. He’d taught them to read the stars and wield a sword, to fish for their meals and weather a storm. And yet, when Aqua had come to him to ask for the same, he had turned the boy away, treated him as a burden and nothing more.

How was he honoring his master’s memory?

And now here he was, waiting for news of a boy who had risked his very life to save Terra’s, though Terra felt he deserved it not at all.

Terra hated waiting.

He tapped his foot absently against the wooden beams of the floor, exhausted eyes staring without seeing at the surgery door as it slowly opened. Even stood behind it, wet to his elbows in blood. His once-cream linen shirt was stained dark, red already fading to brown in places. Even cleared his throat and Terra leapt up as if he had been burned. Even looked exhausted.

“How is he?” Terra asked, his voice low. Whether it was in reverence of the dead or reverence of the ill, he didn’t know.

Even sighed. “Better come inside and see for yourself.”

Terra was apprehensive about entering the man’s private space- he kept his surgery off limits except in truly dire situations where he had to bring dead men back to life- but acquiesced. Even did not look like he was in the mood for any sort of argument, and he was probably in possession or a fair few very sharp objects. Terra entered.

The room smelled overwhelmingly of blood, sharp and metallic. Beneath that, he could smell the wood fire Even used to clean things that needed to be cleaned, and the smell of herbs and bile. Aqua lay on the table, his shirt cut open to expose-

Terra turned away immediately, a blush rising to cover his face.

Even, even through his exhaustion, managed a slight smile as he closed the door behind them. “You see my problem.”

Terra scrubbed his face, feeling ever so slightly insane. “How did- I mean- he’s a woman?!”

Even shook his head. “Apparently so.” A slight tinge of humor slipped into his voice. “Do I need to cover her up, or can you control yourself, Captain?”

Terra flushed, but shook his head. “I’m a man, not a beast Even. I’ll be fine. How is she then?”

Even moved closer to the body, pulling back the cloth to expose a roughly sewn together patch of skin. “Well, she’s alive. It looks like the bullet didn’t manage to get deep enough to do any permanent damage. I managed to fish out the bullet and sew up the wound.” He sighed, moving to run a bloodstained hand through his hair before stopping himself. “Only time will tell if it was enough.”

Terra groaned. “Why would he- she think this was ever a good idea?” But even as Terra asked, he couldn’t help but remember the way he was as a child, watching the ships come in and out of his little portside home. He had been just the same, waiting for his chance. And when Eraqus had offered, he’d jumped for it with both hands.

Aqua joining his crew hadn’t been an accident. No, something like this would have required planning on his- her part. To buy men’s clothes, to hide her body, to cut her hair short and choppy… Everything she’d done had been for a reason. She found him in that tavern for a reason. She picked him for a reason.

Could he really blame her for chasing her own freedom on the ocean, just as he’d done?

Terra sighed and turned to Even, who seemed to be waiting for a decision of some sort from Terra.

“Don’t tell anyone what we’ve discovered,” Terra said. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing it further. “For all we know, he’s exactly what he claims to be.”

Even nodded, looking over Terra’s shoulder at the body lying on his table. “Understood, Captain.”

Terra looked back one last time, taking in the body lying motionless on the table, the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. This woman had lied to him and his crew for months, pretending to be something she wasn’t, and yet she’d also risked her life for her captain, just like any of them would have.

But damn if she hadn’t made his life way more complicated.

He left, closing the door gently behind him and leaving Even to his work.

---

It took about a week for Aqua to recover enough for her to move around the ship with any sort of freedom. Even had manufactured her a sort of cane for her to use while hobbling around the ship. Most of the crew treated her like a sort of hero, going out of their way to ensure she was taken care of despite her protests. Terra couldn’t help but be proud of his crew as they banded together to take care of one of their own in every way they knew how. And yet, there was a part of Terra that could not forget that they had been lied to, that their whole relationship was built on a false foundation.

Aqua seemed to have no idea that Terra knew. In fact, Terra suspected Even already knew about her secret in the first place, which would explain why Aqua seemed so close with the old doctor. Terra spent most evenings that week weighing his options, debating with himself whether he would confront Aqua over the lie or allow her to continue to live her lie in peace. Both options seemed worth pursuing, with each having its own benefits.

One night, about two weeks after she had been injured, Aqua took the choice out of his hands.

She approached him over dinner, a little shaky without her cane for the first time in a couple of weeks, but steady enough on her feet. She stopped at his table and leaned close enough that Terra could feel her warm breath on his ear.

“Can I talk to you tonight, Terra?” she whispered. Terra wondered how he had never caught on to the lilt in her voice, the distinctly feminine sound in the way she said his name. Or maybe it was just him, hyper aware suddenly that she was a woman so close to him. He shook it off, instead choosing to slowly nod without looking away from his meal of fresh caught fish. Aqua sighed and continued on her way toward her usual table with Even, sitting across from him with only the slightest wince of pain. Even caught Terra’s eyes on their table and raised an eyebrow, forcing Terra to look away.

“You’re blushing,” Ven noted with a wry smile. Terra shook his head, turning toward Ven.

“You’re seeing things,” he responded. He ripped apart the fish on his place with a little more gusto than usual.

That evening, when watch had been set and the ship was quiet, there was a knock on Terra’s cabin door. He was unsurprised to see Aqua waiting outside his door. Silently, he stepped to the side and waved her in. Terra wasn’t the type to be self-conscious of his room- he kept it pretty neat all things considered, and most of the crew understood that when you lived most of your year in a small room on the sea, sometimes things happened- but something about Aqua’s eyes roving the room make him nervous. He’d seen her space. She’d cleaned and organized the storage room over her first month, sorting things in such a way that she had somehow ended up with more room than anyone save Terra and Ven. Her room was immaculate.

Terra swung the door closed behind her, swallowing down the nerves (because why on earth should he be nervous when she was the liar in the room?) and leaning against the wall.

“What did you want to talk about?”

Aqua fidgeted with her shirt. Terra was aware of how small she looked, despite her body showing the signs of months of manual labor. She looked so very different from the day when he’d picked her up by accident in that little port town. Her skin was sun weathered, covered in freckles and redness. Her hair was lightened by the sea breeze to the color of the sky on a clear, cloudless day. Her limbs showed the muscle of a crewman who had adjusted to the hard work of day to day life on a ship. Perhaps most importantly, though, was that when he looked at her, he saw the person who had risked their life to save his. She deserved his patience. She deserved a chance to explain herself.

He took a deep breath and centered himself.

“I wanted you to know the truth.”

Something in him exploded.

“The truth?” He asked, taking a step forward. Aqua swallowed nervously, taking a small step back. “You want to tell me the truth? This should be good. You lied your way onto my ship, and now you think I’m worthy of telling the truth to?” He took another step forward, forcing her to back up further. “You’ve pretended to be something you’re not for months, hiding it every step of your day from everyone you worked with, and now that you’re injured you’ve decided you don’t want to keep secrets. Is that it?!”

By this point, he had her backed into a wall, pressed between his body and the cold wood of the wall behind her. He could feel her breathing, rough from panic, and the way she leaned away from him, trying to shrink away. A small, vindictive part of him hoped she’d start crying. He didn’t know how he was supposed to feel about everything that had happened, about being saved from death by a girl he barely knew, about being lied to for months about the person he was starting to consider a friend. If she’d start crying, maybe he would be able to come to an easy conclusion. But she wasn’t going to start crying. She was going to meet his eyes, waiting for whatever punishment he would dole out to her.

Terra grit his teeth, his hands balling into fists before slamming into the wall on either side of her head. She flinched, just a bit, but stood steady.

“I saved your life,” she said softly, so softly Terra nearly missed it over the sound of the ocean outside. “I’ve never pretended to be anybody other than who I am.”

“You’ve lied!” Terra yelled, his face close to hers. How could she not understand? How did she not get that she had told them a lie, pretended to be a man when she was anything but?

“I never claimed to be a boy,” she said. “You all made that decision on your own. I simply allowed it.”

Terra bit his cheek, trying to swallow back the hurtful words threatening to bubble out. How could she stand like that, tall and proud? How was she not afraid of him?

“I should throw you off my ship at the nearest port for treason.”

Aqua tilted her chin up, the faintest smile of rebellion on her face. “You should. But you won’t.”

Terra slammed his fist into the wall next to his head, causing her to jump. “Not a word to another member of this crew,” he growled. “I won’t have you inciting a riot on my ship. When we pass by your island, you will be returning.”

Aqua’s face fell. Nothing Terra had said so far seemed to affect her, but this… this seemed to do it. “No, please. Terra, I don’t want to go back.”

“Well,” he replied, pushing away from the wall to give her space. “You should have thought of that before you used deception to gain access to my ship.

“I beat you fair and square,” she protested, “and I’ve saved your life!”

“And you clearly intend to hold that over my head forever,” Terra said, “though I don’t remember asking you to do so. My decision is final.” He opened the door to his room, looking back at her. “Your honesty is appreciated. It’s why I don’t throw you off of this ship right now.

Aqua looked at the door and outwards onto the deck and slowly shook her head. For the first time that evening, Terra could see fear in her eyes. “Please, sir,” she said quietly. Her voice wavered when she spoke. “Please don’t send me back.”

Terra eyed her, seeing again the scared boy he had once been when he had begged Eraqus for a space on his ship. When he blinked, though, he was again looking at the woman who had lied to him, tricked him and his crew into giving her a place in their hearts and home.

Was he mad at her betrayal? Or just that he’d been foolish enough to be tricked?

“Get out of my cabin, Aqua.”

Silently, her hands shaking, she walked past him and out into the darkness of the ship. Terra watched her until she vanished below deck toward her bunk before slamming the door with more force than he intended to, listening to the echo of the thud until it was forgotten by his memory. Terra threw himself down onto his bed and stared upward at the ceiling, contemplating just how his life had suddenly gotten so complicated, how he had ever ended up in this position, and resolutely not thinking about how soft and warm her body had been against his, pressed between his heat and the wall.

He wasn’t doing well at any of those things.

