#I don’t expect a parka

[wewontbesleeping]

it’s so weird seeing people post pics of them in hot weather in the us. Like. I understand, intellectually, that different places, even within the same country, can have very different climates. I understand that. But we just had a snowstorm 2 days ago here. And so I just can’t wrap my brain around the fact that you are wearing a tank top and I’m wearing long underwear

[motorsportbarbie13]

Christmas Showdown

In which you and Lando run into an ex-boyfriend while you're home for the holidays.

Warnings: talk of abusive relationship (no details though). Established relationship. Protective Lando. This could probably be better and it's pretty short buttttttt I needed to get this out of my head, so enjoy! Pairing: Lando Norris x Girlfriend!Reader Word Count: 1.8k words

Master List

It had been several years since you spent the holidays in your small Midwestern hometown. Usually, your family flew out to London or Monaco to spend the holiday’s with you there, much preferring to leave Michigan’s several feet of snow that was typically on the ground during Christmas. This year was different thought. Your grandmother had been too ill to make the long flight so instead, you came to them. Which was fine with you, you had missed seeing friends that were home for the holidays and missed the nostalgic nights spent around the Christmas tree with your family. The one person who was not fine with it, however, was your boyfriend. 

Lando Norris simply hated the cold. He hated being cold. Hated thinking about the cold. Hated the snow. Anytime the temperature dipped below 50 degrees Fahrenheit ( which also a fight you two had often was how he refused to learn the difference between Fahrenheit and Celsius while also simultaneously refusing to do the same for him.) So you knew he must really be down bad for you when he had agreed (albeit a bit sluggishly) to spend the Christmas holiday with you in your (freezing) hometown. 

There was minimal complaining for the first few days you were at home, mostly because it the weather was fair enough to not be something comparable to the North Pole, but trouble arose the day of your Aunt and Uncle’s infamous Christmas party. The first sign of trouble was your brother’s insistence on a family outing to the sledding hill that was a few miles from your house. Of course Lando had packed several parkas but when he had seen the Canada Goose store in the mall the day before, he had bought the thickest, best cold rated puffer jacket he could find. Despite that and several layers of long johns and sweaters, by the time you reached the sledding hill your poor boyfriend was shivering like your grandma’s ancient chihuahua. 

To his credit though, there was not one single utterance of a complaint or plea to go back to your parents house for a cup of hot chocolate then entire time. Lando happily chased your nieces and nephews around the sledding hill and even went down the hill a few times with you. 

“Okay, folks!” Your dad calls out as the afternoon sun hangs low in the sky. “I think it’s time we all head home and get ready for Judy and Steve’s party tonight. I expect everyone to be at their house by 7pm sharp!” The ‘this reminder is for your benefit’ look that your dad sends you has your already wind chapped face turning even more red. 

“I don’t know why you’re glaring at me! I’m always on time!” You shout, grabbing for Lando’s hand. “We’ll see you guys tonight!” 

Once you get in the Range Rover that Lando had rented for the two week visit, he immediately turns the heated seats on full power and cranks up the heat. 

“Do you want to swing by Starbucks and get something warm before going home?” You ask as Lando pulls out of the park and onto the snowy street. “I feel like I might need to just get you an IV of hot chocolate at this point.” 

Lando gives you a sidelong glare. “I think I have icicles in my nose hairs.” 

Laughter tumbles out of you, quick and light, sending a thrill of pleasure down Lando’s spine. You two had been dating for a few years now and there were still times he’d look over at you and think ‘how the fuck did I convince this girl to be my girlfriend?’. You had come into his life at a particularly challenging time and had been his rock since day one. 

“Starbucks it is, my poor little snowman. There’s one up here in this strip mall. Turn left at this light and then it’s on the right.” 

The parking lot, which is a shared lot with several other big box stores, is an absolute zoo and you can see the line snaking around the inside of the Starbucks before you even go in. To save some time, Lando drops you off at the front door while he goes and finds a spot for the large SUV. 

The line is long when you get inside but you’re thankful to at least be out of the bitter cold. While you wait in line, you mindlessly scroll on your Instagram, which is locked down tighter than Fort Knox. Going private on all socials and not being featured heavily on Lando’s had been one of the things you two had agreed upon when things started getting serious nearly two years ago now. People who were huge Lando fans knew who you were but the casual F1 fan probably wouldn’t have been able to pick you out of a lineup. 

Your casually scrolling, minding your own business, when a deep voice calling your name jolts you out of your little social media bubble. 

“Jeff?” You sputter, surprised to see your college boyfriend standing in front of you in line, huge smile on his face. 

Jeff had been one of the guys you and your best friends had drooled over in high school, having been nearly two years ahead of you when you were teens. You didn’t start dating him until your freshman year of college, when he was already a junior. To say the man was toxic was an understatement. In fact, now that you had a few years distance between the now and the end of the relationship, you could confidently say Jeff had been pretty abusive. 

“Hey, stranger!” He says, leaning in for a hug. You go completely still, totally unprepared to be faced with the man who had caused you so much trauma in the two years you had dated. “I have’t seen you in ages, visiting your family for the holidays?” 

You toss a look over your shoulder, desperately wishing for Lando to come walking in the door. “Uh, yeah. First time in a few years. I usually fly them over to London or Monaco for the holidays.” 

A dark shadow passes over Jeff’s face at the mention of where you live now. “Monaco, huh? You always thought you were too good for us here, didn’t you?” 

Your stomach twists painfully at the look in his eyes and you briefly consider just turning around and walking right out of the Starbucks without your drinks.

Before you can stutter out a response, a strong pair of large hands wraps around your waist as Lando drops his head onto your shoulder. “Darling. Baby. Sweetheart. Love of my life." Lando croons in your ear, not yet picking up on your body language. "I adore you but why the fuck did you have to be born in a place where the air hurts your face?” 

You laugh stiffly despite yourself. “Talk to my parents about that one, love.” 

Lando drops a kiss on your cheek before looking over at the other man. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were talking to someone.” 

Across from you, Jeff had been watching this exchange between Lando and you with an increasing amount of annoyance. Who the fuck was this and why was he calling you the love of his life? 

“Lando, this is Jeff.” You turn slightly, giving Lando a knowing look which he catches onto immediately. “Jeff, this is my boyfriend, Lando.” 

“That’s an interesting name. Only heard that name twice before, once in Star Wars and…” Jeff’s voice drops off as he finally makes the connection. “Wait. Lando…as in Lando Norris?” 

The smug grin that stretches across Lando’s face nearly has you giggling. “That’s me. And you’re Jeff, huh? I’ve heard a lot about you. None of it good.” 

Lando remembered the first time you had ever opened up to him a few months into dating about how you had been in an abusive relationship in college and how much work it had taken to recover from it. He had been your first serious relationship after leaving Jeff, having left the country just to get away from him. Internally, Lando raged at the man standing in front of you two, the protective instinct in him screaming to just lay the guy out right here.

Jeff’s already ruddy face turns red with incandescent rage. You had totally forgotten he was a big Formula One fan and when you remember the fact that not only is he an F1 fan, but a huge McLaren fan, the urge to giggle hits you again. Oh, this was just too good. 

“How’d you…” Jeff stutters. “How’d you manage to bag yourself a Formula 1 driver?” 

The question is a pathetic attempt to rile you up and insult you but both you and Lando see that question for exactly what it is. 

Lando plants another kiss on your cheek and you know he’s doing it to be an asshole. “I was actually the one who pursued her. She turned me down left and right for nearly a year, didn’t you baby?” 

You nod, remembering the way Lando had come into your office at the McLaren Tech Center day after day just to make small talk at first but finally had worked up the nerve to ask you out. You were one of the newer people on the comms team back then and you hand’t wanted to jeopardize the career you had worked so hard for so you had turned him down for nearly a year, insisting that you wanted nothing more than a friendship with the driver. 

“But eventually, he wore me down. He flew me to Monaco and took me out on his yacht for our first date, it was all very romantic.” It had actually been Max’s yacht, but Jeff didn’t need to know that bit. 

You can see Jeff practically seething at this point, knowing that you’re doing so well and he’s still apparently stuck in your hometown. 

“And how are you doing, Jeff? Still working at your dad’s law firm? How is Vance doing? And Laura?” You know it’s killing him, asking about his parents by their first name. 

Jeff just blinks at you for a few moments, realizing you weren’t the little girl he used to push around and take advantage of in college anymore. “Made partner last year, actually.” 

“That must be easy to do when your dad owns the practice, huh?” Lando says, voice nothing but light innocence. 

Jeff’s eyes bounce between you and Lando for several moments before he suddenly reaches into his pocket. “If you’d excuse me, it looks like the office is calling me.” 

“A call from the office the day before Christmas! Gosh, you must be very important, Jeffery.” Lando’s low blow to Jeff’s big ego hits true and without another word, the man scampers out of the Starbucks without a second glance in your direction. 

Once he’s gone, both you and Lando dissolve into giggles, your head finding it’s favorite spot on Lando’s shoulder. “I’m surprised he didn’t try to deck you there are the end.” 

“And mess up his pretty lawyer hands? Honey, I doubt he even knows how to throw a punch.” 

tag list @shelbyteller @formulaal @martygraciesversion381 @longhairkoo @samantha-chicago

[p0orbaby]

leah pretending to be good at ice skating but turns out she’s shit at it

but at least she gets to clinge onto reader for stability, and ofc reader teasing her good heartedly

-

The rink is colder than you expect—sharper, too, like the kind of cold that belongs in empty bus stops at 3 a.m., or the grim aisles of a butcher’s shop. The ice looks almost perfect, a pale and glossy mirror broken only by a constellation of skate marks and a single, flattened candy wrapper in the far corner. You think briefly about the janitor who’ll have to scrape it off later, the way it will peel away like skin.

Leah stands beside you, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her navy Canada Goose parka, which she insisted wasn’t too expensive because “it’s an investment piece.” The hem of the coat brushes her knees. Underneath, her legs are clad in Lululemon Align leggings, and her skates—brand new, glaringly white—look like something you’d find in a Bond Street window display. She’s ready. Or at least she looks it.

“You’ve done this before?” you ask, leaning against the barrier as you lace up your own scuffed rentals.

“Yeah, loads,” she says breezily, flicking a blonde strand of hair out of her face. “We used to go every Christmas when I was a kid. It’s like riding a bike, isn’t it?”

“Hm”

She grins, sharp and cocky, and pushes away from the barrier. The first three seconds are beautiful. Graceful, even. Leah glides forward confidently, her arms outstretched like she’s orchestrating a symphony. And then, quite suddenly, the symphony collapses into an out-of-tune kazoo as one of her skates wobbles and her knees buckle.

“Fuck—”

She clings to the barrier like a drowning man clutching a life ring. Her eyes are wide and wild, and she lets out a half-laugh, half-gasp that sounds more like a threat than anything else.

You can’t help yourself. “Loads, you said?”

“Shut up,” she snaps, breathless. Her cheeks are already turning pink from embarrassment, the colour rising like a tide.

“Like riding a bike, you said”

“Shut up”

She’s clinging so tightly to the barrier that you worry it might splinter. Her skates slip and scrape against the ice, fighting for traction. For a moment, she just stands there, frozen in more ways than one. It reminds you of the time she tried to reverse parallel park in front of a crowded pub and ended up getting out of the car entirely, muttering something about pressure before forcing you to swap seats.

“I think you might be lying to me,” you say, stepping out onto the ice with ease. Your skates are steady, practised. It’s the confidence of someone who spent every January birthday at run-down rinks like this one, drinking lukewarm hot chocolate with a scum of film on the surface. You do a slow lap around her for emphasis. “You’re shit at this, aren’t you?”

Leah’s jaw clenches, but her mouth twitches like she’s trying not to laugh. “I just need a minute”

“You need a helmet”

“Oh, piss off”

She pushes away from the barrier again, slower this time, her knees bent like she’s bracing for impact. You skate backwards in front of her, matching her tentative pace, watching the way her face contorts with concentration. It’s endearing, really—the same determination you see when she’s watching a replay of her own game footage, looking for flaws that don’t exist.

“You look like Bambi”

“I do not”

“You do. That scene where he’s trying to walk on the ice? That’s you”

Leah glares at you, her hands now gripping the front of your coat for stability. “I don’t know why I brought you here”

“I don’t know why you lied about being good at this,” you retort, but you rest your hands lightly on her waist, holding her steady. The layers of her coat are thick, but you can still feel the tension in her body, the way she’s gripping your jacket like her life depends on it.

For a moment, you both stand there in the middle of the rink, surrounded by other skaters who weave past effortlessly: teenage girls in puffer jackets, couples holding hands, kids so small their skates look like they belong to someone else. A little boy skates by holding a penguin-shaped stabiliser, and Leah watches him with envy.

You follow her gaze. “Do you want one of those?”

“No”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure,” she grits out, though you can feel her swaying again.

“Because I could go ask—”

“Don’t you dare”

You laugh, tightening your grip on her waist as she starts to slip. Her fingers curl into the fabric of your coat, and she mutters a long string of curses under her breath, half in frustration and half in self-deprecation. It’s the same tone she uses when she loses a game of Uno.

“Alright, come on, Bambi,” you say gently, beginning to skate backwards again, pulling her along with you. “I’ll teach you”

“I don’t need to be taught”

“You do”

“I—”

“You do, Leah”

She falls quiet, letting you guide her slowly across the rink. Her movements are stilted, her feet awkward, but she’s starting to trust you, loosening her death grip on your coat. The flush on her cheeks has deepened, and you can’t tell if it’s from exertion or embarrassment.

“You’re doing great,” you say, your tone mockingly earnest.

“Don’t patronise me”

“I’m not”

“You are”

“Fine,” you concede, smirking. “You’re terrible, but you look cute.”

Leah groans, shaking her head, but there’s a reluctant smile on her face now. She looks down at her feet, watching the way her skates carve clumsy paths into the ice.

“You’re supposed to look ahead,” you tell her.

“I’m supposed to not fall on my arse”

“Both are important”

She exhales sharply, half a laugh, and looks up at you, her grip on your coat relaxing entirely. For a few seconds, she lets herself glide—unsteady but determined, her blonde hair catching the light, her expression softening. You think she’s about to say something—something sarcastic, probably—but then her skate catches an uneven groove in the ice, and she lurches forward, grabbing your arm in a panic.

You catch her easily, steadying her with a hand on her back. She looks up at you, wide-eyed and breathless, and you grin.

“I’ve got you,” you say softly.

Leah rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t let go. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“More than you could ever know”

[southparktexts]

How the main four react when they get jealous

Kyle :

my boy is an absolute sweetheart when it comes to you.

openly acts out when he’s jealous.

CLENCHES HIS FISTS WHEN HES ABOUT TO THROW HANDS.

calls you nicknames in conversation so everyone knows you’re his.

“Yeah and then Eric-“

“darling!! we have a date in 8 hours we gotta go!!”

but when hes really jealous, expect him to be all over you… subtly.

wrapping a hand around your waist and pulling you in, kissing your forehead.

whispering into your ears and glaring at whoever he’s jealous of.

overall a hopeless, angered issued partner.