Terra hated himself for losing his cool like that, but what other choice had he really had? Who was she to wander into their lives and throw it on its head? Who was she, really, to throw herself in front of a bullet meant for Terra, to make him worry for her, only to let it be known that she wasn’t who she had claimed to be all this time?

Who was she to make him feel like this?

Terra rolled over, burying his face in the feather pillow, and sighed.

Who was she?

---

Terra saw very little of Aqua for the next few weeks. In the light of day, having had some time to calm down, he could see that he’d maybe taken things a little too far. He tried to find Aqua, to apologize for his reaction, but she seemed to be refusing to be found. He asked what felt like the whole ship, but nobody seemed to know where she was. Sora said she was learning cannon care with Lea. Lea claimed she was practicing her swordsmanship- swordswomanship?- with Riku. Riku said he saw her helping Even clean the surgery. Even saw her climbing the mast with Ven to check the rigging. It was like she didn’t exist, like she had vanished off of his boat.

It was, quite honestly, pissing Terra off.

First she had the audacity to save his life, and now he couldn’t even find her to apologise for his reaction?

(Terra refused to think about how a lot of his predicament might have been his fault. It was easier to concentrate on what Aqua had done to contribute to the situation.)

After a few days of fruitless hunting, he decided he needed to tell Ven. The whole crew didn’t need to know- who knew what their reaction might be?- but keeping things from Ven was harder than he’d expected. Ven, his right hand man, his first mate, deserved to know what was happening.

Terra was expecting a lot of things when he told Ven. Freaking out, anger maybe. But laughter was not on Terra’s list.

“Are you done yet?” Terra asked with a bit of annoyance, watching Ven chuckle to himself on Terra’s bed. Ven held up a finger, still laughing for a moment more, before finally calming down.

“I thought you were going to tell me something important, Terra.” Ven said, leaning back on the bed. “The whole crew’s known that for weeks now.”

“They’ve what?!” Terra exclaimed, nearly dropping the mug he was holding. “Who told them?!”

Ven shrugged, looking supremely unconcerned. “They pulled her shirt open to staunch the bleeding. Kind of hard to, well…” Ven blushed slightly, trailing off.

Terra stumbled for a moment mentally, trying to figure out how he should respond to this new information. “Why did nobody tell me?”

“Well,” Ven said, “you kind of have a track record of flying off the handle.”

Terra thought back to pinning Aqua against his cabin wall, yelling in her face, punching the wall behind her, and reluctantly acknowledged that maybe, just maybe the crew had a big of a point. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

Ven shook his head. “It was Aqua’s secret to tell. After she saved your life, we were glad to keep it. She might be a lady, but she risked her life for you, after all.” Terra hated to hear the admiration in Ven’s voice.

“Ven,” Terra said. “I… may have made a mistake.”

“What else is new?”

Terra frowned. “I’m serious.”

Ven smiled. “We know.”

Terra looked at him for a moment ,confused, before it hit him. Everyone telling him that they’d seen Aqua places where she clearly hadn’t been. Which meant…

“Oh,” Terra said.

“Yeah. Oh.”

“I need to apologise, don’t I.”

Ven nodded, laying back with his arms over his head and staring at the ceiling. “I don’t know, Terra. Do you?”

Terra sighed. “Yeah. I do.”

Ven took a moment, staring up at the swaying lantern, before sitting up and looking over to Terra. “I’ll let her know that you’re ready to be reasonable.”

“Why am I not surprised that you had something to do with this?”

“Because you’re smart, Terra,” Ven replied, already halfway out the door. “It’s why you’re our captain.” He paused at the door to grin back at Terra, all sunshine and smiles. “Just try not to mess up this time, okay?”

Terra shook his head, a small smile on his face. “I’ll do my best.”

Ven laughed and vanished out the door. Terra took a seat at his desk and pulled some papers toward him, trying to look busy. He had no idea how long it would take for Ven to find Aqua, let alone convince her to come back to his room.

It took much less time than Terra had expected, honestly, before there was a soft knock on his door.

“Come in,” Terra called.

The door swung open slowly to reveal Aqua, looking defiant. Terra had worked with enough people to see the twinge of nervousness hidden behind her eyes. Still, Aqua held herself tall as she walked in, kicking the door closed behind her.

“Yes, sir?” Aqua asked as she threw herself down into the chair opposite Terra’s. “Here to threaten me with the plank again? Or maybe interested in yelling at me some more?”

Terra sighed, pushing the papers he was working on to the side and leaning across the table. “I’m sorry.”

Aqua’s eyebrows went up. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Terra said, “for yelling at you. You didn’t deserve that.”

Aqua tugged on a loose thread of the chair she was sitting in, looking a little off-balance, like this wasn’t how she expected the conversation to go. “Um…”

Terra stood, moving around the table and kneeling in front of Aqua, bringing them nearly eye level. Aqua looked down at him, her eyes wide and so blue, and Terra was abruptly struck by the realization that she really was rather pretty, in a way. She wasn’t delicate by any means. The ocean had well taken any softness from her body and her face. But her eyes shone like sunlight on a calm ocean. Terra became aware of how dry his mouth was, forcing himself to swallow. Aqua’s eyes darted down before refocusing on his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Terra repeated, his voice low, “for the way that I’ve treated you these last few days. You saved my life. I don’t know what was happening on your island, but I know what it’s like to need to escape your life.” He moved closer, just a little, between her knees until his hands were resting on her clothed thighs. Aqua shivered at his touch, and Terra was uncomfortably aware of the way her leg felt beneath his hands, of the electric current he was imagining between them. It’s just because she’s a woman. There was nothing else to it.

Aqua licked her lips, and Terra wanted to do the same. He took a deep, steadying breath and focused again on her eyes.

“We won’t take you home,” he promised. Aqua inhaled sharply, her eyes lighting up, and Terra was quickly distracted by how beautiful she was when her eyes were full of light.

“You promise?” Aqua whispered.

“Promise,” Terra replied. “And I never go back on my word.”

There was a moment, a heartbeat where they stared at each other, eye to eye, and was she moving closer or was he? He could see the freckles across the bridge of her nose, the flecks of dark ocean blue in her eyes, and Terra thought for one fevered moment that she was going to kiss him before she threw her arms around his neck, hugging him to her chest. Terra panicked, his face pressed into her skin, before he realized she was shaking. He ripped his mind away from how close he was to her and wrapped his arms around her stomach. He wasn’t used to comforting girls, but it really couldn’t be much more different than comforting boys, right? She was still his crew. Just… with a couple of extra needs. He could handle that, right?

Right?

---

Wrong.

It was so much harder to deal with her now that everyone knew she was a she. Or rather, now that everyone was willing to admit that she was a she. Before, when Terra had been forced to look at her as a he, as a crewmate and nothing more, Terra could ignore the little things that unsettled him. He could ignore the curve of her lips when she smiled, or the way her clothing brushed along her curves. He could pretend he didn’t notice her eyes following him, that he wasn’t aware of the way she would challenge him when the others listened blindly.

When she was a boy, he couldn’t want her. Not so much because he had a problem with noticing a boy like that (for he was sure at least a couple of his crewmates saw each other in a similar light) but because he was worried of giving her away. He couldn’t like her as a boy because she wasn’t a boy.

But now? All bets were off.

Now, when she moved so gracefully through her day to day tasks, Terra was free to notice the way her muscles coiled as she pulled herself along the mast’s rigging. He could admire the way her chest shone with sweat over the top of her loose shirt as she lugged cannonballs from one side of the ship to the other under Lea’s ever-watchful eye. Now, when Aqua was allowed to be herself, Terra could look at her and want.

It was killing him.

He had never had anyone on his crew challenge him the way she did. He had grown used to his orders being obeyed without question, without hesitation. Now, though… Aqua was the first to call Terra out on his ideas, to question if he’d thought everything through. (He usually hadn’t.) She loved calling him out. It was infuriating. It was ridiculous.

It was hot.

Every time she did it, stepping up with those icy eyes, his mind flashed back to that night in his cabin, where he’d pinned her against the wall, felt her body pressed against his. Sometimes he felt like he might be burning alive.

One afternoon, about two weeks after they’d let the truth be what it was, their ship landed in port in another nameless town for a shore day. The whole crew loved shore days, taking any chance they could get to stand on solid ground and eat some fresh food. They were all men (and women, now) of the sea, but that didn’t mean they didn’t love a chance to feel some sand between their toes once in a while.

As the crew stormed the shore, cheering and waving their money pouches, calling to each other where they were going, Terra stopped Aqua from chasing after the rest of them. She looked confused, her short hair smoothed back by a bandana, her nose reddened from the sun, and Terra felt his heart constrict a little bit. It’s just because she’s a girl.

“Yes, captain?”

Terra rolled his eyes. “Oh, so now you call me captain. What happened to Terra?”

Aqua smiled, her eyes sparkling just a bit in the sunlight. “Figured I’d better be on my best behavior now that you’re letting us ashore, sir.”

Terra laughed, crossing his arms across his chest. “Watch yourself on shore, Aqua. Pretty girl like you?”

Aqua frowned, just for a moment, like a shadow crossing her face, before her original smile returned. “I think I’ll be fine. Beat you, didn’t I?”

“Ah,” Terra fumbled for a moment, realizing now what his comment might have sounded like. “I- I didn’t mean you couldn’t take care of yourself, I just, uh-”

But Aqua didn’t seem interested in an apology. Instead, she just gently patted his shoulder and strolled down the plank and into the shallows surrounding the little island. Terra watched her go until she was mostly out of sight, then sank down behind the railing of the ship and banged his head against the wood.

“Stupid idiot.”

Of course she would take that poorly. She’d hidden who she was to go sailing on a pirate ship, and the second she was allowed to be herself, Terra was throwing around the idea that she couldn’t handle a measly little port stop? She’d let herself be shot for heaven’s sake.

God, Terra was an idiot.

He sighed, staring at the deck for a moment, before taking a deep breath and heaving himself to his feet. This time he’d apologise to her properly. He wanted her to see that he didn’t think of her just as a pretty girl.

With that in mind, he headed down the gangplank and started the trek into town. How he would apologise to her, he didn’t know, but he’d be damned if he didn’t figure it out.

Except, he realized as he walked the streets of the small market, he had no idea what to get for a pirate lady he might have a not-so-tiny crush on.

He stared aimlessly at a booth of trinkets as the market bustled around him, taking in a tray of little necklaces and wreaths of flowers. What did you get a girl who was also a pirate? He usually got Ven new swords or training books. Sora loved candy- maybe he should buy her some candy? Isa enjoyed books, but Terra didn’t know if Aqua liked to read, or what kind of books she read if she did, so that seemed like a bad idea. Maybe he should just get her some flowers?

He shook his head, turning away from the booth and continuing up the road. No, he was trying to apologise, not court her. What in the world would a bouquet of roses get him, other than slapped?

As Terra was about to give up hope, a small booth set back from the road caught his eye. He paused, almost without thinking, to try to take note of whatever had caught his eye. The woman behind the counter smiled warmly at him, beckoning him closer. Terra, not wanting to seem rude, walked over.

“Good afternoon,” the woman greeted him. She seemed young, in her late twenties, in a loose-fitting pink dress. Flowers were woven throughout her brown hair, dyed blonde in places by the island sun. Terra murmured a greeting back.

“Can I help you find something?” the woman continued, still smiling that soft, warm smile. Terra shrugged.

“Probably not.”

“Well,” she said, “I can at least try? Sometimes all you need is an ear to hear.”

Terra almost said no, thanked her for her time and left, but something about her demeanor seemed to promise that she was genuine. And without thinking, he opened his mouth and let the whole story fall out. About the boy who beat him in an arm wrestling match he couldn’t remember. About his master’s death and how that same boy had saved Terra from the same fate. How the boy turned out to be a girl in disguise. How Terra had hurt her with harsh words and harsher actions. How he just wanted to make it up to her.

The woman listened patiently throughout his whole story, only pausing long enough to wave as a passerby or help somebody look through her inventory. When Terra had finally finished telling her what felt like his life’s story, the sun was beginning to set and the market was winding down, many of the vendors closing up for the day. Terra sighed at the sight of the setting sun. His day ashore was wasted, and his chances to find something to apologise to Aqua with were shrinking by the minute. Still, he noted with surprise, he did feel lighter after having told the stranger his story, like something had been expunged from him.

He attempted to apologise for taking up her time, but the girl just smiled.

“It was my pleasure,” she said as she began to pack up her own shop. “This might sound strange… but you remind me a lot of a boy I once knew.”

“Was he as much of an idiot as I am?” Terra asked. She laughed.

“Sometimes. But, much like you, he had his heart in the right place.” The woman reached under the table and pressed something into Terra’s open palm. “Now, here you go. For your lady friend.”

Terra tried to protest, tried to give her some of the gold in his pouch, but she would have none of it.

“Please,” she said every time he tried, “there are some things you can’t buy with gold. A heart like yours is one of them.”

After trying fruitlessly for a few more minutes to convince the woman to take his cold, Terra finally acquiesced and put the small item in his pocket.

“Thank you,” Terra said. “What’s your name?”

She smiled, handing him a small bouquet of flowers from the top of her stand before closing up the small stand for the night. “Oh. I’m Aerith.”

Terra shook her hand with a small smile. “Terra.”

“Well Terra,” she said as she slung a small bag over her shoulder. “Sounds to me like you have a ship to get back to, and an apology to present.” She waved at him and started down her path toward home. “Good luck!”

“Yeah,” Terra said, looking down at the bouquet of flowers he was holding. “I have a feeling I’ll need it.”

---

Terra was not the first to return to the ship that evening, but he definitely wasn’t the last. After grabbing a book, he settled himself on a thick crate in the storage room, waiting for Aqua to inevitably return to her bunk long enough for him to catch her. His plan was simple: wait for her to return, corner her, apologise, give gifts. Foolproof.

Of course, most foolproof plans aren’t.

Terra waited for an hour. At two, he was starting to get antsy. By three, he had finished his book and was fiddling with some broken netting he had found in a corner. After three and a half hours, he hauled himself off the crate, deciding to give up for the night. He’d just try again tomorrow. He started up the stairs, only to collide with Aqua who seemed to be paying no attention to her own walk down. Terra’s arms went around her without thinking in an attempt to keep them both from falling.

“Terra?” Aqua asked in confusion. “What are you doing in my room?”

“Ah,” Terra said. He was trying very hard to focus on her question. He was also failing. “Well, I was, uh…”

Aqua huffed, pushing at his hands. Terra let go, allowing her to take a step back.

“Well?” she asked.

“I, um, wanted to… apologise to you. For earlier. What I said.”

Aqua stopped, crossing her arms. “Okay?”

Terra fidgeted under her gaze, only to remember the thing in his pocket. “Yeah. I, uh, got you something. To apologise.”

“Really?” Aqua uncrossed her arms and took a step down. They were almost eye level like this. “What is it?”

“Well,” Terra began. “I’m not sure.” Aqua laughed incredulously.

“How do you not know what you bought?”

“I didn’t… buy it exactly.” Terra scratched the back of his neck. He hoped he didn’t look as helplessly clueless as he felt. “It was given to me.”

“Then cough it up,” Aqua said, holding a hand out expectantly. “Let me see the secret apology gift.”

Terra reached into his pocket, pulling out and depositing the small token into her hand. Whatever it was, it was wrapped in cream colored cloth. Aqua ran her fingers over the delicate material, taking in the lace edges, the softness of the silky fabric.

“A handkerchief?”

Terra cleared his throat. “I think you, um, unwrap it.”

Aqua slowly unwrapped the package, and two shimmering stars fell out of the package into her hands with the chiming of metal and glass. There, resting in the palm of her hands, were two stars: one blue like the oceans, the other red like a sunset. Between the two stars was a small piece of paper.

“What’s this?” Aqua asked, holding up the blue star. The candlelight in the room cast soft indigo stars on the wooden walls. Terra gently plucked the piece of paper from on top of the second star. When he flipped it over, he found delicate, curly handwriting.

“Something’s written here,” Terra said. Aqua lowered the small star, moving to his side so she could read over his shoulder.

To whomever receives this,

These small charms are called “wayfinders.” Where we come from, they’re given as a promise between people. They represent an unbreakable connection, the kind that is written in the stars. As long as you and the people you care about carry them, nothing will ever be able to tear you apart. Zack and I made these years ago, when we were young and in love. Now, we don’t need them anymore, so I wanted to pass them along to you.

I hope that they can do for you what they couldn’t do for us.

All my love,

Aerith.

Terra finished reading the note. From behind him, Aqua made a quiet sound that Terra couldn’t place. He turned to look at her, only to see that her eyes were shiny. She was staring down at the wayfinder in her hand.

“An unbreakable connection…” she whispered.

Terra reached out and gently placed his hand over hers, pressing the orange star between their palms.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I’m sorry I insinuated that you couldn’t take care of yourself.” He pulled her closer, gently, giving her plenty of a chance to get away from him. “I’m sorry I’m no good at hearing what you have to say sometimes.” Aqua was looking up at him now, her eyelashes shiny in the candlelight, and Terra knew he was about to do something that they both might regret come the daylight, but here in the dimness of the supply room, he didn’t think he could stop himself. He didn’t think he wanted to.

“But I’m trying,” he said. “I’ve never had another person challenge me before, not like you do. I’ve never had to deal with someone so beautiful and capable at the same time.” He could see Aqua’s cheeks flush even in the low light. He hoped that was a good sign. His arms tightened around her waist as her hand slowly came up to rest at his shoulders, her fingertips tickling along the nape of his neck in a way that made his whole body feel warm.

“I’d like to keep trying,” he whispered. He could feel her breath on his lips. Her eyes were half closed. “If you’ll let me.”

There was a moment of silence. Then two. Three moments that felt like an eternity waiting there in that half-lit room, but Terra was going to let her make that last tiny step. He had crossed an ocean to reach her here. She could move the last few inches.

She sighed, soft and low, and brushed her lips against his. Her hands twined gently into the loose hairs at the base of his neck, pulling him down the last half an inch to press her lips fully against him with a soft little sound that might have been a moan, and Terra thought his whole body might go to flames as he tightened his hands on her hips and crushed her body to his.

They only kissed for a few moments, there in the darkened stairwell, surrounded by the sounds of the ocean and creaking wood, but for Terra it felt like a small eternity, hidden there in the heart of the ship with the stars pressed between their palms.

He could spend the rest of his life just like this.

When she pulled away, Terra missed her immediately. He fought off the urge to pull her back to his chest, to tilt her head back and kiss her until she was dizzy, and instead let her go. There was a small bit of him that was proud of the way she swayed on the step as he moved her hands down to her hips to steady them, his orange star still firmly in his grasp.

Aqua licked her lips, a little starstruck. Terra carefully stepped up until he was standing even with her, enjoying how small she felt in his arms and how much he knew that should would kick his ass for even thinking that.

“Not to be forward,” Terra murmured once Aqua seemed to have recovered, “but if you’d like to stay in a real bed for the evening… I could probably make space for two.”

Aqua swallowed. Terra wondered if she could see what he was thinking in his eyes. He hoped she did. He hoped she knew what he was offering. He hoped she said yes.

After a moment, her shock faded, only to be replaced by a wry smile Terra knew too well.

“Well, captain,” she said, already moving to grab his wrist. WIth a gentle tug, she started leading the way upstairs. “Who am I to say no?

[longsightmyth]

Myth Reads the Naming, Chapter 21

PELLINOR

The chapter is called Council of Friends and I for one could use some more friendship is magic stuff in my life, bring it on.

Maerad has a nightmare and a voice speaks in something that is almost the Speech but fucked up. It says, “I am again, but none shall find my dwelling, for I live in every human heart.”

I just wanted friendship, book. You promised me friendship.

She wakes up and reassures herself, and then Hem knocks on her door having also had nightmares. They huddle together and fall back to sleep.