Stan :

where can i begin with this boy?

he is SOOO possessive over you, you don’t understand.

purposely makes you wear his clothes so you smell like him or ‘accidentally’ spraying his cologne on you.

“ Hey!! you sprayed your cologne on me again!”

“Sorry babe!”

very clingy when he’s jealous.

whispering things into your ear so you know who you belong too.

purposely pulls you in for a kiss mid-sentence while glaring at whomever he’s jealous of.

Kenny :

my boy kenny doesn’t really get jealous of people but when he is, it’s very obvious.

just like kyle his tone switches up.

“babe. lets go.”

“okay.. one second..”

not controlling in the sense but when hes jealous he wants you to leave so you can talk.

either ends up being a making out session or a long talk.

he just wants to show you that he loves you and no one can love you like he does.

also probably randomly gives you his jackets or parka.

Eric ;

MY BOY GETS REALLY POSSESSIVE AND JEALOUS.

Not afraid to speak up about issues and defend you no matter what.

Very vocal with his emotions and jealousy.

Not really an public affection type of guy but will squeeze your hand.

“Shut the fuck up, we’re leaving. C’mon baby.”

“Okay !! Bye-“

drags you with him so you guys can go home and cuddle.

giving the most DIRTIEST looks possible to whoever hes jealous of.

not afraid to threaten someone or beat them up as long as they dont get in the way between you too.

[bitterrfruit]

houndtooth [3]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - 3.4k words

“I’ll freeze to death.”  

You utter, voice low and tense; your cadence despite your effort is sheepish, as though you’re exerting every effort to reassert yourself as brave and unflinching. A mask to veil the shivering little rabbit you must spend most of your life trying to conceal.   

Ghost isn’t fooled by your disguise, by your attempts to obfuscate your vulnerability – no, he can scent your panic, that frightened wee animal at the centre of you, hidden beneath the baiting curves of your flesh. He might be able to see its reflection glistening in your nervous eyes, once he’s able to rip that sack off your head.  

The thought tempts a vengeful smirk that tugs at his lips. One he wished you could see, if only to witness your quaint bravery be exsanguinated from you at the sight of his amusement. 

Still, you’re not wrong.  

The dry air of the midwinter night must be dipping below the double-digit negatives. A frigid cold that Ghost himself had scarcely noticed on his expedition to your estate – shielded by many layers; woollen fleece under windbreaker under thick, gore-tex parka, face kept warm by his balaclava, fingers protected from frostbite by waterproof gloves. 

It’s a short ride to exfil by snowmobile, less than ten minutes – but, in all likelihood, long enough that the exposure could kill you by the time he hauled you to the helicopter.  

Long enough that it might freeze the mucus of your throat and lungs into crystalline shards, might blacken and petrify your extremities, might have your exposed skin sloughing off in a few days' time.  

Ghost knows he must return you to base alive. But, alive is the only condition that is expected of him. No expectation of unharmed. So, he is left to place bets on whether you’ll survive the journey.  

He could make a sport of it.  

He plays with your possible fates as though they were marbles in the palm of his hand, rolling them between fingers and uncaring if he drops them. 

“You might,” he chides gruffly, finally offering you a response. “It’d be your own fault for wearing a fuckin’ tissue.”  

His glower scrutinises you as he releases his hand from the doorknob, whose rattling must have informed you that he intended to drag you outdoors. He keeps his other gripped around your bicep, wrenchingly tight, he anticipates, hopes, that his grasp might leave bruises on your soft skin. You, slippery vermin, seem liable to flee at any moment, so he justifies it to himself.  

He watches your chest rapidly rise and fall, gratuitously exposed décolletage shimmering with a thin coating of sweat, it glows silky in the moonlight that illuminates you.  

You, standing as still as you can muster, covered only by your peony pink lingerie and a black hood over your head, hands bound with thick black cable ties – look like a scene out of a snuff film.  

Maybe you’ll end up in one. 

He finds himself silently appreciative you don’t have the satisfaction of seeing how long his hedonistic glare lingers on your cleavage; on the tightening of the edges of your lacy cups, cutting into the swell of your breasts with each of your quaking breaths, allowing them to pillow out of the top.  

Still, a small derisive scoff escapes you through the fabric. “I didn’t anticipate an outing.”  

You facetious little shit. Almost makes him laugh. 

Fine.  

With a shrill rip of Velcro, he tears open one of the flaps of a pocket on his tactical vest, plucking out a loudly rustling emergency blanket; a foil shawl folded neatly into a rectangle the size of a playing card, tucked into a plastic pouch.  

You step onto your back foot in an anxious reflex at the noise, little rabbit, maybe you’re expecting the worst. He hopes you are. 

But he’s doing you a favour. He grimaces in revulsion at the acknowledgement of that fact. Resents that you might be thankful for it. Tells himself it’s for the good of the mission – nothing more, nothing less. Reminds himself how much he’d otherwise relish in watching your skin turn indigo, left exposed to be ruined by the fatal ice of your country’s stark winter.  

Unwrapping it promptly, he tosses the thin foil to unfurl it, before floating it behind you. He pulls it over your shoulders, watching you wince at the sensation of it brushing against your bare skin. With rough haste he grabs hold your bound wrists, tugging them upwards and shoving the edges of the foil into your grip. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, a disingenuous show of sarcastic gratitude, as you roll your shoulders to adjust its coverage, holding the emergency cape tightly in your bound hands. The fabric of your hood sucks inward against your nose and mouth as you draw in a lengthy breath.  

“Don’t thank me,” he grunts, as he finally unlocks and pulls open the gargantuan, ostentatious entrance to your mansion; a towering double door, two thick slabs of carved wood. The frigid gale immediately floods into the gaudy foyer, forcing him to squint, its iciness pricking shards at his eyes and threatening to freeze solid the water that lubricates them.  

“Rgh – fuck,” you groan through gritted teeth, faltering bravery quickly giving way to squeaking panic. Your entire body tenses at the sudden gust of ice, toes curling and head twisting away from the blast of ice.  

He spectates amusedly as you immediately pull the thin foil to better cover yourself, admires as you struggle to do so while your wrists are bound.  

He adds, “…only delaying the inevitable.”  

Your negligée billows in the invasive wind, exposing your skin even further to the frost; not to say that otherwise it would do much to protect you from it.  

He takes an impatient grip of the back of your neck, the impact of his palm on your nape loud enough to emit a smack. He burrows his fingers into the fleshy bands of your tendons, driving you ruthlessly you towards the exit. Holds you upright by the neck like trapped game as you stumble over your bare feet.  

“Move.”  

You didn’t expect to be gracious of the sack the dog had secured over your head.  

Your unstable breathing warms your cheeks, the hot vapour of your adrenaline pumping from your lungs is trapped in by the thick black cotton, preventing the membranes of your nostrils freezing solid.  

The vice like grip of your hunter has not faltered, dragging you by the neck down the winding stone steps of your estate – the slabs free of snow by virtue of the heated coils beneath them, a renovation you yourself had requested. Of course, your husband had obliged. 

But your abductor isn’t steering you down your driveway, it seems, as you are instead led off the path.  

A gasping shriek jumps from your throat as your feet touch the layer of powder, snow packing between your toes; the frost immediately burns the soles as though you tread over shattered glass.  

“Where are we going,” you question through a clenched jaw, chattering with the cold, having to push your weak voice out of your seizing diaphragm. 

As you had anticipated, he says nothing. 

Stays dead silent, the peculiar beast.  

You’re frightened of him. Suddenly unconfident in your attempts to read him.  

It’s typically your strongest talent, a perfectly honed skill – reading men.  

Every one of them like a children’s book, predilections and intentions so blatant that they may as well have been scribbled in crayon. They believe wholeheartedly that they are mysterious, too cunning to be understood, so mistaken in their conceit; expecting that you as a mere woman are simply unable to comprehend them. 

Yet you have made a craft of determining what makes each one tick. Disassembling them like the gears and screws of a clock, surveying their quirks and components through your looking glass.  

Once reduced to their basic constituents, their most primordial parts, they are all the same. Always want the same thing. Always boil down to the same creature.  

Dogs. 

You’ve gotten good at baiting them. Leashing them. Taming them.  

This one is guarded. Keeps his teeth bared, keeps you guessing when he might maul you.  

So far, the only quirk of this one that you been able to deduce is that he wants you to be scared of him. Doing his best to terrorise you with his threats while enacting none of them.  

If he wanted to hurt you, or rape you, or kill you, countless opportunities to do so have been presented to him. You’ve been offered up to him so freely you may as well have been gifted to him wrapped in a bow.  

And yet, he hasn’t unwrapped you.  

That’s where your scrutiny has failed you. Like static distorting a radio signal.  

He provides you no tells. Tips no hand.  

He continues to act as though he is yet to impart his worst upon you. Vague about his intentions with you, in spite of his wandering eye. At least that is consistent with what you would expect from any of the dogs you have so far encountered. Acts too good, too moral, too chaste to take you; yet still gropes and licks and fingers and fucks you with his wanton glower. All the same.  

His claws cut deep into the cartilage of your neck as though he might hang you from it, unaffected by your whimpers nor your looming hypothermia. You feel it sinking beneath your skin. Freezes your nerves, turns the blood in your arteries into icy sludge, sends your muscles into irrepressible spasms. Your lungs ache, forced to suck down the very air that will inevitably freeze them solid.  

You gasp as you feel your knees knock against something solid; the dull ring of thick metal. 

His talons release your neck, finally, though you find yourself immediately longing for the warmth of his grip – the nape of your neck prickling with gooseflesh as it’s bitten by the frigid cold. 

Quick to thwart your opportunity at freedom, he takes prompt hold of you, gloved hands shoving past your foil cape and tucking under your arms. You squeak as you are lifted, uncertain how high off the ground you might be, though grateful that your frozen feet are finally free from their bed of snow.  

You’re lowered, then, your feet and ankles quickly parted by whatever frosty metal is now beneath you – then he drops you, and you land on your pelvis with a sore thud, abruptly bestriding whatever vehicle it must be. A snowmobile, you suspect.  

You feel him mount the vehicle behind you, his form hulking even when you can’t see it. You feel his breathing through the fabric on the top of your head. Heaving thighs on either side of you, you’re nestled between them. He even tugs you back with an arm hooked around your stomach, so you’re pressed more firmly against him, prevented from wriggling free. A couple fewer layers of gear and his body heat might even bring you comfort.  

Through his touch alone he seems unbothered by your proximity, by the pressure of your ass against his crotch. Not lascivious, though not disquieted. Steals no grabs, no rogue touches of any of your more intimate parts – though you’re not daft enough to assume he would shy away from it.  

You can feel the fleshy mass behind his trousers despite the thickness of the weatherproof fabric. Formidable even soft.  

Perhaps you could tempt him.  

With just a shimmy, an innocent readjustment of your ass between his legs – you offer just a touch more pressure. You might bump against him while he rides through the snow, might feel that pliable weight turn rigid against your back.  

You admit that he doesn’t seem the type to offer you special treatment if you offered your cunt to him. He’s made it known that he thinks you’re a slut, after all. In your experience, though, it works in your favour most of the time. Where’s the harm in trying?

But you feel the fabric of your sack hood twitch and quiver as his head lowers beside yours, he growls into your ear; 

“That’s not gonna help you.”  

Fine. Whatever. 

Worth a shot. 

It sounded as though he had uttered it through a grin; a very slight, near imperceptible drip of amusement in his malicious tone.  

But, with your hands bound, near naked, and blinded, your survival is dependent on him. Rather, it's entirely up to him.  

So you play it cool.  

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you sheepishly respond, sweet and naïve, you get back into character. 

He huffs derisively, impatiently, perhaps. You let his arms envelop you as they reach for what must be the handles of the snowmobile in front of you, quickly deafened by the roar of the engine as he tugs on the throttle.  

Your body is abruptly forced backwards, tossed against him like a ragdoll as he suddenly accelerates - your fabric mask now provides you utterly no protection from the icy wind as it breaks through the weave. Your foil cape billows in the gale of his speed, rendering you entirely defenceless against the vicious knives of the cold as he speeds through the snow.   

Dropping your head, curling inwards on instinct, you find yourself nestling deeper into his shrouding form if only to shield yourself from the deathly cold he has purposefully exposed you to.  

After what feels like an agonising hour of having your bare skin dragged over a steel grater, you feel the snowmobile begin to decelerate, its roaring engine growing quieter and eventually grunting to a stop.   

You had thought you might be granted a reprieve from the painful gusting wind once the mobile finally came to a halt; but you’re still in a whirlwind of ice and glass, so disoriented you feel as though you’ve been spun on your heel and then cast out into the barren wilderness to find your own way.  

In the malevolent hurricane you lose your grip on your foil blanket, your only respite, it flies off into the ambiguous void of black forced upon you by your hood.  

But that mechanical thunder is unmistakable – an aircraft you were well acquainted with. A helicopter.  

A transport you frequented in your days of luxury, often to your warmer getaway home further south. To your Petit Trianon, another gift from your husband – one that acted as a clear means of getting rid of you for weeks at a time. Not that you complained. 

The begrudging protection of your hunter is stolen from you as he dismounts, leaving you utterly exposed to the blizzard, shivering with such intensity that your muscles burn with the acid they involuntarily excrete.  

But you’re quickly hauled off the vehicle, gloved grip under your arms once again, picked up with ease as you feel your body get tossed over his shoulder like a sack of flour. His thick arm hooks over your hip, you feel the veil of your babydoll flutter up and expose your bare ass to the icy gale - it humiliates you as if spanking you with its frozen hand.  

You hear the metallic rumble of a rolling door amidst the bellow of the rotating blades. 

“’Bout fuckin’ time.” The irate roar of a new man.  

You bounce on the shoulder in your stomach as you are carried within, listening as the door is slammed shut. After a few steps you are unceremoniously dropped onto a seat, a weak yelp escapes you at the pain of the impact.  

“Jesus fucking Christ, LT.” Yet another. Scottish.  

LT. Lieutenant? Military?  

Blind and defenceless, you stay seated but adjust yourself so that you sit upright, exerting every effort to catch your breath and steady your chattering bones. But despite effort, your body rolls around in its seat as the helicopter presumably begins its wobbly ascent.  

“What?” Your hunter growls.  

“Couldn’t give her a jacket?”  

“Why the fuck would I do that.”  

“It’s negative fifteen out there. Look at her, she’s just about blue.”  

“Mm. Maybe I should’ve given her the chance to pick out her favourite mink coat, eh?”  

You hear a huff of laughter from another man. “You just wanted to keep her in her knickers.” 

“Mh. Might loosen up her husband.”  

A chortle. “Could loosen up anybody.”  

Dogs. 

You stay silent and listen shrewdly.  

“Bravo Six to Gold Eagle Actual – double jackpot. We’re RTB.”  

Military, you are now certain. You can tell by the codeword gibberish without needing to understand it. You wish now that you had watched enough Western war movies to be able to translate it – but they’re all banned in Russia, of course.  

There’s a quiet murmur of a static-ridden voice emerging from a radio, but it is drowned out by the humming of the helicopter. 

“Fuck’d you do to Zakhaev?” Your hunter asks, throaty voice almost taunting. 

Your husband. Was he in the aircraft with you? Could you call for him?  

“Squealed like a pig when he came to. Knocked him out again.” The Scotsman. 

But, in spite of your effort to distinguish them, the unfamiliar voices quickly begin to blur together.  

“Tracks.”  

“Separate them before he wakes up.”  

“Why?” A new voice.  

“Can’t have him knowing that we’ve got her already. We need to surprise him with it.”  

“Kinda fucked up, Cap.”  

“Ts’all in a days work, Sergeant.”  

Captain. Sergeant. British Army? Airforce?  

There’s a few moments of silence, you shuffle disquietly in your seat. Oh, if only you could see what was happening. It was already hard enough to hear them over the roaring of the chopper. Deaf, dumb, and blind. 

“Christ, she’s a looker, though, isn’t she?” The Sergeant.  

A chuckle follows from the Scotsman. “Can’t even see her face, mate.”  

“Don’t need to.”  

“Never know. Could be all botched by filler and botox and shite. All those fuckin’ oligarchs are.”  

“Mm. Nah. I’ve seen the photos.”  

“Take a long hard look at ‘em, did ye?”  

“Definitely hard. Dunno about long.”  

A laugh. “You nasty fucker.”  

Dogs. 

You’re even further discomforted by the fact that your hunter knows you can understand every single word that these men are uttering around you. And, evidently, feels no need to inform his comrades that you know exactly what they are saying about you.  

He wants you to feel uncomfortable.  

He wants you nervous.  

You hear the thud of boots against the metal floor, uncertain of whose nor which direction they are coming from, though they approach you. You shrivel on instinct, curling in on yourself to hide your near-nudity from whichever of the lecherous men is standing before you. 

You jump, squeaking in fright as something heavy is tossed around your shoulders. Fabric. Wool, judging by the thickness and scratchiness of it; you use your bound hands to grab at the edges of it to blanket yourself, finally able to conceal your body from them.  

“Согрейтесь.” Warm yourself up.  

The Captain, if you remember his rumbling cadence correctly. 

“You’re too soft, Cap. She’s a prisoner of war not a fuckin’ damsel.” Your hunter.  

The man who had given you the blanket addresses him. “We need her alive, don’t we? I’m keeping her alive.”  

“Fuck’s sake. She’ll be fine.”  

The charitable one speaks to you again, voice low and close, as though he has bent down intending for only you to hear it.  

“Он ничего тебе не сделал, да?” He didn’t do anything to you, did he? 

“Oh, piss off. Who do you think I am?” Your abductor immediately disputes, having apparently overheard.   

You consider your options. Maybe this captain could take pity on you, if you played your cards right. You can deduce his type through his words and actions already. Nobleman. White knight. It’s a façade, of course. If he’s a captain as the others say, he has probably orchestrated this entire operation.  

Though, inexplicably, you decide honesty is your safest course. You want an ally out of your hunter.  

“Нет, он меня не трогал.” No, he didn’t touch me. 

“Told you.” Your hunter grunts.  

A laboured sigh follows from the captain. “I never know with you, Riley.”  

He scoffs disdainfully.  

Leaves an ugly silence.  

“I’m not an animal.”  

[sunonyoreface]

He Knows - Simon “Ghost” Riley Pt. 12

An: More fluff!

Hi there, this is a series about Simon Riley from COD. This series does not follow any of the established plots or timelines from the games. While I use the names of some characters, they are different from the ones in COD.

Summary: You’re held captive by 141 for reasons unknown.

Word count: 2300

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Warnings: angst, military setting, explicit language, graphic depictions of violence, use of guns.

I wonder what Ghost thinks about as he lies beside me trying to will himself to sleep. Maybe about the men he abandoned because of my actions? Or the prisoners that the Ultranationalists released. Maybe he thinks about his friends and family at home and how he misses them. I’ll likely never know.

It's been over an hour since we were outside, yet neither of us has even remotely relaxed. I thought I’d fall asleep after watching the stars, but I can’t. My mind is wide awake and I can’t stop shaking. Ghost’s jacket helped, but we were lying out there for a long time. As I’ve learned, you lose body heat faster when you aren’t moving around in the cold.

Ghost’s henley and jeans are draped across the wood stove to dry. He lays across from me in just his long underwear and a black undershirt. The dark long johns make it look like he’s wearing a pair of leggings. It’s mildly amusing, but I don’t dare let on. He has an intricate sleeve tattooed up his arm and around his shoulder, spanning halfway across his chest. I want a closer look without being obvious.

It’s strange seeing him out of uniform. Normally the bulletproof tactical vest is strapped on over top of a bulky parka meant to withstand the deadly arctic conditions. But it doesn’t stop there. His belt also holds a variety of tools and weapons. A thigh holster and several other necessities are strapped to his legs on top of thick ski pants. Ghost must carry close to fifty pounds of additional gear every day, not including the helmet and night vision lens; it makes his already large figure even more intimidating. So to see him lying in bed wearing none of it is strangely intimate.

“Go to sleep,” orders the deep voice beside me. I look up at Ghost who is already staring at me. I wonder how long he was watching before he decided to say something. Did he notice my wandering eyes?

“You’re not sleeping either,” my voice is strained after the day’s events. I really should be tired, but I just can’t shut off. Maybe it's adrenaline.

“Nothing new,” he sighs, confirming my suspicions. He doesn’t seem like the type of person who rests easily.

I try and close my eyes again, but after just minutes, I know it’s no use.

“I can’t,” I whisper.

“You’re not even trying,” he says.

“I was,” I fist the edge of one of the blankets and wrap it in closer, hoping it’ll warm me up. For some reason, I feel colder now than when we were outside.

“My jacket, my blankets, and a fire, yet you’re still shaking,” Ghost tuts.

“I’m not wearing your jacket anymore,” I try to defend myself, but he’s right. Maybe it’s a circulation problem. Or the temperature isn’t the only reason I’m shaking.

We’re both silent for another while longer until I speak again. “Did you know any of the men?” I ask and almost don’t expect him to answer me. I almost don’t want him to answer me. Guilt weighs on the back of my mind.

“I did,” he understands my question immediately as looks at me from under his black balaclava. I try and read his expression, but I can’t see enough of his face. Their blood is on my hands.

“I’m sorry,” my words are barely audible. I feel an invisible pressure weigh me down. No matter what action I took, someone was going to end up dead. Now there are men on both sides who’re caught up in my indecisiveness.

Simon sighs, “This is so much larger than you are, y/n,” his words are ambiguous but strangely therapeutic. He shifts in bed, placing an arm under his head for support while his other arm, the one with the tattoos,  rests on the mattress in the space between us.

“Yet, they’re dead,” I sigh. “And I’m not.”

“They knew the risks,” he says. Ghost’s tone isn’t cold or condescending. His thoughts almost sound far away. I wonder how many horrible things he justifies with that simple phrase. “You’ll rot your brain if you keep thinking like that,” but I’m afraid I already have.

“Doesn’t change anything,”

“They died where they belonged, serving a purpose they believed in,” he says.

“What do you believe in, Simon?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says with finality.

“Nothing?”

“This world crushes belief,” he murmurs almost as if he’s talking to himself. His words hang in the thick, viscous air. For a moment, it feels hard to breathe.

“I think there’s still good out there,” I search his dark eyes. There’s a part of him, somewhere deep within the cavities of his heart, that has been irrevocably injured. “There are people with good hearts who try their hardest to leave the world a little better than they entered it.”

“Few and far in between,” he says.

It stays quiet for a long time with just the sounds of the crackling fire in the background. Part of me thinks I could live here for a long time. Away from all my problems where I could watch the stars every night.

My hands and feet are still cold to the touch. I feel his eyes on my back as I get up from the bed to take a seat in front of the stove. I lift the metal lever to open the tiny hatch and bask in the outflowing warmth of the fire. It feels like a tight hug from a friend you haven’t seen in ages. Like a cup of hot coffee settling in your stomach on a frigid morning. I rest my head on my knees and finally start to feel the exhaustion of the day take its toll. It has to be sometime after three, maybe even later. I remember someone once telling me nothing good happens after midnight. Something switches. Things that shouldn’t happen, do. Boundaries become blurred. My eyes start to droop and my awareness of the room fades from consciousness.

“Come here,” Ghost’s soft order reels me in.

“Why?” I turn to see him sitting up so he can get a better view.

“Just come here,” there’s a rasp to Ghost’s voice. “Bring my shirt.”

I glance at the shirt draped across the stove. A ball of nervousness begins to form in my chest. My  heart starts to beat faster. I feel the texture of his thick shirt between my hands. It’s a cotton mixture that’s surprisingly soft. With one knee on the mattress near his feet, I pass the shirt to his extended hand. Unlike his other black clothes, the henley is a dark olive. As Ghost raises his arms to slip it on, his undershirt inches above his waist, exposing a light patch of skin and the sharp edge of a defined v-line. I hastily tear my eyes away in fear of getting caught – of what would happen if I was caught. Of what I would want to happen.

When I lie down again, I can feel the heat radiating off Ghost. Our legs are just inches from touching and part of me wants to test how close I can get before he’ll move away.

Instead, Ghost shifts closer as he motions to my hand.

“Let me see,” he says, grabbing my tight fist. “Look at your hands, y/n, they’re red,” his tone is slightly condescending as if to tell me I should’ve known better than to go outside without gloves, but more than anything, it’s concerned.

“They’re fine,” yet I release the tight fists so he can get a better look. His rough thumb brushes thoughtfully over my fingers. There’s no real harm done. I don’t have frostbite and still have ten of them. They’re just cold.

“You always say that,” he mutters while glancing down. I look from our hands to his eyes, yet they don’t meet. Do I always say that?

“And I’m always fine,” I say. I’m still here, aren’t I?

Ghost’s hands are wide and thick, yet he has long fingers that can almost be described as nimble. His skin is dry and calloused and if I had hand lotion or any type of lotion, I’d offer it to him. But they’re not in the state they’re in because of lack of care. His nails are well kept and he evidently values cleanliness, probably because of the chance of infection should he have to treat one of his injuries. It’s simply because of the amount of gruelling physical labour he is asked to do each day. His body takes the brunt of the damage, which is evident in his bruised knuckles and the various scars littering his skin.

“What about you?” I ask, turning our hands so mine are now holding his.

“What about me?”

“Your knuckles look sore,”

“They are sore,” Ghost’s blunt. “And in two days they’ll be fine. And in another two they’ll be sore again,” The way it comes off is completely unbothered, as though that’s just how life is. Like bruised knuckles will be the least of his worries.

“Fair enough,” I sigh, as I roll onto my back, pulling away my hands. My eyes feel heavy. A comfortable silence once again begins to settle over us and is once again disrupted by the same man.

“Come here, y/n,” he murmurs, looking at me through half-lidded eyes as though I didn’t follow his orders from before close enough.

“I am here,” my voice is weary. He just barely shakes his head.

“Not what I mean,” I know. I know, but I’m also not sure what he intends. I want to. Oh God do I want to. Every fibre in my body longs to crawl into his arms and let him hold me. But I don’t know if that’s what he’s implying. I search his eyes for any sign of deceit. Because as much as I hate to admit it, I have no power here. He is in complete control.

It’s now he notices my hesitancy.

“No one can get to you,”

It’s a nice sentiment, but not what I’m worried about. I don’t have to say anything. Ghost sees it on my face.

“You’re safe, y/n,”

“Am I?”

He reaches under his pillow and pulls out a switchblade. “Here,” he presses it into the palm of my hand. “If you need to, stick it to my neck and press the button,” once I get past my initial shock, I realize he’s being genuine.

The thing is, even with a knife, I’d lose to Ghost in seconds. He doesn’t need guns or knives to be considered armed and dangerous. The man himself is a weapon. I’ve watched him break men’s bones with just his hands. I can’t imagine what’d he’d be capable of doing to me. I’d be overpowered immediately. A knife to his neck would only slow him down momentarily. As he holds the other end of the blade in my hand, I know he thinks about this too.

“What else is under there?” I ask. “A gun?”

“Course not,” he says a little too quickly, but I’d be more surprised if there wasn’t one.

“Why are you being nice to me?” my tired eyes narrow with suspicion.

“Don’t start this,” he says, yet I can’t help but wonder. How does he benefit here?

“Okay,” I nod and repeat the unsteady word to myself once more before shifting closer.

Ghost brushes my hair out of the way as he pulls me flush against his hard chest. I feel my heart hammer in my throat as his strong arm wraps around my side. I feel even smaller pressed into his large, hard frame. His thumb soothingly rubs back and forth along the side of my ribs. His legs brush against the back of mine and with every deep breath he takes, I feel his chest press into my skin. I feel safe, but not comfortable.

Without warning, I shift around so I’m now facing Ghost as he holds me.

As I nuzzle my face into the crook of his neck, his soft, knit balaclava rubs against my cheek and forehead. I fist his henley and pull myself closer. When I breathe in, I can smell the familiar scent of gunpowder that I’ve learned to associate with him, but also a deep earthy scent that makes me want to relax more with each breath. At the same time, I feel his arms wrap around my back and pull me in. Our legs are threaded together and his thick thighs press against my own like a weighted blanket. A gentle hand pets the back of my head once, brushing my hair out of the way, before moving to my lower back. Ghost’s hand absentmindedly grazes up and down the small of my back as his breathing becomes slower and deeper.

As I lay in this deadly man’s arms – a man who has killed hundreds of people without any remorse and will likely kill hundreds, if not thousands more – I realize that I’ve never felt safer anywhere else. Every other danger in the world ceases to exist next to him. The only person who was angry enough at me for violence holds me close to his chest with his head resting on mine. Right now I feel forgiven for my mistakes and actions. I feel cared for and wanted. The crackling of the fire dies down and my breathing deepens. All I hear are Ghost’s steady breaths and the strong thrumming of his heart against his ribcage. Steady and strong. It beats like a workhorse's hooves against freshly tilled earth. There’s a resoluteness to its strength.

As I drift off into a warm slumber, my ears pick up on one last barely audible phrase from beneath the balaclava.

“You’re one of the few.”

PT 13: https://at.tumblr.com/sunonyoreface/he-knows-simon-ghost-riley-pt-13/b9zr2tyv0iw7 

[leesielex]

The Last Holiday

Summary: Dany Targaryen has just arrived at her dream resort to spend the Holiday Season. Once a shy woman who kept her head down and let others walk all over her, a recent event in her life has changed her perception. Now she is grabbing life by the jingle bells and living to the fullest. Not even Jon Snow, the arrogant and out of touch, wealthy, CEO of Starklannd Department stores, where she worked in retail, can ruin her holiday. Though he may not be able to say the same for her.