Maerad wakes up to a beautiful morning and Hem, eating bread in a corner. He’s been waiting for her to wake up. She asks how Cadvan is and Hem doesn’t seem to care much (which, fair) but says he’s probably still sleeping and Maerad should hurry up because there is food (I appreciate a lot about this interaction. If I forget to mention it in the comparison please bug me so I can talk about it in a reblog or something). Maerad kicks him out to get dressed and then they walk down to get lunch together.

When they get to the sitting room, Cadvan is awake and chatting with Saliman. Cadvan is the worse for wear still but he’s talking and awake and teasing Maerad a little bit, and Maerad almost cries with how happy she is that he’s alive, black eye and stitched up face cuts and all. He assures her when she asks that he feels great and sends her off to the food.

Appetite sated (Hem comes with her for seconds) the siblings return to Cadvan and Saliman, who are discussing Saliman’s journey. Turns out Saliman was attacked by three hulls and killed them, but not before they killed his horse. He’s pretty sad about it and so am I:  horse death is sad. The horses are just doing their best okay.

Anyway, Nelac comes in while Maerad is looking out at the gardens and says that most of his flowers survived the storm. Maerad immediately likes him, not least because he fixed up Cadvan and reminds her of Cadvan.

Hem continues to eat as the adult bards convene and catch each other up on everything, and when they get to the part about the Kulag Cadvan admits he was in a hurry and not as careful as he should have been with magic or travel. He credits Maerad with getting them all out alive.

“I wondered…,” said Maerad, and then stopped.

“What, O my Deliverer?” said Cadvan.

Maerad blushed again at his teasing. “I wondered if the Landrost had hurt you, and that was why…” she faltered and stopped again.

“The Landrost did indeed hurt me,” said Cadvan. “And I was less in my power than I could be. But that is no excuse for rushed decisions and the mistakes that come with them. I judge myself at fault, and so I am; and it is a severe judgment, Maerad, because things very nearly were otherwise, and the result would have been terrible for many more than us.”

Maerad saw for an instant an implacable harshness in Cadvan’s face, and she shivered; she thought she would not like to be judged by Cadvan, had she done any real wrong.

They continue to catch up, and Nelac remembers hearing about the Treesong somewhere but he’ll have to look for it again, but Saliman Knows What’s Up and sings a verse from the poem at the beginning of chapter 17, which I will transcribe here so nobody has to search the hellscape that is my tumblr tags:

Grows a Lily on the Briar

Grows a Briar on the Wave

Triple-tongued its voice of Fire

Edil-Amarandh with save

True and false the cunning Flame

Burning in the darkest Night

False and true the secret Name

Quickened in the womb of Light

Where the Briar on the Foam?

Doth the Lily stemless stand?

Who will bring the Singing home?

Where the Harp? And whose the Hand?

Nelac is like ‘lol it almost sounds like you’re saying Maerad, who can speak common, Elidhu, and the Speech, is the Foretold’

Cadvan’s ACTUAL (specified as distracted and absent) RESPONSE: “Yes, yes, of course I am.”

Maybe warn a guy before you drop prophetic bombs in his lap, Cadvan.

Nelac thinks about it a minute and sorta soul searches Maerad with eye contact is like ‘okay fine you may have a point’. Also the Treesong is a super ancient song, he remembers.

Nelac ALSO wants to scry Hem. Hem is not having it rn and runs into the garde. Maerad chastises Nelac with all the vehemence of a sibling vs outsiders and heads after her brother. After assuring Hem that SHE believes him, obviously, and that Cadvan does, he agrees to come back inside, where Nelac straight up bribes him with food to be scried later. Hem is like ‘well if there’s FOOD’ and agrees, which, fair.

Further, Nelac says they have to figure out where Hem can go to bard school because Norloch is being Particularly Racist at the moment and Hem, unlike Maerad, looks very Pilanel. Cadvan says irritably that Hem would like other schools better anyway, fuck Norloch (okay not in quite those words but it’s close).

Saliman: hey no worries I’ll take the kid home with me where racist dickheads aren’t in charge. Sound good, Hem?

Hem: Boy does it!

Section paraphrased for clarity.

Also, Nelac adds, y’all haven’t been here in a while so let me tell you what else Enkir has fucked up: no more lady bards can train at Norloch.

The fuck, everyone in the room basically mouths in unison.

Nelac: so the flaw in our system is, if all of our elected officials are old white rich white dudes with The Right Families then it turns out they elect an old rich white dude with The Right Family as leader, which means even the relatively benevolent old rich white dudes get outvoted when it comes to civil rights and not destroying the world because these guys have no concept of doing anything for other people even in the name of self interest.

Not that we know anything about that in the States or anything.

Everybody agrees that a council must be called regarding world saving because they still labor under the delusion that old rich white dudes with The Right Families in power give a shit what happens to the world if it doesn’t affect them in the next five minutes. The poor saps.

Cadvan shows Maerad around Norloch and assures her once again that even if she isn’t the foretold it’s no biggie, he’ll take her to a good bard school.

“Would you stay there?” she asked, knowing the answer already.

He glanced at her quickly, his face unreadable. “For a time, until you were settled in,” he said.

When they get back, Hem wants Maerad there while he’s scried. Nelac says it’s unusual, but so is scrying a child so why not. There isn’t much to see since we aren’t in Hem’s PoV, but Nelac confirms that Hem is Maerad’s brother and everybody rejoices. Maerad offers to get them something to drink, does so, and leaves, feeling like she intruded.

At dinner, which Hem actually skips, they make a game plan for presenting Maerad-as-The-Foretold to the council. Nelac is going to do it alone for political reasons. That’s the end of the chapter.

THRONE OF GLASS

Three chapters of ToG is a fitting punishment for taking so long I guess. 46,47,48.

Dorian is hunting through the woods to ‘let the freezing air rush through him’  and burn off steam regarding Celaena, who apparently watches him like a cat watching a mouse, which is different from every single other woman ever, who otherwise look at him adoringly.

Dorian, I would think Kaltain fits that description. I’m just saying.

Apparently Celaena makes him want to be a better king or whatever by watching him and he’ll never be happy with any other woman now that he’s kissed her and he’s worried about her in the duel. Sure.

CELAENA’S POV.

She’s thinking about the duel, worries that Cain might be better because he has stamina (I mean this is a valid concern: Celaena can’t seem to do any sort of strenuous physical activity without throwing up, her stamina IS crap) and then that she might have to obey the King of Adarlan if she’s his Champion.

I’m not sure what you thought you were signing up for, Celaena?

Then she decides she wants to stay in the castle because Hot Dudes, I guess.

NEXT CHAPTER.

Kaltain drugs Celaena’s goblet(?) in the outside duel.

Swap to Celaena’s PoV, where she complains about the cold and thinks that she doesn’t know why they have to have the duels outside. Me neither, Celaena. Me neither.

She recognizes a couple of council members who hired her in the past, and then Nehemia shows up. For reasons?

Anyway, the king makes a speech, the duels start, Cain wins his. Celaena thinks that the other guys hadn’t even lasted three minutes, which, I mean. People generally greatly overestimate how long fights take, especially fights that aren’t specifically hemmed in for competition. Three minutes is a long time to fight one on one for your life?

Oh wait they aren’t fighting to the death. That would be too men for the demon infested king? I don’t know.

Chaol offers Celaena his sword to fight with, and Nehemia offers her Nehemia’s staff instead.

“If I may,” Nehemia said in Eyllwe, “I’d like to offer this to you instead.” The princess held out her beautifully carved iron-tipped staff. Celaena glanced between Chaol’s sword and her friend’s weapon. The sword, obviously, was the wiser choice—and for Chaol to offer his own weapon made her feel strangely lightheaded—but the staff…

Nehemia leaned in to whisper in Celaena’s ear. “Let it be with an Eyllwe weapon that you take them down.” Her voice hitched. “Let wood from the forests of Eyllwe defeat steel from Adarlan. Let the King’s Champion be someone who understands how the innocents suffer.”

So Celaena chooses the staff, which is actually a GREAT weapon vs a sword assuming you know how to use it for a myriad of reasons? Why would a sword be a wiser choice? Why is that obvious? Especially if it’s ‘iron-tipped’ by which I think she means capped, but whatever. We already knew very little research went into this, I’m lucky Celaena isn’t using that soap and hairpin thing.

She’s going to fight Grave. Don’t worry about it, we’ll get an explanation about him in the second book when he suddenly becomes relevant again.

Chaol squeezed her hand, his skin warm in the frigid air. “Give him hell,” he said. Grave entered the ring and drew his sword.

Pulling her hand from Chaol’s, Celaena straightened her spine as she stepped into the ring. She quickly bowed to the king, then to her opponent.

She met Grave’s stare and smiled as she bent her knees, holding the staff in two hands.

You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, little man.

NEXT CHAPTER.

Grave’s first move is to try to break her staff. I. I’m just. Whatever at this point.

His sword gets stuck in her staff when he hits, and she punches him in the nose. He gets angry and charges, “aiming a direct blow to her heart.” She knocks his legs out from underneath him and puts the staff to his throat, which ends the fight I guess, though he doesn’t yield and isn’t injured aside from a broken nose.

She brought her mouth close to his ear. “My name is Celaena Sardothien,” she whispered. “But it makes no difference if my name’s Celaena or Lillian or Bitch, because I’d still beat you, no matter what you call me.” She smiled at him as she stood. He just stared up at her, his bloody nose leaking down the side of his cheek. She took the handkerchief from her pocket and dropped it on his chest. “You can keep that,” she said before she walked off the veranda.

She intercepted Chaol as soon as she crossed the line of chalk. “How long did that take?” she asked. She found Nehemia beaming at her, and Celaena lifted her staff a little in salute.

“Two minutes.”

She grinned at the captain. She was hardly winded. “Better than Cain’s time.”

How slowly are these people moving? Why are we counting time? What is HAPPENING.

Anyway they have a toast.

“Out of good faith, and honor to the Great Goddess,” Kaltain said in a dramatic voice. Celaena wanted to punch her. “May it be your offering to the Mother who bore us all. Drink, and let Her bless you, and replenish your strength.”