Preview: Podrick dodged the bustling people with expertise. All the guests around them were dressed in designer clothes, their outfits and accessories costing more than most people’s houses. When he reached the center, he noticed her lagging behind to take in her surroundings, and stopped to wait for her. As she reached his side, a familiar face walked past her smiling curiously.

“Senator,” Dany greeted.

“Miss,” he nodded back, genuine interest in his mismatched eyes.

“Well, I suppose I know why Senator Lannister was unable to attend the meeting,” she murmured to herself, shaking her head in disappointment. When she smirked up at the bellhop, she watched him scrutinize her from her Martellmart boots to her Starklannd parka, trying to figure out who she was and if she was important.

Raising a bushy brow at him, she waited, amused. This seemed to shake him out of it, gesturing for her to approach the reception desk to check-in.

“Daenerys Targaryen,” she said, giving her name and passport to the buxom woman smiling slyly behind the desk.

Her green eyes already focused on the screen as she typed her info into the computer. Dany leaned over and squinted to read her name tag. ‘Ros’.

“I’m sorry, Madam Targaryen, your room is not quite ready. We were not expecting you for two more hours.”

Dany smiled fondly. “Well, Ros, I wasn’t expecting to get here by helicopter either. Can you please see if another room is ready? My time is precious these days.”

“Of course.”

The keyboard continued clacking as Ros went back to her screen so Dany let her eyes wander. A giant tree decorated with ornaments and ribbon stood tall next to the grand staircase. It had to be twenty feet high, dwarfing her petite frame as she strained her neck to see the enormous star on top.

Poinsettias were arranged on each side of the desk, sitting on tables in a lounge area, and hanging from the walls. Golden statues of children of the forest watched from the top of columns. She studied the painting of the wolves above, the enchanting way they frolicked as a pack on one side and sat in awe and facing what she now noticed was a weirwood tree in the center, its crimson leaves and bleeding smile staring down at her.

She knew the north believed in the Old Gods and the weirwood trees were how they believed they could speak to their gods, and their gods could watch over them, and answer their prayers. Only a handful of trees still stood, though she hadn’t a clue where one may find one. The more she gazed upon the ethereal scene above her, the more she felt transported into it.

If she closed her eyes she could feel the cold wind upon her cheeks, the rough bark under her palm as she whispered her most secret desire. Would the old Gods answer them if her own wouldn’t?

“Doesn’t that ceiling ever just make you wanna cry?” Dany asked wistfully.

“I never noticed before.,” Ros mumbled as she typed into her computer, the keys clicking and clacking. “The only room available is the presidential suite. It is 4,600 dragons a night,” Ros told her hesitantly, her eyes darting to her plain clothes.

“I’ll take it.”

“Madam, it is quite a bit more expensive than your original room. Are you sure you don’t wish to wait. We have a seating area and lots to do in the area while you wait.”

“I would like the presidential suite, please, Ros.”

“Madam Targaryen. I know you will find our presidential suite most comfortable,” Podrick appeared out of thin air at her side, giving a pointed look at the woman behind the counter before smiling down at her and holding out his arms to escort her to her room.

Walking back to the elevators, she heard a voice say, “Mr. Snow, can you sign my book?”

Following Podricks line of sight, she saw a man in a grey suit with dark curls pulled into a knot at the back of his head. Even from where she stood, she could see his god-like body, muscles so strong they looked like they might tear through the expensive material that clung so perfectly it looked like it was made for him.

Well, it is Mr. Snow, it was made for him. Dany rolled her eyes. A red-headed woman stood next to him, her hair twisted into an elegant coiffe. He faced Dany as he turned to grab the book to sign.

“Jon Snow.”

Click to read on AO3

[dragonflylady77]

The Birthday Wish

I decided on Wednesday afternoon to write a fic for Billy's birthday (on the Friday). Just pretend it's still 29 March, okay?

Gift for @spaceofentropy

You can find it on ao3

TW Neil Hargrove, child abuse

Steve drove up to the quarry, slowing right down when he noticed there was already a car there. A very familiar blue car.

“Fuck!” His evening was shit enough, having had to endure three hours of the Party as well as Jonathan and Nancy being all cozy on the couch at the Byers’ house for Will’s birthday, he didn’t fancy a confrontation with Billy Hargrove on top of that.

It was too late though, Hargrove would have noticed his car by now, for sure, and Steve knew he’d never hear the end of it if he turned tail now.

He parked alongside the Camaro and turned his engine off. He glanced to his left and did a double take when he noticed Hargrove was sitting on the hood of his car, a thin looking blanket on his lap. The guy was holding something but it was too dark, even with the nearly full moon, for Steve to see what it was.

Steve grabbed his parka from the backseat and put it on once he got out of his car.

“Am I dreaming or is that you, Harrington?” Hargrove asked as Steve did his zipper up.

It was cold as balls, barely above freezing. “Yeah, it’s me, don’t cream your pants,” he muttered under his breath, not expecting Hargrove to hear him but then he started laughing and Steve stared.

He couldn’t remember ever hearing Billy Hargrove laugh before. It was surprisingly heartwarming and Steve wished he could see his face properly. He stepped closer to the Camaro and peered at Billy. He had a can of beer between his thighs and was holding a cupcake.

Huh.

“You’re just in time, pretty boy,” Billy said, pulling his pack of cigarettes out of the pocket of his denim jacket, followed by his Zippo and a… birthday candle.

“In time for what?” Steve asked, confused as fuck. He didn’t even react to the pet name, he was kinda used to it. Truth be told, he hadn’t heard it for a while, since he wasn’t at school anymore, and he kinda missed it, not that he’d ever admit that to anyone.

“‘m turning eighteen in a few minutes,” Billy said around the cigarette between his lips. The flame of his lighter illuminated his face for a couple of seconds, long enough for Steve to see the black eye and the dried blood on his cheek.

“The fuck happened to you, Hargrove?”

Billy shrugged. “Neil didn’t take too kindly to Maxine reminding him it was my birthday. He expressed his displeasure before I dropped her off for her sleepover at the Byers’.”

“Excuse me, but what the fuck?”

“Don’t worry about it, princess. I’m just glad he gave me time to pack a bag before he kicked me out.”

“Kicked you out? On your birthday? Again, what the fuck?” Steve couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Well, yanno, I’m eighteen now, legally an adult, so I have to fend for myself or some such,” Billy said, checking the time on his watch and pressing the sad looking candle into the frosting of his blue cupcake.

Steve watched him light the candle, his heart in his throat as he connected some dots. What kind of parent kicked their kid out the day they turned eighteen? What kind of monster beat up their kid because it was their birthday? Holy shit .

Billy made eye contact with Steve before he closed his eyes for a moment and blew out his birthday candle.

“What d’you wish for?”

Billy grinned before he removed the candle and put it back in his pocket. “Can’t tell you, Stevie, or it won’t come true.”

“Happy birthday, Billy.”

“Thanks.” Billy ripped the cupcake in two and offered one of the halves to Steve, who took it with a nod. 

Steve looked at it then back at Billy.

“It’s not poisoned, in case you’re wondering,” Billy said before he moved off the center of the hood and patted the space beside him. “Come sit with me, I promise I won’t bite.”

Holding his half cupcake, Steve sat on the edge of the Camaro’s hood before sliding closer to Billy. The metal was still a bit warm and it made Steve feel something he didn’t care to analyze.

“What are you gonna do?” Steve asked as he took a bite. The frosting was really sweet, and the cupcake vanilla flavored.

Billy shrugged again. “Sleep in my car, I guess, shower at school, or something, I dunno. Neil didn’t find the money I’ve been saving but it’s not enough for a motel, not to last until graduation, anyway.”

“Billy, it’s way too cold to be sleeping in your car. You’ll freeze to death!”

“Cute that you think anyone will care, Harrington.” Billy laughed and this time, it made Steve shiver. Unlike before, there was no happiness in that laugh. “Not sure you’ve noticed but literally no one gives a fuck about me. No one at school. Certainly no one at the house on Cherry Lane.”

“Max cares,” Steve countered. You care , a voice in his mind added but he shushed it.

“She only cares because I’m her ride to places and it saves her having to walk everywhere. I have zero illusions about where I stand.” Billy balled up the paper case of his cupcake and threw it into the bushes.

“Surely—” Steve was sure Billy was wrong about Max.

“Nah, pretty boy. It’s fine. Don’t worry your pretty head about it. Just promise me, when they find me dead in a ditch, make up some good stories about me at my funeral, okay?” His empty beer can went the way of the cupcake case.

“That’s not funny.”

“Like I said, not your problem,” Billy said, an edge in his voice that Steve was wary of. “You should head home before your parents wonder what happened to you.”

Steve snorted. “My parents are somewhere in Europe, and they don’t give a fuck.”

“Aww Stevie, I’m sure that’s not true.”

“They showed up on Christmas Day and told me I had six months to sort myself out because they were putting the house on the market on July 1. I’m lucky my mom talked my dad out of cutting me off when I didn’t get into college.”

“Ouch.” Billy winced. “What are you gonna do?”

Steve shrugged. Working at Family Video was all well and good but it wasn’t really a long term plan. “Saving most of my shitty wages until I have to leave, then, I don’t know. Indy, maybe. Or Chicago, I guess.”

“You need to think bigger, princess. There’s a whole world out there. Where’s somewhere you’ve always wanted to go? What’s on your list?”

Steve took a moment to really think about it, watching his breath make little clouds of steam every time he exhaled. His ass was getting cold as well, sitting on the cooling metal. Billy’s blanket looked even thinner up close than it had earlier. It was time to move this party somewhere else.

“Hey, don’t feel like you have to say yes, or anything, but you wanna come back to my house? It’ll be warmer than here. I’ll even make us some food if you want.”

Billy didn’t punch his lights out or say no outright, so Steve counted that as a win. Billy gave him a confused look.

“Didn’t you have dinner at that weird kid’s birthday party? I saw your car there.”

“Yeah, well, sitting across from my ex and her new boyfriend kinda killed my appetite. I’m starving.”

“I didn’t realize you could cook, Stevie,” Billy said, taking one last drag of his cigarette before pressing the butt of it to the underside of his boot and dropping it in the dirt.

“My parents have been taking progressively longer trips ever since I was twelve, so I had to learn. There’s only so many frozen pizzas and boxed mac and cheese a guy can eat before he craves real food.”

***

Billy followed Steve to Loch Nora and parked his Camaro next to the bimmer in the Harringtons’ vast garage. He wasn’t too sure what was happening, but the promise of warmth, food and company definitely beat sleeping in his car at the quarry with the shitty blanket he’d sneaked out of Cherry Lane. 

He left his boots by the door in the foyer and spent a moment taking in what he could see of his former teammate’s house. The Harringtons lived on the other end of the spectrum when it came to income bracket, no doubt about it. For starters, they had an upstairs and what looked like a formal lounge and, oh yeah, was that a freaking pool ?

“Billy?” Steve called out and Billy startled.

“Yeah?” he replied, wandering towards the voice and the light. The kitchen was bigger than his bedroom at Neil’s house, with a double oven and too many cupboards to count.

“Hey, there you are,” Steve looked up at him from the freezer. “You okay with gnocchi?”

“Um, I guess. Never had them.”

Steve smiled at him and Billy felt something warm unfurl in his chest. He was having trouble remembering why this crush he’d been harboring on Steve was a bad idea, what with the way Steve was finally giving the attention he’d been craving since the first day.

He sat on the bar stool by the breakfast bench and watched as Steve put a big pot of water on the stove. Steve kept telling Billy what he was doing as he was doing it, explaining it was a recipe he’d found in a cookbook his parents had brought back from one of their trips.

The butter and sage smelled delicious and Billy couldn’t wait to try this dish. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had taken the time to cook for him. Susan’s cooking skills were not the best and she cooked whatever Neil demanded anyway. One of the upsides of being kicked out was that Billy would never have to pretend to enjoy Susan’s bland, dry meatloaf.

Billy realized Steve was calling his name and he looked over at him. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“Dinner is ready. You wanna watch a movie while we eat?”

Billy nodded, at a loss to explain why Steve was being so nice to him. It wasn’t like they were friends. Yeah, sure, Billy had apologized after the fight that night back in November, but the few times he’d taken Max to the video store, he’d stayed in the car to avoid any awkwardness.

Now he’d shared his birthday cupcake with the guy and they were sitting down on his expensive looking couch to watch a movie, with a beer and delicious smelling food Steve had made for them. Almost made Billy forget about Neil whaling on him and kicking him out of the house.

He expected Steve to sit on the other end of the couch but he sat right next to Billy instead, his thigh warm against Billy’s. They ate in silence, and Billy did his best to pay attention to the plot of the movie Steve had picked but he was too distracted to care much. He hadn’t been this close to Steve since basketball practice and it was making his heart race.

Billy was trying not to read too much into the prolonged physical contact. He’d already been punched once tonight, he wasn’t looking for a repeat. Resisting the urge to put his hand on Steve’s thigh was getting harder and Billy wasn’t sure how much longer he would be able to control his body’s reaction. That was an embarrassing situation he could do without, not to mention extremely awkward. 

He put his empty plate on the coffee table and stood up, asking Steve for directions to the bathroom before telling him he didn’t need to pause the movie. Billy then rushed out of the living room and locked the bathroom door behind him, resting against it for a minute. Fuck. Maybe he should leave, head over to the Motel 6 for the night and work out what to do tomorrow. 

Once he was done in the bathroom, he headed for the kitchen and got a glass of water to give himself some time. 

“You okay?” Steve asked from the doorway and Billy startled.

“Y-yeah, just, um, needed a drink.” He drained the last of his water and put the glass in the sink. “Look, Steve, it’s really late. I’ll… um, I’ll get out of your hair. Thanks for dinner but I better be going.”

“What? No.” Steve walked into the kitchen and stopped in front of Billy. “Why?”

Because if I stay I’ll probably get a boner and try to kiss you…

Billy ran a tired hand through his hair. “It’s just… it’s better this way.”

“Better for who?” Steve asked, not budging when Billy tried to move past him.

“Steve…”

“Listen, Billy, I’m sorry.” 

“What?”

Steve’s hand made it halfway to Billy before he dropped it at his side and wasn’t that a mindfuck? “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable by sitting so close to you on the couch. I just…”

“You just…?” Billy’s fingers twitched with the need to reach out to the boy in front of him. He could feel Steve’s eyes on him, a phantom touch that heated up his skin, so for once, he let himself look. Steve’s hair looked like he’d been raking his fingers through it, his brown eyes fixated on Billy, the moles dotting his cheek and his neck, the yellow jumper that looked so soft. 

Billy didn’t let his gaze move below the belt, instead trailing back up to Steve’s mouth, his lips looking so fucking kissable. And so close. Huh? Before Billy could fully process that Steve had closed the gap between them, Steve leaned forward, cupping Billy’s face with both hands, and pressed their mouths together.

The contact was brief. Too soon, Steve pulled away, dropping his hands and taking a step back, eyes wide, like he suddenly realized the enormity of what he’d done. Billy grabbed him by the waist with both hands and pulled him close, capturing Steve’s lips and unleashing a year and a half of pent up yearning and pining. 

Billy found himself pressed against the side of the fridge, Steve’s tongue in his mouth and Steve’s arms around his neck. The kiss went from soft and exploratory to frantic and thrilling. Billy couldn’t get enough. He could feel Steve getting hard against his belly and it was intoxicating.

They broke the kiss when breathing became an issue but didn’t move away from each other.

“Stay,” Steve whispered against his lips and Billy nodded.

Later, tangled with Steve in his bed, naked and sated, Billy told Steve in hushed whispers how he’d wanted to kiss him since the Halloween party at Tina’s. Steve told Billy of all the times he’d stamped down on the attraction he was feeling because he believed it would never go anywhere. Billy laughed when Steve said he’d thought Billy was straight, then told him about Neil.

Over breakfast the next morning, Billy told Steve he’d secretly applied to colleges in California, and Steve told him he’d never seen the ocean. They started making plans.

***

Billy stepped off the stage on Graduation Day and walked past his classmates and the rest of the crowd until he reached the parking lot. Steve and Max were leaning against the Camaro, chatting animatedly. Max ran to him when she spotted him and they hugged.

“I’m gonna miss you so much, Billy!” she cried when he let go of her.

“You can come visit, shithead,” he replied with a grin. Being with Steve had helped repair their relationship and Billy had had to admit that Steve was right and Max did care. 

“You better write me when you get there.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I promised, didn’t I?”

They hugged one last time then Steve said his goodbyes and they got into the car.

Billy told Steve he could picked a tape and a lone birthday candle fell out of the glove box when Steve opened it.

“You never did tell me about your birthday wish, Billy,” Steve said, holding the candle up with two fingers.

Billy smiled as he pulled away from the lot. “I guess I can tell you now, since it came true.”

“Oh?”

“You were my wish, pretty boy.”

[atlaculture]

Live-Action Promo Pics - Katara

I’ve been hesitant to comment much on the the live-action series, as most of the discourse has revolved around the casting. I’ve already made my ideal ATLA fancast pretty well-known and I don’t feel comfortable harshly critiquing children/teens for not looking like my favorite cartoon characters. At the end of the day, it’s the casting directors that we should hold responsible, not working actors trying to make a living.

However, I have no problem reviewing the costumes--- which I presume were made by industry professionals of adult age. In fact, I’d say the goals of this blog obligate me to give my two cents. So, enjoy my completely subjective take on the promotional costumes:

Katara

What I Liked

Braided hair loopies! This has been fanon for years now, so it’s nice to finally see it done in an official adaption.

They did a good job of translating the wave pattern on Katara’s coat into something more elaborate.

The fur trim is good, although I wish the fluff around her hood was a bit fuller and thicker.

I like her hair beads.

What I Didn’t Care For

It feels like cosplay. Mind you, I love cosplay, but it’s a very different beast from movie costuming. Cosplay is about imitating the 2D designs as closely as possible; movie costuming is about taking the 2D designs and making them functional.

The blue color-coding in the show works for a cartoon, but less so in real life. A coat for a live-action Katara should look like it was made from real animal furs, and synthetic blue fur is just never going to give that effect.

The coat looks too new. It should look more worn, considering this is everyday wear for her.

In general, the coat looks nice but cheaply made. Like it could be a costume you’d buy for Halloween called “Arctic Water Girl”.

Overall, I give it 5 water whips out of 10.

Like what I’m doing? Tips always appreciated, never expected. ^_^

https://ko-fi.com/atlaculture

Click below for links to how I wish her coat looked.

I had a feeling this would be the direction they would take with the Water Tribe, but I still can’t help but feel disappointed. I’ve been spoiled by the better realized interpretations I’ve seen in fanart, with more realistic fur parkas and blue detailing. This is all personal preference, of course, but just take a look at all of the beautiful interpretations of Water Tribe clothing out there:

https://www.tumblr.com/ash-and-starlight/704817804388548608?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/ash-and-starlight/693847558563430400?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/chiptrillino/717611956655325184?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/chiptrillino/698450671239921664?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/chiptrillino/692656226353463296?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/chiptrillino/642057819823243264?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/atlaculture/719418204708061184?source=share

https://www.tumblr.com/bernard-the-rabbit/705601232213049344?source=share

[biblical-chronicles]

Studio time

____________________________________________________

where a burnt-out Liam finally finds a muse to inspire his new work.

[18+]

____________________________________________________

Liam Gallagher had always been larger than life—a rock star who never needed to say much but still commanded attention wherever he went. But beneath the front, behind the big parkas and unrelenting persona, there was summat that few ever saw: the struggles.

Noel’s absence had left a hole in Liam’s life, not just as a brother but as a creative force. Liam had always been the voice—the frontman—but Noel was the one who wrote the lyrics, the backbone of Oasis’ musical success. Now, with the weight of expectations pressing on him, Liam was lost. He was running out of things to say, and his creative fire was dimming.

The phone rang, cutting through the thick silence of his studio. It was his manager.

“Liam,” she began, her voice clipped with urgency, “We’ve got someone for you to meet.”

“Who?” Liam asked, voice hoarse. He didn’t feel like meeting anyone—especially not anyone from the music world.

“A young artist. She’s got a fresh approach, a solid reputation for album artwork. And she’s a musician too. You really need to get it together, everyone is expecting new material. At this rate we will have the album cover and an empty record”

Liam didn’t respond immediately, letting the words sink in. He needed help. He needed someone who could spark something in him, someone who could help him write the songs that everyone expected from him.

The manager continued, “She’ll meet you tomorrow. Be at the studio. Get your head together, Liam. We need this to work.”

Liam didn’t respond, the line going silent for a moment before he sighed. “Alright. I’ll be there.”

The next day, Liam sat in the studio, waiting. He tapped his foot nervously, something he would never admit to anyone. The door opened, and in walked a woman who immediately caught his attention.

You were a breath of fresh air—young, confident, but not overwhelming. Your eyes sparkled with creativity, and the way you held yourself showed that you were both confident and passionate about your craft. You had a certain warmth about you, a quiet intensity that Liam couldn’t quite place.

"Hi," you said softly, a bit shy but offering a hand to Liam. "I’m—"

“Yeah, I know who you are,” he cut in, leaning back in his chair with that familiar cocky grin. He studied you, a playful glint in his eyes as if to gauge whether you were a threat or a help.

You smiled, undeterred by his brusque greeting. “You don’t know me, but I think we’re about to get to know each other pretty well,” you said, settling into the chair across from him.

For the first time in a long while, Liam felt something stir in him—a strange mix of curiosity and something deeper that he couldn’t quite name.

“So, what’s this album all about?” you asked, getting straight to the point.

“You see I’m supposed to be making a new album,” Liam said, rubbing his hand over his stubbled chin. “But I can’t get a bloody word out. Not without Noel.”

Your eyebrows raised slightly, sensing the hesitation in his words. He was never the one to be so open. But there it was—the honesty.

You hesitated for a moment, then smiled, a thought forming. “Well, I was technically sent in to help with the artwork but I guess we can't move forward without even a simple concept. How about we try and brainstorm summat, doesn't have to be that serious”

Liam stared at you for a moment, considering your words. "You think you could help me amidst all this racket?" he asked skeptically.

“Maybe, I think I might help you find the right feeling,” you replied gently.

Liam nodded slowly, intrigued despite himself. "Alright, let’s give it a shot then.”

The sessions went on like that, one after another. Each meeting was a mix of quiet moments and bursts of energy. You worked on the concepts, some lyrics, the album artwork long forgotten. Liam wasn’t ready to admit it, but he found himself drawn to you in a way he hadn’t expected. Your passion for art, the way you spoke about music, the way you listened to him—it all felt new. Different. You weren’t just another person trying to latch onto his fame. You understood the struggle.

One afternoon, as the two of you sat surrounded by light sketches, cuppas, and notebooks filled with scribbles, Liam paused. He stared at the pile of lyrics in front of him, frustration slowly creeping in, as he hit another writer's block. He rubbed his hands over his face, then leaned back in his chair.

“You know,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, “I don’t even know if I need to be here. I don’t know if I can do it, love.”

You looked up from the papers, your eyes softening as you saw the weight he carried. “It’s okay,” you said, your voice quiet yet firm. “No one’s expecting perfection right away. But I think you can do it, you just need to give yourself a break, we've been at it for a while now”

Liam sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. “I just don’t know if I’ve got it in me anymore. It’s like I’ve run out of things to say.”

“You have a lot more to say than you think,” you said, your gaze steady, encouraging. “You just need to find it again. Start with what’s on your mind. What’s been keeping you up at night?”

Liam paused, thinking. The silence between you both felt like a quiet agreement. He was struggling, and he hated it. But maybe—just maybe—you were the one who could help him find his voice again.

“I don’t know, love,” he said quietly, “I think I might need more than just a little help with this.”

“Well,” you said with a playful smile, “I do happen to be willing to give you more than a little help. Not promising a masterpiece, though.”

Liam chuckled, “I’ll take owt right now.”

As you continued to talk through ideas, bouncing thoughts back and forth, Liam found himself listening intently, captivated by how naturally you spoke about writing music. There was a fire in your eyes when you talked about the craft, something that reignited a spark in him. He had forgotten how it felt to be passionate about creating. It was so easy for him to fall into the rhythm of what others expected from him. But with you, it was different. There was no pressure. Just music.

He was learning, slowly.

The meetings continued steadily, and with each one, Liam felt himself growing closer to you. It wasn’t just the music—it was the way you understood him, the way you gave him space to figure things out, but also challenged him when he needed it. You had a way of speaking to him without being overbearing, like you really understood what it was like to be a creative, struggling to find the next step.

And then, one day, it happened. As you sat across from each other, gathering thoughts for another set of lyrics, summat shifted. Liam was watching you talk—about the process, the frustration of a blank page—and he realized he wasn’t just listening to your ideas anymore. He was watching you. He was completely captivated by the way you spoke, by the fire in your eyes when you were passionate about summat. It made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t expect.

“You’re really summat, you know that?” he said softly, his voice unsteady as he found himself staring at you, not as a colleague or a collaborator, but as someone who made his heart race in ways he didn’t understand.

You blinked, surprised by the sincerity in his voice, but you smiled, unsure of what to say. “I’m just... trying to help,” you replied.

Liam leaned back in his chair, looking at you with a mix of admiration and something deeper. “You’ve done more than that. I haven’t been able to write a word without you. You’re... inspiring.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, both of you feeling the weight of them. Liam wasn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but somehow, with you, it felt like he couldn’t help it. You made him feel things he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Liam’s face softened, and without another word, he leaned in and kissed you—slowly, softly, like he had been waiting for this moment, just as much as you had.

His lips pressed against yours gently, almost as if testing the waters, unsure of what was to come next. The feeling of his mouth on yours was electric, a spark that quickly turned into a wildfire as you both gave in to what had been building for weeks. There was no denying it now. The connection between you wasn’t just creative—it was raw, emotional, summat deeper that had finally broken free from the confines of silence and unspoken feelings.

Liam pulled back slightly, his breath ragged, eyes searching yours as if to ask if you were feeling the same intensity. You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you leaned in again, this time with more urgency, your hands finding their way to his chest. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer, the warmth of his body filling the space between you both. Every kiss was a burst of emotion that had been hidden behind the lyrics, behind the music, behind everything that had been left unsaid.

Liam’s hands slid to your back, urging you closer, his lips never leaving yours. He kissed you like he had been waiting forever, like this was the release he needed. His tongue gently parted your lips, and you responded, meeting him with equal fervor, a fire igniting between you both that neither of you had expected.

The room felt hotter, the music that had once surrounded you now a distant hum, drowned out by the sound of your breathing, the soft moans, the taste of each other. Everything that had been trapped inside—every unspoken word, every bit of inspiration that had been poured into the songs—was now spilling over into something tangible. The music had brought you together, but now it became a physical manifestation of everything you had kept locked away.

Liam’s hands were no longer gentle. They were firm, insistent, pulling you into him like he couldn’t get close enough. He kissed you harder now, deeper, as if his soul was laying itself bare with each touch. You felt the weight of his body pressing against you, the intensity of his grip, the desperate need in the way his lips moved over yours.

“God,” Liam breathed against your lips, pulling away for a split second to catch his breath. His forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed, pupils dilated. “I’ve wanted this. Wanted you.”

Your heart thudded in your chest, and you smiled softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “I think we’ve both been waiting for this.”

Before you could say more, Liam was kissing you again, his hands roaming over your body with more confidence now, as if there was no holding back any longer. The intensity of it was overwhelming, both of you lost in the heat of the moment, in the desire that had been simmering just beneath the surface for so long.

“I need you,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice low and rough, almost desperate.

Your heart raced at the intensity of his words, the raw vulnerability he was showing you. You had never seen Liam like this—his usual attitude had faded away, replaced by something far more sincere, something that was pure and real.

“I’m here,” you whispered back, your voice just as shaky, as you kissed him again, harder this time.

The moment hung between you both, charged with a kind of electricity that neither of you had ever felt before.

Without breaking the kiss, Liam guided you back towards the couch, his hands cupping your face as he led you gently but firmly. Your legs hit the soft surface of the couch, as you both tumbled down onto it together, a tangle of limbs. The weight of him on top of you felt like a relief, like everything had been leading up to this. His lips trailed down your neck, moving with a sense of urgency, his kisses growing hotter, more frantic with each passing second.

You arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him, your hands exploring the hard muscles of his chest through the fabric of his shirt. Every inch of your body seemed to ache with a need that you couldn’t fully explain, but in that moment, you didn’t care to. You just wanted him. Wanted to feel him in ways you hadn’t even allowed yourself to imagine.

Liam’s lips left your neck, trailing over your jawline, before meeting your lips again, this time with even more fire. He wasn’t holding back now. His hand slid down your side, finding the hem of your shirt, lifting it slightly as his fingers brushed your skin. You shivered at the sensation, gasping as he kissed you deeper, his body pressing harder against yours.

His hands moved lower, slipping under your shirt, and you felt the heat of his skin on yours. You moaned softly, your hands sliding up to his shoulders, pulling him closer. The feeling of his touch, his skin on yours, was overwhelming, intoxicating. It was as though every touch, every kiss, was a punctuation mark in a story you had both been writing without realizing it—until now.

“Fuck, you feel incredible,” Liam whispered between kisses, his breath hot against your skin.

You didn’t have time to respond before his lips were on your neck again, his hands moving with more purpose, more urgency. His fingers brushed the edge of your bra, and you felt a jolt of desire run through you at the thought of him touching you more. You wanted it. You wanted him. All of him.

You pulled him back to kiss you, your hands tangling in his messy hair, your lips desperate and hungry. You could feel the heat radiating from him, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his body pressed against yours in a way that made your heart race even faster.

Liam broke the kiss, panting softly as his eyes met yours, both of you gasping for air. There was a moment of hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze, but it was quickly replaced with that same fire, that same need.

“You sure?” he asked, his voice rough, hoarse, like he wasn’t even sure he could wait.