I want that all noted for the record on the religion front.

Celaena is thrown directly into fighting Cain without any more of a rest and does not realize she’s been drugged.

The conqueror of Erilea raised his hands.

“Begin!” he roared, and Celaena shook her head, trying to clear her blurry vision. She steadied herself, wielding the staff like a sword as Cain began circling. Nausea flashed through her as his muscles flexed. For some reason, the world was still hazy. She clenched her teeth, blinking. She’d use his strength against him.

Cain charged faster than she anticipated. She caught his sword on the broad side with the staff, avoiding the sharp edges, and leapt back as she heard the wood groan.

He struck so quickly that she had to concede to the edge of his blade. It sank deep into the staff. Her arms ached from the impact. Before she could recover, Cain yanked his sword from her weapon and surged toward her. She could only bound back, deflecting the blow with the iron tip of the staff.

Given that Celaena is a, an assassin, b, just had a refresher course on poisons, and c, has been poisoned like this at least once before in the prequel novellas, I don’t know what to tell anybody here. Finally she gets it when she hears Kaltain laugh.

She had difficulty holding the staff. Cain came at her, and she had no choice but to meet his blows, barely having the strength to raise the weapon each time. How much bloodbane had they given her? The staff cracked, splintered, and groaned.

Did Nehemia give her a wimpy-ass staff or does Celaena just not know how to use it to deflect rather than just take the full force of a blade? His sword sinks into it, it splinters and cracks? Y’all. No.

She had to end this now, before the hallucinations started. She knew they’d be powerful: seers had once used bloodbane as a drug to view spirits from other worlds. Celaena shot forward with a sweep of the staff. Wood slammed into steel.

The staff snapped in two.

The iron-tipped head soared to the other side of the veranda, leaving Celaena with a piece of useless wood.

Y’all. Y’ALL. You don’t even know how much I’m despairing right now.

Anyway, we go through Dorian and Chaol’s PoVs in quick succession to show that they’re worried about her and are probably in love, because sure, that’s what’s important right now, why not.

Celaena starts seeing creatures from another world as Cain keeps beating her up and Chaol keeps telling her to get up. Apparently the eye of Elena actually was protecting her, because…

Cain reached for her throat, and she flung herself backward. All that he managed to grab was her amulet. With a resounding snap, the Eye of Elena ripped from her neck.

The sunlight disappeared, the bloodbane seizing control of her mind again, and Celaena found herself before an army of the dead. The shadowy figure that was Cain raised his arm, dropping the amulet upon the ground.

They came for her.

That’s the end of the chapter. Thank goodness.

COMPARISON

Say it with me: I despair.

These chapters are pretty different from each other, but I said I wanted to talk about Hem and food and I do.

Both Hem and Maerad have been deprived all their lives, and while Maerad is slightly less preoccupied with filling her stomach than Hem, she also does not in my memory refuse food when it is offered, and only ever delights in the fact that she has it. Hem, obviously, is a little more fixated, but Maerad usually got ENOUGH to eat by virtue of her musical talent and value and the whole superstition thing. Hem rarely did.

Celaena turns her nose up at salmon and complains when chicken is a little bit dry. It’s just not behavior I would expect from someone starved in a salt mine for a year.

Pellinor’s mythology and religion and society remains consistent. ToG’s still rolling with the one goddess lots of little gods thing for now.

I’m just glad that Celaena used an actual weapon (poorly) and didn’t try to get creative. God knows what she would have done with a blade of grass or something. Why are we timing our fights. How was Chaol watching the clock closely enough to know that AND watching the fight. This could all have been solved with some research.

STATS

Pages: 23

Fragments: 36

Em-Dashes: 50

Ellipses: 14

Pages: 22

Fragments: 6

Em-Dashes: 2

Ellipses: 13

[shireness-says]

Merry Christmas to All

Summary:  Christmas has become An Event in the Swan-Jones household. ~2.2K. Rated G. Also on AO3.

A/N: Here, have another wildly unseasonal piece, transferred from AO3 in honor of the Fandom Crescendo! Pretty much no plot - just a lot of fluffy family feels. At Christmas. What more could you want? Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

“Psst.”

The little whisper isn’t really a shock. Over the past couple years, Killian has grown very accustomed to the noise. In reality, he’s been only dozing for perhaps the past twenty minutes, enjoying a few more minutes in the sole company of his lovely wife before the chaos the day will undoubtedly bring. However, his morning visitor doesn’t need to know that he would have been up in the next half hour, regardless. Half the fun – for both of them – is pretending to still be asleep.

“Psst. Papa. Papa, wake up.”

Even after over four and a half years, the title still brings a smile to his face, and he can’t help but turn his head to see blue eyes and bouncing energy.

It had been a bit of a wait to be blessed with their own child, but Amelia Alice Jones is worth every moment. She’s a happy, cheerful child, curious about absolutely everything, with his eyes and hair in a red-brown shade Killian thought only existed in storybooks. In short, she’s perfect.

Emma’s still sleeping – it had been a bit of a long night in the Swan-Jones household – but thankfully, Amelia has the good common sense to whisper. Brilliant little lass. “Papa, you’ve got to get up, it’s Christmas!”

As if he could forget.

Christmas has been a bit of an event ever since he and Emma got married. Things had properly settled down in Storybrooke not long after their nuptials – the occasional disturbance at most, no more of this ‘villian of the week’ nonsense – and Christmas had been one of the first holidays their little family had cause to celebrate. Emma and Henry had gone all out to introduce him to the holiday, with peppermint everything and eggnog and weeks of Christmas movie marathons, a fire roaring in the fireplace and a beautifully decorated tree in the corner. Christmas morning, Henry and Emma had teamed up to jump on him, screeching about Christmas, so his wakeup call this morning is sedate in comparison. All the same, he treasures the memories of that first holiday.

Subsequent holidays had been somewhat tamer – always with a family lunch at the Nolan’s farmhouse, some years spending the morning with Henry, some years not. After Henry had embarked on his quest to find his own story, holidays were somewhat sadder, Emma (okay, Killian too) nostalgic for the afternoons curled up on the couch with Henry, watching the snow fall. Their ever-unsuccessful efforts to start their own family only added to the vague melancholy, especially as Emma’s parents continued to reproduce like rabbits – Emma now the proud older sister to four siblings. Thankfully, by the time Regina joined Henry, they were finally expecting a little one of their own, the excitement and preparations somewhat tempering any sorrow Emma might have felt about losing her friend and confidant. Regina and Emma may have had a rough start, but the two women not only reached an understanding, but developed a close friendship over the years.

Christmas may have always been special, but everything changes when Amelia arrives. She’s a mere seven months old that first Christmas, not nearly old enough to remember anything, but Killian and Emma act like a pair of fools, buying her far more toys than any infant more interested in the paper ever needs. Last year was the first Christmas they knew she might actually remember, and so they had gone all out all over again. Hopefully, Amelia will have lovely memories of making cookies and ice skating and opening presents with Mama and Papa that will last her for years.

Transported back to the present by an insistent tug on his sleeve, he flashes a grin at his daughter and swings his legs out of bed, careful not to wake Emma. Resting his stump on Amelia’s back, he motions for her to keep quiet as they make their way out into the hallway and shut the door again.

“Let’s let Mama sleep a bit longer, okay darling?”

She nods, very serious. Oh, his precious little lass.

“Shall we make her some breakfast for when she wakes up?”

Well, that gets her attention, as Amelia scampers for the stairs in an auburn blur of flying curls, making him chuckle.

He’ll meet her in the kitchen soon enough – he’s got another stop to make first.

———

Killian practically inches open the door to the small, green corner room before noticing its inhabitant is already awake, if still quiet.

After so much struggle to conceive Amelia, Killian and Emma had assumed their daughter would be the only child they’d raise from birth, the only sibling Henry would have. But four and a half years and a very careless Valentine’s Day later, he and Emma became parents again – this time to a little boy, their little Dash. Well, Dashiell. Dashiell Liam. A tiny, precious bundle now a full nine weeks old.

It’s been a little bit of an adjustment period with Dash, in the best of ways. Amelia had been a whirlwind since the day she was born – loud and determined to be the center of attention, and Gods help the man or woman who didn’t grant her their full and prompt attention. Dash, in contrast, is a quieter little lad – Amelia’s piercing wails traded for his less noisy whimpers, like he’s set on being polite or some such idea. Of course, with the full practice of a father to now two young children, Killian wakes to any noise from the baby monitor anyhow, as does Emma. He’d forgotten, truly, how tricky sleeping with a newborn is, now that Amelia (mostly) sleeps through the night, but now he’s up again every few hours because Dash is hungry or needs a change or just wants a little company.

Right now, though, Dash seems perfectly happy just to pedal his arms and legs in his seasonal, candy striped onesie, distracted by the colorful mobile above his bassinet. Soon enough, though, as Killian bends over the crib to scoop his little lad up, he’s treated to a genuine smile from Dash as he sees his Papa. The smiles only started last week – an early Christmas gift, Emma had told Killian – and Killian is still reveling in every toothless grin.

“Hello, laddie, are you ready for Christmas?”

Dash just continues to smile. He’ll take that as a yes.

“Well I think your big sister is downstairs, ready to make Mama a proper feast. Shall we go see her?”

He gets a happy sounding gurgle and grab for his nose in response. Another yes, surely.

“Alright, let’s go see sissy.”

Sure enough, Amelia has pulled out half the refrigerator to cook. Those frozen biscuits she likes so much, bacon, a nearly empty bag of hash browns (he thinks there’s another in the fridge – otherwise he may be dealing with a very disappointed pre-schooler), the box of frozen waffles, a can of cinnamon rolls… the eggs are still in the fridge, but Killian suspects that’s only because his daughter still couldn’t reach them, even with her little kitchen stool. He chuckles at her haul, before quickly moving in to limit her picks.

“I know you’re excited, little love, but we can’t eat all of this. Pick only a few things, please.”

She settles for hash browns, biscuits, and bacon, happily putting the rest back into the fridge as Killian settles Dash into the baby swing he’s only just grown into.