You nodded, your hands gripping his shirt, pulling it up over his head in one swift motion. Your eyes drank him in, the hard lines of his chest, the muscles that flexed with each movement. You ran your hands over his skin, feeling the warmth of him, the way he tensed under your touch. It was enough to make your pulse race.

“I’m sure,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I want this. I want you.”

Liam groaned, his hands moving to your waist, lifting you slightly so that you could both shift on the couch into a more comfortable position. You felt his hard length press against you, and it sent a wave of heat rushing through you. He kissed you again, slower this time, the passion still there but tempered by something deeper, something more tender. His hands explored your body with a reverence that was new, that was raw, as if he were trying to memorize every inch of you, every curve, every sigh.

You responded with equal intensity, your hands moving to the buttons of his pants, your fingers trembling with anticipation. He didn’t stop you. In fact, his hands were on yours immediately, helping you, guiding you as you stripped away the last layers that had separated you.

His hand moved under your shirt again, his fingers brushing the soft fabric of your bra. He paused, his eyes flicking up to yours, searching for some sign, some indication that you were ready. You nodded, breathless, your chest rising and falling with anticipation.

"Take it off," you urged, your voice low, a mix of desire and longing.

Liam’s eyes darkened, and with a swift motion, he pulled your shirt over your head, tossing it aside. His gaze lingered on you, a hungry look in his eyes that made your heart race even faster. Slowly, his fingers traced the edge of your bra, his touch gentle but deliberate, before he unclasped it with a practiced ease.

You inhaled sharply as he removed the last barrier between you, his hands caressing the softness of your skin, moving over your breasts with a tenderness that made your stomach tighten. The heat between you both was palpable, and it was impossible to ignore. Your hands slid down his back, pulling him closer as you pressed your body against his, desperate to feel the full weight of him.

“You’re beautiful,” he said softly, his voice low and sincere. “More than I ever imagined.”

The compliment caught you off guard, and you felt a rush of warmth flood through you. You had always admired his confidence, but hearing him speak with such tenderness made you realize just how much he cared. It was more than lust. It was more than a fleeting moment. There was something deeper, something real between you both, and it had been building from the very first time you met.

“Liam,” you whispered, your hand reaching for his, pulling him up to kiss you again, harder this time. “Wait a second”

He lifted himself a bit waiting for your next move. You swiftly pushed him away til he was sitting up straight and started to take off his underwear. His breath hitched as you gave his length attention.

"You know you don't have to do this" he muttered between light moans, looking straight into your eyes.

"Oh but I want to, you deserve it" you answered as you placed a light kiss on his member's head.

His mouth opened but he couldn't manage anything more than a moan as you took him in your mouth. The sight of your eyes peeking from underneath your lashes, full of desire and love, determined to show him just how much he means to you was simply too much.

You seemed to relish every moment, your mouth trailing lower each time, spurred on by Liam's soft groans. His hand began to drift toward your hair but paused, hesitating for a moment, as if not wanting to push too far. Without overthinking, you reached for it, weaving his fingers into your hair. He responded instinctively, holding firmly, guiding your movements with a quiet, breathless 'fuck' slipping past his lips

A quick moan escaped your mouth at the sensation, the vibration of it making Liam shudder beneath you.

Emboldened, you took a deep breath and tried to take all of him, your nose brushing against his skin as he rolled his hips towards you with a deep, guttural groan. His fingers tightened in your hair as you gagged slightly around him.

'Oh fuck, I’m so sorry, love,' he murmured quickly, noticing the glossy sheen in your eyes. But you didn’t falter—his reactions were like rewards, each one spurring you on, and you weren’t about to stop collecting them.

Determined to draw even more from him, you let your hands join in, squeezing and stroking in perfect rhythm. The way his breathing turned ragged and his moans spilled into murmured praise made your own pulse quicken. When he called you his 'good girl,' you couldn’t hold back a muffled moan, the sound vibrating against him and pulling another throaty moan from his lips.

The tension in his body built rapidly, his thighs tensing beneath your touch, and his parted lips spilled broken, incoherent words. He was completely undone, his usual charm stripped away as he struggled to articulate anything beyond desperate stammers.

"F-fuck, love, I’m— I’m close," he gasped, voice strained. "Just—just keep doin’ that, yeah, yes, please." Every syllable was a trembling plea, his hands twitching slightly, almost helpless with the sensation overwhelming him. You could tell he wasn’t exaggerating; he was right on the edge, lost in the moment.

Before you could adjust or tease him further, his body stiffened, and he moaned your name, his voice breaking with the force of it. His hand slipped from your hair, brushing tenderly against your cheek for a fleeting moment before falling away as he let go completely, spent and shaking slightly.

You swallowed instinctively, your eyes flicking up to find him gazing at you with a dazed, almost dreamlike expression. His flushed face was framed by soft strands of hair clinging to his damp skin, his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths as he worked to gather himself.

Without thinking, you murmured, "You’re beautiful." The words came out quietly but with undeniable sincerity, the kind of raw honesty that didn’t need a second thought.

His lips curved into a faint, exhausted smile, his eyes still half-lidded but warm as they met yours. You shifted, propping yourself up beside him, laying down close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin. The quiet between you wasn’t awkward or heavy; it was soft, comforting, the kind of silence that spoke more than words ever could.

As he was still incapable of forming any actual sentences he just kissed you gently.

The kiss quickly deepened, and your body moved instinctively against his, every part of you aching to show him how much you cared. Liam responded with equal hunger, his hands now tracing the curves of your body, mapping every inch of you as if he could not get enough.

He slid his hand down to your waist, pulling you closer, and as your bodies pressed together, you could feel the heat building between you both, a tension so thick it made you dizzy. He was completely consumed by you, and you by him. The world beyond the studio no longer mattered. All that mattered was the two of you, here, in this moment.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured, his lips back on yours, kissing you fiercely, deeply.

And you just couldn’t stop the words from spilling out of your mouth. “I love you” you admitted, your hands wrapping around his chest.

Liam’s eyes locked with yours, his lips curling into a small, satisfied smile as he kissed you again, muttering a small "I love you too"

____________________________________________________

to whoever ordered filth here is yer filth, let me know how you liked it

this is me very first time writing summat of the sort so be gentle you lot, can't say that I didn't enjoy it though xx

(also, the new pictures he posted? hello? where are me knickers?)

[b33zlebubz]

RIGOR MORTIS | CHAPTER TWO

SIMON RILEY X AFAB READER | MASTERLIST | AO3 PREV CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER TAGS: reader uses she/her pronouns, blood violence & death, suicidal ideology, slow burn, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, toxic workplace environment "Abandoned in a battlefield with the one person you thought you would never see again; you're forced to come to terms with the ghosts of your past."

FRIDAY DECEMBER 3RD 2016 NORWAY, 0700 HOURS

Simon decides he prefers the cold.

Brazil is a pretty place, sure.  Of all the places he has been stationed, it's been by far one of the nicest; the closest to vacation that Simon Riley will ever get other than medical leave.  Running in over ten kilos of gear and getting shot at while doing it is probably one of the only things that could ruin a free trip to the tropical continent; he swears he nearly waterboarded himself with the amount of sweat he produced.  He went through three masks alone just in the two short weeks he was there, two of which had to be replaced.

Norway, though, was a little more tolerable.

He's new to the area, to the camp and to the people.  It's a nice day, for winter, but the frigid sun still stings through the eyeholes of his mask and where his gloves don’t quite reach the sleeves of his parka.  A familiar feeling; one he didn't exactly miss, but was closer to home and sure as hell beat the sweltering tropical heat of Brazil.

Captain Walker walks just a few strides in front of him, droning on about the base and what Simon would be doing here.  He had wasted no time at all giving Simon a tour of the camp fresh off the plane after he met with a few of the other COs he would be working under over the next couple of weeks.

It's busy for a relatively small and temporary base.  Soldiers of all ranks dart left and right; training, talking, and commuting.  Most of which are British, like him, but others are foreign as well.  He takes some amusement in the juxtaposition between him and the shorter man in front of him as he walks, and he's sure the others do, too.  Even some higher-ups are curious, pausing in the halls to take in his form a second time in surprise.

Simon's grown complacent over the years, he will admit.  He's too used to being around the same bases for too long, too used to people not sparing him a glance as he walks past—or rather—too used to people being used to him.  Here, people of all kinds seemed to lose track of what they were doing as he strides past, staring shamelessly.  Of course, he stares back, and it's usually enough to snap them out of it and send them on their way.

"Of course, you've likely been given the run-down plenty of times already, so I'll spare you all that rubbish," Walker drones on.  He's short.  Older, for an infantry man, but still strong, and with enough temper to make up for what he lacks in youth and height.  "I expect you know what you're doing with that shiny new rank of yours.  Need more men like you around…experienced men."

It isn't often Simon is sent anywhere for instructional purposes.  But with a recent lull in the violence and bloodshed in the world, he finds himself on more and more assignments like these—things to keep him busy.  Keep him moving.  With his new rank, he's attracted more work with leadership than much of anything else.

Camp Viking, Norway.  Assist Marine and Navy Corps with Arctic conditioning and training.

Should be easy enough.

"So, what's the uh…the deal?"

Simon raises an eyebrow at Walker, deciding to humor him despite knowing exactly what he was about to ask.  "Hm?"

"The classified-up-the-ass skeleton getup," he clarifies, eyeing Simon up and down.  "You think you're some superhero or something?”

The beginnings of an amused smirk twitch onto the lieutenant's face.  One thing that would never get old no matter where he was relocated was fucking with people.

"Something like that."

That seems to quell the man's curiosity for the time being.  He raises an eyebrow with an amused, or annoyed, huff before he shakes his head and changes the subject.

"For some of these boys…you're the only thing standing between them and a promotion," Walker gestures loosely to the shooting range at his right, where a handful of soldiers have taken to practicing.  "Don't go easy on 'em.  Not that I expect you to."

"Copy," Simon remarks, eyes sweeping across the field as he follows the captain.  The older man gestures to a plethora of concrete buildings and a few important people to remember.  He talks a lot, much more than Simon cares to listen to—but he follows anyway, taking in the scenery and acquainting himself with what will be his life for the next few weeks.  He eyes the soldiers around the shooting range, committing their faces to memory before Walker calls them to attention.

They're quite the squad.  Young, experienced.  Ghost notes with a huff that it's silent—the typical general shenaniganry of the Marines nonexistent; the product of strict instructors.  The captain goes on with all the formalities, introducing Simon and what he's here to do with the squad. 

Simon's eyes sweep the soldiers, who all avert their gaze the moment his eyes meet theirs.

Yours, however, doesn't.

You're rigid-still.  So still Simon thinks that if it weren't for the steady rise and fall of your chest, you'd be frozen to the snow you stand on.  Spine straight as a pole, boots pressed together, hands clasped at your back; the only thing that moves are your eyes when they flicker up to meet his.  Simon lingers, staring at you, eyes squinting down at where your upper face is exposed from your uniform gator.  

At first glance, you're harmless.  A handful of years younger than him, maybe—you seem like just another soldier who was roped into a station she was less than happy about.  He also thinks, maybe, he can tell what you're thinking—because you hold your head just a bit higher to make yourself appear taller. 

Your face is banged up.  Your nose is slightly crooked and there's a healing bruise across the bridge and under your eyes.  A scabbed-over cut crosses your upper cheek and another one cuts into your brow.  Your cheeks are sunken and your eyes bagged; and if Simon didn't know any better, he'd say it looked like you've been outside in the cold for weeks. 

"Well," Simon huffs.  "Aren't you a sight."

There's a glint in your eyes and Simon quickly realizes he's already underestimated your confidence.  "Could say the same to you, Lieutenant."

He raises an eyebrow at your boldness.  For a second, it's silent.  Behind him, Walker's head raises—appalled by your lack of respect. 

"Ignore her," he says.  "She may look it; but she’s no angel.  ‘Got more insubordination on her record than I have fingers on both hands, at this point."

Simon swears he sees your expression twitch, a slight crinkle of your injured nose at Walker's comment.  Your eyes flash with a concoction of emotions all hidden behind a barrier of discipline.  Regret, anger—fear, maybe—at the edge in your Captain's voice.  Nevertheless, you remain stoic. 

Hm.  

"Seems like you've had quite the week."  Simon says to you.  "Eh, Angel?"

You seem to short-circuit at the new nickname he dubs onto you, or maybe at the vaguest empathy in his voice—he can't tell.  He can see your mouth open with a response before it snaps shut again.  Your gaze flickers from Ghost, to Walker, and then back to Ghost again.

"I…"  you trail off, and then straighten yourself again.  "I will not hinder the team moving forward, sir."

It’s not really the answer he’s looking for.  His eyes narrow at you and your stubborn resolve, as if maybe if he looked at you close enough, he could see behind the thick wall of discipline you’ve put up.  He has questions, and lots of them.  

He holds your gaze for another moment, as if testing you.  When your stare doesn't budge, he finally relents with an approving nod.

"Hm," he says.  "Good."

Walker calls the squad at rest and Ghost continues on with the tour.  He feels your stare linger on the back of his neck as he walks close behind the captain before you return to target practice.  Once you’re out of earshot, Ghost turns his attention back to Walker.

“Captain.”

The Captain sighs, already knowing what's about to be asked of him before Simon can say anything, “Lieutenant.”

“I’d like to take a look at her file once we get back to your office.”

“Copy that, Ghost.”

[korpuskat]

Operational Temperature

[Ao3 Mirror] Pairing: Ramattra/Reader (Gender Neutral) Rating: PG WC: 883 Warnings: None

His hand is cold, the surface almost freezing even through your gloves. Inside his heaters are warmed, pumping hot air through his chassis. As cold as he still is to touch, you can’t imagine how much worse it would be with them off.

Because neither the heat- nor the ill-fitting coat you insisted he take- is for his benefit. He’d mentioned it once, offhandedly, talking about his plans for his troops. The operational temperature range for military-grade electronics puts even Nepali winters to shame.

You, however, struggle with the icy stones, the bracing winds, and the sharp cliff faces that threaten every twist of the path up the mountain. But Ramattra does not let go of your hand, guiding you slowly, step by step. His legs are much longer than yours, and he’s still familiar with the well-worn trek, yet he waits and keeps pace with you. When you nearly slip, he catches you- which makes you jolt from the achingly cold metal- but he keeps you upright until you find your balance, and soothes you with a murmured, “Not much further.”

Far beyond the actual walls, you move further up the mountain, until the lights below become fuzzy glowing orbs instead of signs of shops or temple lights.

He stops and looks around at a particular flat area. There’s nothing here but snow and a large stone wall, intricately carved with geometric patterns, surrounding a relief of Aurora herself. You want to touch it, to feel the shape of her- and Ramattra sweeps his hand across the snow piling in front of the wall.

You laugh softly in surprise. Beneath the white snow is a bench, completely hidden. It seems no one else has been up here in some time. At least not since it got this cold. Ramattra wastes no time in cleaning it up, making space to sit- and then adjusting the parka to cover as much of himself as he can.