By the time Emma sleepily stumbles down the stairs, yawning all the while, breakfast is almost ready – the bacon already out of the microwave, the hash browns just flipped over, and the biscuits coming out of the oven in the next few minutes. She presses a quick kiss to his lips as Amelia barrels over, shrieking at the top of her lungs, “Merry Christmas, Mama!”

“Merry Christmas, Duckling!” Emma cheers back, before leaning over to whisper in his ear. “Merry Christmas, baby.”

He barely has a chance to kiss her again before she’s moving to the swing, where Dash has perked up again at hearing his mother’s voice. Killian is well aware that this may be their last relatively quiet moment of the day before chaos descends, but he almost doesn’t care. Christmas is always an event, but this year will be particularly special, since it’s the first Henry – and his family – will spend with them since his return from his time cursed in Washington.

Emma had been ecstatic at the return of her son – though how many of those tears were the result of hormones is anyone’s guess. Killian had been smacked for even suggesting it. Regardless, Henry is thrilled with his siblings, Emma is besotted with Lucy (“God, Killian, I’m way too young to be grandmother to a kid that old. Is this how my mother feels?”), and everyone even admits that it’s nice to have Regina back in town. Granted, it’s still a relief that the other him elected to stay behind in Hyperion Heights, endeavoring to bring order to a town only newly aware of their formerly cursed state. Killian isn’t sure he’s nearly awake enough these past days to have been able to keep track of conversation had there been two Killians running around.

Killian may be looking forward to a holiday with his stepson, but it’s Amelia who’s truly thrilled. She’s come up with all kinds of plans, seemingly determined to fit an entire year’s worth of activities into a single day. To his amusement, she’s detailing all her plans of what she and Henry and Ella and Lucy are going to do for what must be the tenth time to Emma. Thank the gods that Henry’s wife and daughter are just as good of sports and Henry is.

“…and then, after the snowball fight, we’ll have hot chocolate, and Grandma can help us make cookies, and maybe then you and Auntie Regina can make an ice rink! And then I wanna show Lucy Rudolph cus she’s never seen it, Henry says…” She’s barely taken a bite in her excitement, and while part of him wants to just sit and listen to her babble on, Killian is still very well aware of the absurd schedule his mother-in-law will undoubtedly demand they stick to religiously. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and while they may have opened all the gifts last night, he’s still got something up his sleeve.

“Melly, darling, if you hurry up and eat your breakfast, I think I might have seem something in your stocking…”

Emma and he had decided that first Christmas with Amelia that they were going to try not to play up the Santa Claus thing. Emma doesn’t have particularly fond memories of the practice, and with their luck, Santa would turn out to be real, and some kind of villain who’d turn up in the future to terrorize the town. No, better just to leave a few candies and small things in the stockings, and make a big deal out of all the family traditions instead.

Still, the promise of stocking gifts is enough to get Amelia gobbling down her breakfast and bouncing in her seat as she’s now forced to wait for her parents to finish. When they’re finally done, Killian is practically dragged into the living room by his small daughter, leaving a chuckling Emma to gather up Dash and meet them by the tree.

As Amelia tears into her stocking – just some candy from them and a couple of ornaments for the small tree in her room – Emma leans into his side with the baby, allowing him to drape his arm around her shoulders. “Thank you for letting me sleep,” she murmurs, and he smiles back at her.

“Of course, love, you deserved a little extra time.”

“All the same… thanks. I think we forgot how tiring the first few weeks are. Can that be my Christmas gift this year? An extra hour of sleep for the next few days? Can someone set that up? Oh! Maybe Mom and Dad will babysit!”

Truthfully, Killian could go for an afternoon to themselves as well, albeit perhaps with some extra activities. He’s a father twice over – he knows what the six-week checkup meant, even if they haven’t been able to act on it yet. And then sleep. Several hours of sleep. Probably not all night, since the Charmings have four kids under nine in the house and Snow’s been talking about another, but Gods above, even just an afternoon of uninterrupted sleep would be a dream come true.

He presses a kiss to her forehead and holds a little tighter before replying. “Aye, Swan, that would be lovely. Perhaps they’ll offer today when we go over.”

Across the room, Amelia is giddy with her haul. “Look, Papa, it’s a little pirate ship for my tree! Like the Jolly, Papa!”

Soon enough, they’ll have to leave, have to drive to the Nolan farmhouse before Snow blows some sort of Christmas stress induced gasket. But for now, he’s content to snuggle with his wife and son on the couch as his daughter tells them in great detail about each and every thing she’s found in her stocking.

Merry Christmas, one and all.

[thepoetics]

Bruised Knuckles (Zig x MC)

Summary: Zig appreciates a certain brown-eyed brunette bandaging his hand up. Set during TF3, Chapter 3 – “New Kid on the Block”. In Zig’s point-of-view.

Author’s Note: So I’m replaying The Freshman Book 3 because of my unhealthy obsession with Zig Ortega. And since I’m a broke ass uni student who can’t afford for MC to help Zig ice his knuckles up for 18 diamonds then, of course, I’m gonna result to writing a fanfiction about it instead. Enjoy.

You’re a little shaken up after the small brawl that broke out in the coffee shop. There’s a slight stinging in your right hand and you attempt to get rid of it by shaking your hand as you go back behind the counter. Your mind is reeling, the familiar rush of adrenaline pumping through your body as you willed to calm yourself. You watch as your manager storms away after reprimanding you for leaving the counter and you rub your knuckles, wincing in pain. At least he didn’t see you nearly knock the living daylights out of someone.

“Hey…”

You’re in a bit of a daze as you glance up at the voice, surprised to see a very concerned looking brunette standing in front of the counter. Your mind registers who it was – the dark-haired girl caught between the altercation between the two blonds – and you realise that her lips are moving and she’s saying something.

“Are you okay?”

Her brown eyes are laced with worry, her brows furrowed slightly and she’s looking at you with an apprehensive expression on her face. Though still feeling a little disoriented, it doesn’t take you long to fall back to your senses. “I should be asking you that.”

“Your hand.” She stares at your swollen knuckle and you can see that a bruise is already beginning to form. You watch her bite her lip as she stares at you then your hand, her big doe eyes flickering back and forth.

“Uhh, I’m fine.” You stretch out your right hand then ball it into a fist, trying to get rid of the pain that is slowly burning the nerves of your fingertips and the back of your hand. You reach for the tamp and you drop it with a hiss. “Or not…”

Instinctively, she reaches out towards you. “You should let me help you with that.”

She’s looking at you with worried eyes and you’re lost for a moment. You glance behind her and find she’s the only person at the counter. The Gutter Kittens were preparing to perform and everyone in the café seems to be preoccupied waiting for them to start.

In the corner of your eye, you find her group sitting in the booth towards the back of the café. The raven-haired girl and the curly haired girl were in conversation with the blond guy from earlier and they’re watching the brown-eyed brunette standing in front of the counter.

You turn to the other barista. ��Can you watch my register for a minute?” You hold up your already bruising knuckle, quickly letting your other colleague know about the situation. “I just need to sort this out.”

The other barista nods. “Sure, man. No problem.”

You nod at the doe-eyed girl and gesture towards the back room. She grabs a towel, her eyes quickly scanning the counter before scooping up ice from the freezer and following you through the door. Taking the hair tie around her wrist, you watch as she ties around the ends of the towel she scrunched together as a makeshift ice pack.

“Um,” She’s hesitant at first, barely making eye contact with you, as she indicates towards your swollen hand. “May I?”

Her eyes are trained at your swelling knuckle which is now showing a slight discoloration and you nod, lifting it up to her. “Go ahead.”

You lean against the counter in the back room and you rub your temple with your free hand, trying to get rid of the ringing in your ears. You’re surprised at how gentle she takes your injured hand. Her brows are knotted together and she’s biting her lip in concentration and you can’t help but watch her face.

“Does it hurt?” She starts to ask then shakes her head. “Stupid question, of course it does. You nearly shattered someone’s jaw with your fist.” She inches closer towards you and catch a whiff of something sweet – like red velvet cake and something else. “Do you have a first aid kit?”

Her eyes examine the room promptly. Boxes of various sizes occupy the stock room and you mentally note that you’ll have to organise everything soon. A strong aroma of coffee beans fills your senses and it's almost overwhelming with the vanilla scent she’s harbouring. She repeats the question before you indicate towards the shelves across from where you’re both standing, a first aid box sitting on top.

She places your makeshift ice pack covered hand on the countertop as she heads over to the shelf to grab the first aid kit. Rifling through the contents of the box, you see her pull out a bandage and some safety pins. She unrolls the bandage and tentatively takes your hand.

“You don’t have to be so gentle. I can handle rough.”

You realise the innuendo and you watch as she blushes slightly. She inspects your hand, swollen knuckles and bruises forming, and starts pressing down lightly to feel any broken bones. You grimace slightly as she applies more pressure and she stops. “Sorry!”

“Ahh, it’s okay.” You wince. “Don’t worry.”

She starts from your wrist, pinning the bandage in place before slowly wrapping it around once then twice. “Thank you, by the way.” She says sincerely. Her eyes flicker towards yours and she gives you a sad smile. “You didn’t have to get involved in all that. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologise.” You dismiss her apology and she looks slightly distracted, taking a pause from bandage wrapping as she lightly rubs the arm that Sebastian grabbed earlier. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” She tells you as she lets out a shaky breath. “Just a little stunned, I guess.”

“Does he get like that often?” You question, watching her as she continues to aid your hand, slowly wrapping the bandage around your discolouring knuckle.

“No... Well, yes. It’s a long story.” She starts.

You shrug. “I’ve got time.”

“Sebastian is... Sebastian.” She sighs.

“The preppy kid?” Your eyebrows furrow as you briefly recall an instant with the blond-haired narcissist when you first started working at Hartfeld. The morning was hectic and given that it was your first day as a barista, chaos obviously ensued at the café. From accidentally mixing up his order to handing him his drink “6 minutes and 47 seconds later than usual”, he then derided the customer service of the entire coffee shop chain and you knew from then on that you were dealing with a self-entitled asshole.

“He’s always had something against us. It seems to have gotten worse since Chris won the Student President election last quarter.” She finishes.

You mentally connect the dots. Ah, Chris. You’ve seen the dark blond-haired President a few times in the coffee shop, making presentations and consulting with, who you assumed, was the Vice President. You’ve spoken to him a couple of times too, he was polite and willing to make conversation. You remember him commenting on the football team promotional posters all over campus when his face ended up taped in the coffee shop board – Hartfeld Knights’ star quarterback.

“Sounds like this Sebastian guy’s just jealous.”

“Amongst other things.” She sighs. “He’s done a few sketchy things to us. But we never really pegged him to be someone who can actually hurt someone else physically. Verbally, sure – he seems to thrive on being rhetorically spiteful and just being an asshole in general. I just didn’t think he was capable of getting physically violent like that.”

Her hands still and, for a brief moment, you see fear and uncertainty flash in her eyes. You watch her shudder in an attempt to shake away the thoughts in her head and you mentally go through a worst-case scenario in yours.

Your fists ball up instinctively at the thought of that smug bastard laying his hands on the small brunette in front of you. A sense of overprotectiveness washes over you as the scene earlier replays in your head and you clench your teeth, trying to keep it at bay. You lightly trail your hand that wasn’t being bandaged up and rest it on top of hers. “Hey, if that bastard lays a finger on you again, be sure to come find me.”

She looks at you surprised before a small smile appears on her face. “Thanks. Sebastian’s a bully but he’s nothing I can’t handle. He just likes to threaten and scare us but I know better than to give him the satisfaction.”

“I appreciate a strong woman.” You grin at her.

You watch her smooth out your hand with her small fingers, cradling it carefully as she finishes wrapping the bandage around your swollen knuckles. “All done.” She inspects it one more time before grabbing a safety pin and pinning the end of the bandage in place.

“Wow.” You admire her handy work. “You’re a pro at this.”

“Well, what can I say.” She shrugs her shoulders, a smile playing on her lips. “When you’re living with people who often have accidents due to The Crown and the Flame LARP related activities or just football injuries in general, you learn to pick things up like how to bandage a sprained ankle, relocate a dislocated shoulder and even nurse a deflated ego quickly.” You can’t help but chuckle as you watch her pack the first aid kit away and put it back on the shelf. “Zig, was it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Short for Zigmund.” You confirm. “Zig is fine though. Zigmund tends to raise a lot of questions.”

“I don’t think shortening it is really fooling anyone.” She lets out a small laugh. “It’s nice to meet you, Zig. Despite the circumstance. I’m Daisy.”

“Like the flower?” You question and she nods.

“Like the flower.” She affirms.

“I’d shake your hand but, you know...” You lift your bandaged hand and she lets out another laugh.

You hear a loud voice out front.

“Where’s Zig? We need him behind the counter!”

“That’s my manager.” You sigh, pushing yourself away from the counter and straightening up.

“And my cue to leave.” She turns towards you and gives you a smile. “Thank you again.”

“I should be thanking you.” You make your way towards the door to exit the back room, opening the door to let her out. “You fixed me up pretty well.”

“Don’t make it a habit.”

“Hey, if bruising my knuckles gets me to spend more time with you then I would happily get into fist fights with people every day.”

“You don’t need to be bruising your knuckles for me to spend time with you.” She laughs, shaking her head. She looks at you before giving you a shy smile. “All you need to do is ask.”

“Oh, really?” There’s a redness in her cheeks as you look her over, a smirk playing on your lips.

She shuffles her feet and looks away and you sense her nervousness. Biting her lip, she turns back to you. “Anyway, uh, it looks like the band’s about to start playing. So I should probably find my friends.”

“You do that.” You can’t help but grin at her slight flusteredness. “You know where I’ll be, in case you need me to punch someone else out. Or a cup of coffee.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You watch as she gives you a small wave before she heading over to the corner booth where her friends were all sat. You glance down at your hand and smile. You’d definitely take another bruise knuckle any day.

There you have it. Just a little fluff. As always, feedback is appreciated.

[octannibal-blake]

Prompt 'im sorry i accidentally kissed you after playing house for bellarke

For you, nonny! This one got away from me, too. I’m not good at short drabbles apparently, but hey, who cares! Enjoy!

*

Bellamy’s life is perfectly together for the first time since he was five and his sister was born. She’s off at school and he’s only working one, stable job that makes enough for him to live comfortably. It took a while to get here, but he’s enjoying the freedom and the lightness. No longer does he hold the weight of the world on his shoulders. So leave it to Clarke Griffin to completely ruin his bliss.

He’s cooking breakfast for himself on this fine Saturday morning when she barges into his apartment (why he thought it was smart to give her a key, he doesn’t know) and asks him to be her fake boyfriend.

Which is problematic for him because he’s spent the last three years wanting to be her real boyfriend. They met in college, forced to work together on an art project (he took it because he needed another elective, and she’s an art major) and despite not getting along at first, they became best friends. Mostly because she’s a spitfire and he’s a dick and somehow the universe just knew the two of them would cause chaos together. It works. He’s been half in love with her for most of their relationship but the timing has never been right, whether one of them isn’t available or he just completely chickens out. Not to mention she calls him her friend all the time and while he’s not the kind of guy to believe in the friend zone, sometimes it’s really hard not to.

“What?” He asks stupidly, holding his spatula in mid-air having been distracted from his egg flip.

“My mother is coming into town and I need to prove to her I have my life together despite having not gone to med school,” She hops onto his counter and reaches over to his plate of bacon to snag a piece.

“But you don’t have your life together,” he says before swatting at her hand as she goes for another piece, “Quit eating my food!”

She pouts her lip and pulls her hand back with a sigh, “Thanks for reminding me. I just need to create the illusion I do, which includes using you as my significant other.”

“Why would having a boyfriend somehow mean you have your life together?”

She’s batting her eyelashes at him now, which always means she wants something ridiculous, “Well…maybe not just a boyfriend. Maybe a boyfriend…i live with?”

He drops his spatula with a loud clang, “You can’t be serious.”

She grasps his arm with both hands, “You’re my best friend, Bell! Help me look less pathetic!”

He still feels a slight twinge at the word friend but pushes it down, “Let me guess, you don’t want your mom to see what kind of travesty you live in?”

She lives in a small studio apartment that has no working air conditioning and also tends to get a mice infestation every few months. It’s pretty awful. They usually always end up at his place to hang out and, okay, she’s slept over on more than one occassion but always in the guest room!

“Also that.” She confirms for him and he shakes his head at her antics. He knows he’ll regret it, but if he’s completely honest he misses the company. He’s not fond of living alone and his place has felt eerily empty lately. It’s a dangerous line, doing the whole fake boyfriend thing especially when feelings are involved on his end, but she makes it very hard to say no.

When he agrees, the smile on her face makes it all worth it. God, he is so screwed.

*

It’s surprisingly easy to fall into domestic bliss with her, which doesn’t exactly help his case at all. The day before her mother comes, Clarke comes over with a bag full of items to make the apartment look more ‘equal’. She’s going for a very convincing argument. Pictures of them have been scattered around the place, some in the living room and a couple in the bedroom. She always forces him to take picture when they’re out so most of them are drunken one am photos. She’s taken over his bathroom placing her hygiene products all over the shower and hair products on the counter.

“Is that necessary?” He asks as she hangs a few dresses in his closet for good measure.

“I’m trying to be thorough,” She replies. By the time she wears herself out, it definitely looks like they live together. He has to admit, she’s dedicated. He also doesn’t mind having her stuff around. Having her around…

Things go relatively smooth from there. Her mother arrives and is friendly enough to him. She actually seems impressed which makes something like pride swell in his chest. It’s a nice apartment in a nice part of the city and while Clarke has mentioned her mother being a snob, he’s still satisfied by her approval.

Being best friends has given them a comfort around each other that has only been beneficial. They touch each other freely and it’s not weird and quite honestly, from the outside anyone could see they are a couple. He tries to build Clarke up to her mother, mentioning small successes she’s had with her art and okay, maybe, fabricated a little. Clarke beams at him as he dotes on her and everything feels natural.

It gets a little weird when they remember they’ll have to sleep together in the same bed. When she walks out of the bathroom in an oversized t-shirt he genuinely thinks about throwing himself out the window because she looks so beautiful standing there and yet they aren’t like that. Pretending to be her boyfriend has been easy but her mom is asleep and they don’t need to pretend anymore.

“I can put shorts on,” She says awkwardly tugging on the end of her shirt. Clearly she hadn’t thought this through before walking out.

“I’ve seen you naked, remember?” He tries to ease the tension but that might have been the worst thing to say, “Remember when I had to carry you home after the whole Finn dilemma?”

It seems to work, “Ugh, don’t remind me. That was not my finest moment.”

She had managed to get so drunk, standing was nearly impossible and he had to take her home. She puked on herself and like the knight and shining armor he is, he managed to bath her and change her before putting her to bed. She told him she loved him that night, but he’s not sure she remembers. He definitely didn’t bring it up.

She crawls into bed with him and they fall into an easy silence. He lies on his stomach and is just beginning to drift off when she says, “Thank you again, by the way. You didn’t have to help me, you know?”

He’s groggy when he responds, “You’re lucky I love you.”

His eyes snap open when he realises what he said and holds his breath.

She laughs gently, “I love you, too.”

Too bad, he thinks to himself, if only she meant it in the same way.

*It’s gets weird. And confusing. The following night he is in the kitchen cooking dinner for everyone when Clarke gets back from her walk with Abby. She joins him in the kitchen while her mom showers and he laughs when he sees the newly formed sunburn tainting her pale skin.

“Forget the sunscreen, princess?” He teases and she smacks him playfully on the shoulder.

“I didn’t think we’d be outside all day…” She mutters miserably, poking at the skin on her arm.

“Clearly,” he laughs before moving to the refrigerator to grab some aloe. He squeezes the goo onto his fingers and gently rubs it onto her skin. She watches him carefully, like she’s surprised by the intimate gesture.