You sit beside him, leaning casually against him- and “Oh,” Because his chest is actually warm, despite how his extremities have struggled to keep their temperatures up. It must be intentional, because he ushers you to sit in his lap, pressing as much of your back up against his chest as he can. His legs are not nearly as warm, but the coat and your own snow gear minimizes the cold shock of his plating.

You sigh and lean back against him, let your head hang back on his shoulder. All you can think about is the incredible heat that radiates through to you. “How are you so warm?”

“I’m scanning my own system files,” He replies, and presses his faceplate against your jacket. His head is somewhat warm too, the processors running there. “I could count infinitely until we descend, but I found this to be more engaging.”

Kissing him would still probably freeze your lips to him, so you don’t. Instead you cover his hand with your gloved one, despite the cold, and squeeze softly. “Thank you. It feels nice.”

And finally- you can relax enough to look up. Up into the black void of space above. Here, the view is nothing like you had expected. Even just down on the mountain, the lights all around had obscured so much of the beauty- dots and specks of light like a stray splattering of paint in every direction. Whirls of color, a white-cream like clouds themselves, tinged with orange and green, a darker rift right through the center. This is why he brought you here.

“I spent much time up here.” His synth buzzes against your shoulder as he speaks.

“It’s beautiful,” You reply, “And quiet.” This far from the town outside the monastery, there’s no noise from the cars, the mines- no footsteps, no gentle hums of monks in contemplation. The only noise aside from Ramattra’s own internals and your breathing is the wind.

“Yes,” Ramattra agrees. “I had thought the surface above the omnium would suit me much the same, but it isn’t the same, is it?”

“It’s warmer here.” That isn’t even a joke; you’d never venture to the surface even with your own personal heater. Ramattra makes a noise that you’ve come to understand is his approximation of a scoff. “Besides, you have history here. Even if you don’t agree with everything, this place- Shambali- is important to you. Makes sense you’d like it up here more than the lifeless Antarctic interior.”

He hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t respond for a while, simply curls his arms tighter around you, pulling you closer into his warmth. It’s comfortable, despite the cold nipping at your toes. Your eyes wander the sky, tracing constellations and sparkling white stars you’ve never known before.

“I was here when I decided I’d had enough,” It’s so quiet you almost don’t hear him over the wind.

You squeeze his hand again. You don’t clarify, because you mean any of it, all of it. Even if it was just having to leave his favorite stargazing spot: “Do you regret it?”

“No,” Sharp. Immediate. No hesitation. Exactly what you’d expected, despite the contemplation he’d had before. But he also presses his faceplate to you again, nudges at your shoulder through your jacket. “I would not have met you if I had stayed.”

[call-me-maggie13]

Beatrice tries to ignore the stone that settles in her gut every time her phone goes off. She’s desperate to forget. To burn it from her memory.

To stop flinching when Ava says her name.

"Beatrice?" Ava doesn’t like using Beatrice’s full name, she feels like Beatrice is in trouble every time she does. But she hates the stabbing fear that flashes across Beatrice’s face every time she calls her Bea. "Did you hear me?"

Beatrice blinks at her, shakes her head softly like she has to clear it.

"I didn’t, I - "

"Don’t apologize." Ava regrets it the moment she says it. Beatrice’s face falls and she turns away, jaw clenching. "You didn’t do anything you need to apologize for."

Ava wants to hold her. She wants to pull her into her and she wants to take all this darkness in Beatrice’s eyes away.

She settles for tracing her fingers over the inside of Beatrice’s wrist until Beatrice takes her hand. Beatrice squeezes her fingers and turns back.

"I asked if you wanted to go to the park with Diana and I." Beatrice looks to where Diana is struggling with the zipper of her coat, tip of her tongue sticking out of her mouth and face scrunched as she hums to herself. She turns back to Ava, eyes wide. "We can get ice cream on the way back?"

Beatrice smiles softly, Ava’s heart lurches in her chest.

"Okay." She nods and leans into Ava’s side, dropping her head on her shoulder. Ava threads her fingers through the hair at the base of her neck and holds her.

"Da." Diana tugs on Beatrice’s pant leg, presenting her zipper for Beatrice to inspect. "It broke."

Beatrice pulls away from Ava slowly, hesitates just a breath away before kneeling to help Diana with her coat.

It’s not her fault. Ava knows this. She knows there’s nothing she could’ve done to prevent what happened. She knows there’s no magic words she can say to fix it either.

Instead, she brushes a loose strand of hair behind Beatrice’s ear and smiles when she glances up at her. She would be lying if she said Beatrice’s responding smile didn’t knock the air from her lungs. She’d be lying if she said she didn’t miss that smile.

With Diana’s coat zipped and Ava’s parka fastened, Beatrice searches for her cardigan.

"It’s right here, Bea." They both freeze. "I’m sorry."

"It’s not…" Beatrice sighs and scrapes a hand down her face. "It’s not your fault."

I know. Ava wants to say. I know. I’m sorry I didn’t stop it. I’m sorry I didn’t know.

"Ava." Beatrice’s fingers curl softly around her wrist. "It’s not your fault, darling."

Ava’s heart stops, she doesn’t know how to breathe.

"What?" Beatrice starts to step away but Ava takes her hand.

"Say it again," Ava’s voice is barely audible, breathless.

"It’s not your fault?" Based on Beatrice’s crooked smile, she knows that wasn’t Ava’s request. Ava doesn’t have it in her to ask again, still trying to recover from the first time. "Or darling?"

Oh no. Ava can’t do this. She wants to squeal like a child. She flushes hot, her cheeks stained red and chest tingling. This - this is - oh god. This is too much.

Beatrice cannot act like this and expect her not to kiss her.

It’s unfair. It’s entirely unfair.

Because now all Ava can think about is pushing Beatrice’s button up off her shoulders and letting it fall to the floor and -

"Mama…" Diana whines, tugging on her coattail. "Hurry…"

Beatrice is grinning. She knows. Beatrice is completely aware of the affect she has on Ava.

She knows and yet, she does it regardless.

"Sorry, kiddo." She snaps back into action, taking a deep breath and clearing her throat, holding the cardigan up to Beatrice. "I believe this is yours."

"It is." Beatrice makes no move to take it from Ava, Ava presses her lips into a thin line and opens it up, waiting for Beatrice to slip inside and turn back to her, her own cheeks tinting pink when Ava starts to fasten the buttons slowly.

She brushes her knuckles against Beatrice’s neck when she smooths the collar of her shirt over the top of the cardigan. Beatrice tries and fails to suppress a shiver at the electric touch.

Ava lingers in Beatrice’s touch just long enough that Beatrice starts to think she’ll kiss her.

That Beatrice starts to hope she’ll kiss her.

Ava clears her throat when she steps back, offers her hand for Diana to tug on and a shimmering smile for Beatrice to burn into her memory. Beatrice has to take a deep, steadying breath before she can follow them.

I love you.

Diana spends most of the walk to the park using Beatrice as a makeshift jungle gym, climbing up her back and over her shoulder, holding her hands and trying to run up her legs when they’re waiting at a crosswalk.

She doesn’t wait for Ava or Beatrice to race to the playground, racing through the park and throwing herself onto a swing. She squeals and twists twirling around and around, stumbling and falling when she finally stands up.

"Wait, wait." Beatrice grabs Ava’s arm, keeps her from rushing to Diana. "Three seconds."

Diana sits up slowly, inspecting herself. She blinks and brushes sand from her face. She smiles at Ava and Beatrice when she stands back up, still wobbly from the spinning but quickly returning to her play.

"Three seconds?" They watch Diana try to climb up the slide, slipping and sliding to the bottom.

"It’s something Shannon told me when I first started working with kids. Three seconds gives them a chance to figure out if they’re actually hurt or not. If you jump in acting like they should be hurt, they’ll start crying even if they’re not because that’s the reaction they think they’re supposed to be having," Beatrice explains.

"Basically, ignore it until it becomes a problem?" Ava teases, Beatrice scoffs and rolls her eyes, Ava bumps their shoulders together. "How’d you get so smart, Beatrice?"

"You want the abridged version or the uncut version?" Ava laughs, leans into Beatrice’s side and drops her head on her shoulder.

Diana nearly makes it to the top of the slide before slipping and sliding to the bottom, groaning before trying to clamber back up. A boy at the top extends his hand down to help her over and she bounces at the top, cheering and waving at Ava and Beatrice. They wave back together, Beatrice’s arm settling around Ava’s shoulders.

"Mama!" Diana waves bounces and points to the monkey bars.

"I got her," Beatrice kisses the top of Ava’s head before extricating herself.

"I’m going to get the ice cream, if that’s alright?"

"Don’t want to ruin her dinner?" Beatrice teases and nods, Ava’s shining smile making her chest warm.

Diana waves her mother off before reaching for the rungs, Beatrice lifting her and holding her steady as she moves from one bar to the next, tip of her tongue sticking out of her mouth as she focuses. She strains and groans and, when she reaches the last rung, she drops her arms and flops dramatically back into Beatrice.

"Are you okay?" Beatrice laughs, poking her in the side and earning a dramatic groan.

"No like," Diana whines, wiggling until Beatrice has her cradled against her chest.

"You say that every time." Beatrice kisses her forehead and bounces her playfully. "Do you wanna try the swings again? I can push you."

"No push."

"No push? You do wanna swing though?" Diana nods and throws her leg over Beatrice’s shoulder, squirming until she’s hanging upside down. "Ahh, so you wanna swing from me, patinho?"

Diana giggles and grins up at her, reaching back up for Beatrice to help her upright.

"Carlos," Diana whispers into Beatrice’s shoulder, pointing at something behind her. Beatrice turns and the boy waves at her, dropping his mother’s hand and running up to them.

Beatrice freezes. Like a rabbit caught in a wolf’s den, every part of her stills. She’s nearly certain her heart stops it’s rhythm in her chest when the icy tendrils of fear swell through her.

"Dada, down!" Diana whines, wriggling and writhing in an attempt to escape. Beatrice blinks, carefully letting Diana free and taking three large steps away from Lucia.

"Hey, Bea, have you been avoiding me?" Lucia takes a step toward her. Beatrice takes two steps away.

Yes. Beatrice thinks. Her mouth doesn’t move.

"Well, Carlos and I were in the area and I thought we’d find you here. Where’s, uh, Eva, was it?" Lucia knows her name. She’s pronouncing it wrong on purpose.

Beatrice glances to the bench they’d been at. Ava took Diana’s diaper bag. It has her wallet in it, of course she would. She’s only going to be gone for a few minutes.

Beatrice’s phone is in Diana’s diaper bag.

Lucia’s still talking. Beatrice doesn’t know what she’s saying but her mouth is moving.

Diana is following Carlos across the rope bridge, their hands clasped as he helps her balance when it bounces and sways beneath them.

Lucia’s touching her.

She’s still talking and her hands are everywhere.

On her face, her back, her shoulders. Beatrice tries to tell her to stop. Tries to ask her to leave.

She can’t find her voice.

She can’t breathe.

Her heart feels wrong.

Something.

Something’s wrong.

She’s dying.

She stumbles trying to back away from Lucia.

Stumbles and falls.

Clawing at her heart, she tries to breathe.

Someone else.

Tries to talk to her.

He steps between her and Lucia and asks her a question.

Help.

Diana.

Stop.

Lucia’s in her face.

Talking. Words.

Words. So many words.

The same guy.

He pulls Lucia away and a man in a uniform replaces her.

He doesn’t touch her. But he says things too.

Mary.

"Can you hear me, kid?" Mary. Mary.

Diana.

"Hey, Bea, my partner’s with Diana right now, I need you to focus on me. Can you do that?"

Diana.

Mary turns. Says something to the man in the uniform.

She’s dying.

Her body burns. Cold and hot at the same time.

She’s dying.

Find more below the break or here!!

~*~

Ava sees the crowd from down the block, she doesn’t know why the sight makes her heart race and her throat tight. She glances around the playground, her heart sinking when she doesn’t spot either Diana or Beatrice. She tries to see through the crowd, walking around it in an attempt to see through them.

"Bea, just calm down." Ava knows that voice. Ava would know that voice anywhere.

She drops the ice cream and pushes through the crowd, elbows digging into ribs, hands shoving a path clear. She doesn’t apologize.

She sees Carlos first, clutching desperately to Diana’s hand. His face is pale and his hands are shaking but he’s trying to keep Diana calm. Diana’s crying, fingers in her mouth trying to claw the tears from her throat. Carlos holds her other hand, tells her everything is okay.

How’d a kid like him end up with a mother like his?

"Diana." Ava has to shove a man out of her way. He curses her and tries to grab her arm when she breaks through the crowd.

"Ava," Mary calls, standing and taking her hand. That’s when Ava sees her.

Beatrice, on her back, staring at the trees above them, empty. Her breathing is ragged and desperate and she’s clutching her chest like she’s trying to pull her heart from behind her ribs. Her mouth is moving like she’s trying to speak but she doesn’t make a sound.

"Bea, stop making a scene," Lucia tries to kneel next to Beatrice’s head.

"Get away from her." Blind hot rage rips through Ava, yanking Lucia from the ground and throwing her behind Ava. Mary jumps between Ava and Lucia, arm raised to Ava.

"Not in front of the kids, Ava." Ava doesn’t care about the children. Let them see her break Lucia’s jaw. Let them know how terrible Lucia is.

"Oh, calm down, Eva." Ava lunges at her, fists clenched and ready for attack.

Mary grabs her, forces her back.

"Ava, that’s assault. You can’t - "

"That’s assault?! What about what she did?!" Ava tries to duck out from under Mary, but she’s faster.

"You don’t want to do this here." There’s something beneath her words that Ava can feel but she doesn’t understand. She doesn’t know what it means, but she knows that look in Mary’s eyes. The smoking fire that glows there. Here.

"What I did?" Lucia points at herself, eyebrows raised and mouth gaping. Ava wants to punch her perfect white teeth down her throat. "I didn’t do anything except what Bea wa - "

"You’ve got three seconds to back the fuck up before you start losing fingers." Mary’s voice is level and calm, which is somehow more terrifying than Ava thinks it would be if it were loud and angry. Lucia takes a large step back, nearly backing into the edge of the crowd.

"Uh, Masters, you wanna get her outta here?" The man checking Beatrice’s pulse seems concerned, his voice unsteady and breaking.

"Ava." Mary nods to Beatrice, finally releasing Ava before turning back to the man. "Load her up."

The man grabs a backboard from the stretcher, yelling at the people around them to make room. Ava squeezes her fists at her sides, tenses the muscles in her arms before forcing them to relax.

"Diana," Ava calls, reaching for the terrified girl. "Hey, it’s going to be alright, baby."

She wants to tear Diana away from Carlos. She wants to slap his hand away from Diana’s and scream. But it’s not his fault. It’s not his fault.

Diana drops Carlos’s hand and stumbles into Ava, rubbing her tear soaked face into Ava’s parka. Ava cradles her, rocking her and humming for her. Promising everything will be okay.