“All good,” he says wiping the excess onto the dish towel next to him.

“Thanks, honey,” she coos and before he can react she pecks him on the lips.

He’s frozen, his lips burning from the contact. It was an innocent kiss but he felt it all the way to his soul.

Her eyes widen, “Shit…I–”

His mind is racing. Did she mean to do that? Does she know how he feels about Her? Does she feel the same? She regrets it, doesn’t She? He fucked up. This plan was stupid.

“Smells good!” Abby compliments as she enters the room and suddenly the moment is over. They step back from one another and he clears his throat awkwardly.

“I interrupted something, didn’t i?” Always the perceptive one.

He tries to make light of it all, “I was just telling Clarke about the benefits of sunscreen.”

Just like that, the moments over. Things go back to normal, he and Clarke continue the charade and he can’t help but wonder what happens when it’s all over.

*

By the end of the trip, Abby Griffin seems to be very pleased with the way her daughter has turned out, even asking that she paint something for her office at work. Clarke nearly bursts into tears. He’s happy to see that their relationship is on the mend, even if it’s partially based on a lie. It’s not that Clarke isn’t successful, just that she’s not that successful. She’s not living the dream like she hoped and she isn’t in some perfect relationship. He should be bothered by it, but he does get it.

He remembers how upset Abby was to find out her daughter was pursuing art. That was toward the beginning of their friendship and he’s seen their relationship go back and forth since. He’s glad to help, but he’s starting to wonder at what cost. How long can he continue to just be friends with her? He has to tell her.

When they go back into the apartment after seeing Abby off, things are quiet. She’s wanders idly about the living room, running a hand over the picture frames she brought with her. Now or never, he thinks.

“So…” He leads with, and it’s not the best thing he could say but he’s kind of at a loss.

It seems to work, though, because suddenly she’s wringing her hands in front of her and word vomiting all over the place..

“I’m sorry I kissed you, I just got really caught up playing house and it’s been nice and, I don’t know, I thought you were my boyfriend for a second.”

She looks so small and innocent now. Guilty, even. Which hurts because he doesn’t want her to be sorry about it.

He decides now is the moment. It was bound to happen, hell, it’s been building for a long time.

“I’m not sorry,” he says simply and moves towards her, “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”

She releases a long breath, like she’s been holding it in this entire time, “Really?”

He laughs and reaches out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “I’m so in love with you, Clarke. I have been for a long time.”

It feel cathartic to finally say it. Even if she doesn’t feel the same, he’s just happy to have it out there. He didn’t realize how heavy it’s been, but he feels lighter now.

When she laughs, he worries for a second that maybe it was a mistake and he’s ruined their entire friendship. But then she throws her arms around his neck and kisses him, really kisses him like her life depends on it.

When she pulls back, lips swollen from the activity she brushes a thumb across his cheek, “I love you, too, by the way.”

*

A month later she moves in with him for real this time. Half her belongings were already there, anyways.

[philaprint]

Threshold of Revelation: A Disabled Queer Killjoy on National Themes

By Bani Amor

"Like failure, chaos contains information that can lead to knowledge—even wisdom. Like art." - Toni Morrison

I lay in a fetal-ish position on the floor of my little sister’s room, reaching beyond the tethers of immobilization for a pillow to slowly slide between my thighs. It feels like I’m stuffed in some invisible box or bound by powers only I can’t see and all I can really do is cradle my phone in my hands, so I open Twitter and see that the Senate has taken its first step in gutting the Affordable Care Act. I exhale - carefully, to avoid triggering the piercing pain radiating from the root of my spine - and think to myself, “That’s America. It’s just no country for the infirm,” a line from one of my all-time favorite plays, Angels In America: A Gay Fantasia on National Themes, before dropping my phone, the rough coils of the hideous pink carpet the only sight staring back at me now.

Seeing as surreal was the most-searched word of 2016, it’s clear that the collective experience of chaos demands a deeper inquiry into the nature of reality, one that lies at the center of one of the best scenes from Mike Nichols’ 2003 TV adaptation of Tony Kushner’s 1993 play about a group of people struggling with faith during the AIDS epidemic in Reagan-era New York, and it takes place in our protagonist’s dream. In it, Prior Walter applies stolen makeup to his face before a vanity to distract himself from the Kaposi’s sarcoma lesions forming on his flesh. But the reality of his condition tears into his dreamscape (“You know you’ve hit rock bottom when even drag is a drag,”) and with it, enters Harper, a Valium-addicted housewife in the middle of a hallucination, and together they discuss the insight that comes with being pushed to the margins of reality, but only after lamenting the limits of the imagination. See, a scene like this shouldn’t even exist. Aren’t killjoys cardinally opposed to the acts of dreaming and dissociation? (Asking for a friend.)

I binge the entire six-hour HBO special whenever the flare-ups of chronic illness keep me floor-ridden and there’s nothing to do but just cry and feel sorry for myself over the sad state of my corporeality and the hurdles to healing our ableist society props up, one after another, until they blur in the distance. Each time, I wonder why the blunt force of the horrors that Angels portrays comforts me, like the moment Prior semi-consoles a crying Harper, saying “I usually say ‘fuck the truth,’ but usually, the truth fucks you.” Maybe I’ve lost the ability to dream, because, as Harper says, “Imagination can’t create anything new.” There is no world in which I don’t feel the tingly choke of nerve damage in my hand and arm, the dull, non-stop ache in the entirety of my upper-right body, the constant stab in my lower back, cold and clear like a depressing winter sky; no world in which I’m not bipolar and dependent upon Medicaid for treatment. None in which HIV/AIDS doesn’t exist. Even in the dream realm. “The world - finite. Terribly, terribly,” Harper concludes.

Yet then again, the scene itself is a testament that reality and unreality aren’t binary domains. Prior apologizes to Harper for hosting such a depressing hallucination, to which she responds, “I can’t expect someone who’s really sick to entertain me.” He’s taken aback, wondering how she saw through his facade. “Oh, that happens. This is the very threshold of revelation sometimes; you can see things.” It reminded me of Junot Díaz’s essay on apocalypse just after Haiti was hit with that devastating earthquake in 2010, in which he quotes Roethke: “In a dark time, the eye begins to see,” before concluding on his own that “apocalypse is a darkness that gives us light.” It also reminded me of Toni Morrison’s essay on chaos published in The Nation just after George W. Bush won a second term as president, called No Place For Self-Pity, No Room For Fear, in which she writes, “This is precisely the time when artists go to work.” This has been re-circulating in light of Donald Trump’s election win, and it’s no wonder why. I don’t know what it’s like to be white and completely flabbergasted right now. I don’t know what it’s like to be my moms and feel continually betrayed by the country she immigrated to, don’t know what it’s like to be Black or Native American with Trump or without Trump. I just know that I went to work.

The racialization of light vs. darkness as metaphor is being subverted right at this political moment, when white people have gotten themselves into such deep shit that they turn to Black saviors to fix it all, when they’re terrified of being plunged into a darkness so total that they can’t conceive of living through it, because they are ill-equipped to live lives without the concept of Hope™. It takes from ten minutes to several hours for a human’s eyes to adjust to the dark but for some, it’s been centuries. This couldn’t be more evident in Angels in America, whose only non-white and most femme character, Belize, seems to hold all the answers to the problems of the fledgling white gay men orbiting him. At the funeral for a Black drag legend, Prior is morose as hell, dressed in all-black, while Belize is outfitted in sparkly, colorful fabrics, singing along with the choir. Throughout the mini-series, the white characters are scattering to contend with the apocalypse while Belize just lives his life, his back turned to Central Park’s Angel of Bethesda water fountain while rain pours over him in a pivotal scene, declaring with a dead stare, “I hate America.”

In another central scene, Prior’s ex Louis is whitesplaining American racial politics in a breakneck rant to Belize as he shifts uncomfortably across from him in the corner booth of a Manhattan diner. A depressing winter sky hangs above them. The actors portraying these characters are straight men - a junior Ben Shenkman facing off against the seasoned prowess of Jeffrey Knight. “Ultimately, race here is a political question. Racists just try to use race here as a tool in a political struggle - it’s not really about race,” Louis says. “There are no angels in America, no spiritual past, no racial past, there’s only the political.” Belize then calls Louis’s little speech “racist bullshit” and his response is immediate: “I. Am. Not. A. Racist. So maybe I am a racist.” He barely breathes between the two statements. He is white liberal guilt personified and performed. I wonder what has changed and the answer comes to me once Angels ends.

In the play, the TV adaptation and in the United States at large, the face of HIV/AIDS is a white middle-class gay man. Watching it, I - a low-income disabled queer gender-nonconforming person of color - have so many questions, like how Prior can afford his endless stream of meds, how he can afford not to work and live alone in the West Village; how he avoids being discriminated against within the medical complex. While we collectively watch the dismembering of the Affordable Care Act, a piece of legislation that was insufficient in a healthcare system that’s world-renowned for its lack of humanity, in 2017, the face of disability is white. The face of “the LGBT community” is white. But how can the face of HIV/AIDS possibly remain white, over three decades after its outbreak in the US, despite all evidence to the contrary? To quote Shernell “Toni” Sells of the South Carolina HIV/AIDS Council, “You know back in the day, they used to say this is a white gay disease?” she asked a Black female patient in the 2015 documentary Wilhemina’s War, shaking her head. “Guess who the face of HIV is now? Me and you.” I wonder if the white disabled and “LGBT” communities see Black southerners, women and queer people in particular, as the face, or even a part, of their movements; of their work to save ACA.

It did not take a Trump presidency for me to realize that my enemy sees me more than my purported ally ever will. I was just a tween when my moms begged a white man in a Florida Medicaid office for coverage for her three children. The eldest in a wheelchair, having grown up in hood hospitals, the middle one institutionalized for a suicide attempt, the baby suffering epileptic seizures that would leave her with irreversible brain damage. He robotically denied her as she openly cried.

That’s America. It’s just no country for the infirm.

https://www.philadelphiaprintworks.com/blogs/news/threshold-of-revelation-a-disabled-queer-killjoy-on-national-themes