Mary talks to Beatrice as they load her on the gurney and wheel her through the park. Ava can’t hear what she’s saying but Beatrice’s breathing starts to level out. Beatrice flinches when they load her into the back of the ambulance, her entire body going taut until Ava climbs in after her, Diana clinging to her, shaking.

"Hey, it’s me, Beatrice." Beatrice blinks, slowly, ever so slowly tilting to face Ava. When their eyes meet, Beatrice takes a deep breath. Ava smiles, shimmering and teary. "Can I hold your hand?"

Beatrice nods softly, turning her palm over for Ava to squeeze. Beatrice squeezes back. Ava counts the beeps on the equipment measuring her breaths and heartbeats.

…11, 12, 13…

Beatrice is alive.

…56, 57, 58…

Beatrice is okay.

…123, 124, 125…

"I’m sorry." It’s barely a whisper, Beatrice’s voice strained, tears spilling down her cheeks when she speaks.

"Beatrice…" Ava wants to wipe her tears away. She wants to tell her she doesn’t need to apologize.

"It’s Bea. With you, it’s Bea."

"Bea," Ava corrects. "You don’t - you didn’t - it’s not your fault. I’m sorry."

"For what?" Beatrice sits further up, her free hand reaching for Diana and nudging her into lifting her head from her mother’s chest. Softly she asks Diana, "Do you want a hug, patinho?"

Diana crawls into Beatrice’s arms, tucks her nose in the crook of her neck and clings to her. Beatrice kisses the side of her head and pats her back.

"For leaving. I should’ve stayed. If I’d - "

"You didn’t know. You couldn’t have known. You did nothing wrong, Ava."

"Aye, why don’t we give them a minute, Sosa?" Mary practically drags the paramedic out of the ambulance, offering a tilted salute before closing the doors.

"I should be the one apologizing. That must’ve been so embarrassing, I’m so sorry."

"Bea, no." Ava shakes her head and brushes Beatrice’s tears away. She hesitates when she realizes what she’s doing, starts to pull away.

"It’s okay." Beatrice nods, a tiny sliver of a smile ghosting across her lips when Ava cradles her face. Beatrice exhales heavily, leans into the touch.

"Do you really think I was embarrassed?" Beatrice turns away, fresh tears building behind her waterline. Ava moves closer, turning her face carefully to meet her eyes. "You weren’t embarrassing me, Bea. Your emotions don’t embarrass me.

"They’re part of - " The reason I fell in love with you is what Ava wants to say. The reason I’m so deeply in love with you is what Ava fights to keep behind her teeth. "They’re what makes you human. And being human is never something I’ll hold against you."

"I…" I’m in love with you is what Beatrice wants to say. "Thank you."

Ava nods softly, kissing the back of Beatrice’s hand.

The beeps on the monitor are slower now, more evenly spaced out. The rhythm steady and soothing.

Beatrice is okay.

"Do you want to go home?" Before Beatrice can answer, the bag on Ava’s back starts ringing.

"It’s Shannon," Beatrice informs Ava before she has a chance to take the bag off. Her ringtone is the only personalized one on her phone.

"That's my fucking best friend, that's my fucking right hand

That's my fucking throw up in the bathroom, but still love them

That's my fucking best friend, best friend"

"Why don’t I have a special ringtone?" Ava teases as she extends the phone for Beatrice to answer.

"Because you don’t piss me off enough," Beatrice quips, smile soft but shining.

Beatrice is okay.

"Hey - " Beatrice is immediately cut off, Shannon’s voice overpowering her. "Shannon." Shannon doesn’t stop. "Shannon." Ava doesn’t know how someone can talk so fast without taking a breath. "Shannon, stop."

No pause, Shannon keeps going and going until finally, Beatrice sniffles and exhales shakily.

"I just want to go home, Shan." Her voice breaks over the words and she glares at the light above her. Ava rubs her thumb over Beatrice’s knuckles.

Shannon stays quiet for a moment, continuing much quieter and slower before hanging up. Beatrice doesn’t move, she lets the phone fall away from her face and her eyes slide closed as she takes deliberate, deep breaths.

Ava gathers Beatrice’s tears beneath the pad of her thumb, swipes them away over the apple of her cheek. Ava’s heart lurches and her throat burns beneath the tears she’s holding back.

"Can we go home?" Ava nods, knocks on the back door and helps Mary steady Beatrice as she climbs out, Diana cradled carefully against her chest. Mary asks a couple of questions before pulling Beatrice into her for a tight hug.

"I’m here, Bea. Always," Mary murmurs into her shoulder. "I love you, kid. You three get home safe. If you need anything."

Ava nods and takes Beatrice’s hand when she offers it, tangling their fingers together and kissing the back of her hand softly. Beatrice leans into her, eyes distant and unfocused. Ava doesn’t try to bring her back yet. Ava lets her sink to the depths of the ocean because she’s not certain how to keep her at the surface.

So she leads them through traffic, stands as a buffer between Beatrice and the other pedestrians, rambles about the plot of a movie she’d watched earlier that week — hoping her voice will keep Beatrice tethered to her, will guide her like a lighthouse out of the storm behind her eyes. She can’t be certain if it’s having any effect on Beatrice, but it doesn’t stop her from beginning a retelling of some alien movie Hans had recommended.

Up the stairs, down the hall, through the door. Ava leads Beatrice to a chair in the living room, bustles about packing a bag for Diana.

"Hey, Bea." She holds the bag up in exchange for Diana, returning with a pajamaed toddler a few minutes later. "Hey, come on."

She offers her hand for Beatrice to latch onto. To tether her to this moment.

"Where…" Beatrice doesn’t finish the sentence.

"I’m taking you home. You should sleep in your own bed tonight." Beatrice refocuses on Ava, eyes clearing and for a moment, Ava thinks she’s going to cry.

"I - " She could say it. I love you. Beatrice could say it and she would mean it and Ava would probably say it back and mean it also. But if she told her now, it wouldn’t feel right.

It wouldn’t feel right.

So she falls unceremoniously into Ava’s chest, tucks her nose in her neck and squeezes her as tight as possible.

It’s her. It’s Ava. It’s her Ava. And maybe that shouldn’t be such a groundbreaking revelation, maybe it’s obvious. Beatrice has been in love with Ava so long that she doesn’t remember ever not being in love with her. But Ava.

Ava’s it. The One. The person Beatrice feels safest with. The person Beatrice had cried herself to sleep over when she was thirteen years old, terrified God had made her wrong. The person Beatrice never believed she would love, much less that she would love her back.

Perhaps every heartache Beatrice has suffered, every tear she’s cried, every sob she’s muffled in her pillow, perhaps they all led Beatrice here. Here. To Ava.

To Ava and to Diana.

They’re something no one — not Lucia nor Beatrice’s parents nor the girl that broke Beatrice’s heart when she was sixteen, none of them — can take away.

"Thank you." It’s not enough. Nothing Beatrice can ever say will ever be enough.

"I haven’t done anything," Ava chuckles. She squeezes Beatrice as tightly as she’s capable, fingers twisting Beatrice’s cardigan into her fists.

"Me too?" Diana pulls on their pant legs.

"Of course, patinho." Beatrice scoops Diana up, smiling when Diana throws an arm around both their necks and squeezes them in.

"Tank you!"

Beatrice could stay here forever. In this tiny perfect bubble.

~*~

Diana chases Arson down the hallway, giggling and shrieking before racing away. Arson chases her, pouncing over the couch and batting Diana’s leg before darting away. Diana tumbles over the arm of the couch and down the hallway after him, giggling.

Beatrice wants to laugh at their game, wants to ask Diana when she taught Arson tag, wants to want to join them. But she doesn’t.

She wants to curl into a ball beneath her duvet and let the winter season pass her by.

"Hey," Ava doesn’t touch her but she nods to the living room and Beatrice can imagine the way Ava’s fingers would ghost around her wrist to lead her to the couch "Do you want to watch something?"

Beatrice shrugs. She doesn’t much care, if she’s being honest. She wouldn’t be able to focus on it and the sound would probably overstimulate her already exhausted mind, but she doesn’t want to sit in silence.

Beatrice had never understood the saying bone tired until now. Because she is bone tired. She’s so tired her bones feel weak and gelatinous and heavy. All of her feels so heavy.

"Bea?" Beatrice doesn’t even have the energy to turn to Ava, to hum a response. Beatrice knows the question Ava would ask regardless. "Do you want me to run you a bath?"

That wasn’t the question Ava was supposed to ask.

Are you okay? Are you alright? Was the question she was meant to ask. Ava wasn’t supposed to remember how Beatrice had felt dirty the last time she’d seen Lucia. Ava wasn’t supposed to know that Beatrice felt dirty now. She felt unclean, used and disgusting. Like Lucia had burnt a layer of filth into her skin and no amount of scrubbing and scouring would ever remove it — Beatrice would have to remove her skin before the filth would wash away.

Beatrice fights against the lump in her throat to form the words, "Thank you."

"You don’t have to thank me, Bea, it’s just a bubble bath."

"Bubbles? I don’t - "

"Oh, don’t worry. I packed some." Ava winks when she stands, brushes her knuckles over Beatrice’s cheek when she leans down to give her a quick hug.

She packed some. Ava packed bubbles. For a bath. For Beatrice. For her.

"Dada!" Diana throttles over the arm of the couch and into Beatrice’s chest. "Arson cheated!"

"Cheated how?" Beatrice forces a laugh, wrapping an arm around Diana’s waist when she stands and points accusatorially at the chubby cat.

Diana babbles, throwing random sounds and hand motions together in an attempt to convince Beatrice of Arson’s guilt. Arson bounces atop the arm of the couch next to Beatrice, flicking his tail and meowing in discontent before settling beside them.

"What’s goin’ on here?" Ava takes Diana from Beatrice and offers her a hand to help her stand.

"Diana V. Dumpster Cat," Beatrice explains, bumping their shoulders together. It’s brief, the split second when their shoulders touch. But the warmth it spreads through Beatrice’s body is not. "The case of the covinous kitten."

"Sounds like a great bedtime story, doesn’t it, Diana?"

"No! No bed! Arson, run!" Diana wiggles out of Ava’s arms and races down the hall, glancing between her parents and her furry partner in crime.

Ava sucks in a deep breath, fighting back a smile.

"She’ll be asleep before you get either one of them out from under the bed," Beatrice assures. Ava smiles, bright and shining.

"That’s if I get them out from under the bed. You don’t have spiders, she can sleep there." Ava shrugs playfully, rolls her eyes and sighs.

"Yeah. Right. I don’t have spiders." Beatrice’s voice is distant, hollow. Ava brushes their knuckles together and Beatrice refocuses on her.

"You’re safe, Bea." Beatrice nods softly, blinking tears out of her eyes. "You and Diana and I are safe. Even if you have spiders."

Beatrice laughs wetly, her soft, watery half smile making Ava grin.

A loud crash from the spare room shatters the moment, Beatrice’s heart stopping until Diana stumbles out the door gripping the cat against her chest.

"He breaked it," Diana whispers, "I sorry."

"Are you hurt?" Diana shakes her head, offers Arson for Beatrice to check him over. "He’s okay. As long as you’re both alright, it’s okay. Accidents happen, we just gotta remember to be more careful next time alright? Thank you for telling me."

"Do you want to help me clean it up?" Ava offers, Diana nods and rubs her eyes. "Then we can go to bed, yeah?"

Diana grumbles but doesn’t ask to stay up, taking Ava’s hand and following her to the door.

"Night night, dada." Diana blows a kiss at Beatrice just before disappearing into the room.

~*~

Diana must go down without too much trouble because Ava knocks on the bathroom door only twenty minutes later.

"So, there used to be a glass figurine on the bookshelf in that room. I’ll replace it when I get paid next, I’m sorry." Ava doesn’t look at Beatrice, stands awkwardly in the door and stares at her hands.

"It’s fine, Ava. Accidents happen and I can’t recall what it was regardless." Beatrice wants to sink beneath the bubbles and let them fill her lungs. She’s already scrubbed her skin raw, bright pink and stinging, but it doesn’t feel clean enough.

"She needs to be more careful."

"She’s two, Ava. She’s being as careful as she can." Beatrice needs Ava to sit. She needs her out of the door. She doesn’t know why but it’s making her hands shake to have the door blocked. To have Ava standing when she’s not. "Can you - could you sit please?"

Ava turns, steps out of the door, "Yeah, sorry. Um… I’ll be in the - "

"No!" Water sloshes over the edge of the tub, spilling down the side and splashing over the tiles at the base. Ava freezes in the door and Beatrice has to remind herself to breathe. "I just - I meant - just - stay? Please?"

"Right. Yeah. Okay. But I’m not sitting in that water," Ava teases softly. "Where are your towels?"

"There." Beatrice points at the cabinet beside Ava, trying to control her shaking hand. Ava toes the towel over the puddle, not sitting until the tiles are sufficiently dry. She doesn’t speak and she doesn’t turn, but she offers her hand for Beatrice to hold if she wants.

Beatrice wants to hold her hand. But she doesn’t want Ava to know how wretchedly her hands are still shaking. She doesn’t want Ava to know how upset she still is.

She doesn’t want Ava to know she’s this weak.

"Hey, Bea?" Beatrice doesn’t trust her voice not to crack. She doesn’t trust herself not to cry.

"You know you don’t have to be okay for me, right? I don’t…" Ava sighs, tugs her sleeve over her fingers before balling her hand into a fist. She keeps her free hand on the edge of the tub, in case Beatrice changes her mind. "I don’t expect you to be okay right now."

Beatrice doesn’t answer. She’s not sure how she would. She’s not okay. She doesn’t want to lie to Ava and say she is. But she doesn’t want to admit just seeing Lucia left her this shaken.

"I know you’re not okay, Bea," Ava whispers, turning just the slightest so Beatrice can see the way her bottom lip shivers. "I’m not okay either."

"I’m sorry." Beatrice hates herself for crying.

"No. No, Bea. It’s not…" Ava starts to turn to her, remembering at the last second and turning back, staring purposefully at the door. "It’s not your fault."

"You can turn," Beatrice whispers. "I trust you."

"Are you sure?" Beatrice takes Ava’s hand, squeezes her fingers three times.

"I’m certain. I trust you."

Ava turns slowly, waiting for Beatrice to change her mind, to tell her to stop, to tell her to turn around. Beatrice doesn’t. Beatrice holds her eye contact and doesn’t tell her to turn around.

"Do you believe me?" It’s important that Beatrice believes Ava.

"About?" Beatrice knows. She’s not certain why she’s stalling.

"That it’s not your fault." Beatrice drops her gaze. "It’s not, Bea. I need you to know that. You didn’t do anything to deserve - You didn’t do anything wrong."

"I should’ve - "

"No. No, you shouldn’t have. She should’ve listened to you. She should’ve respected you. She should’ve - "

"Thank you." Ava’s boiling blood cools to a simmer, the heat in her veins being replaced with a familiar warmth.

Ava isn’t certain what Beatrice is thanking her for. Her rightful anger? Her fierce defense of Beatrice? Her mere existence?

It doesn’t matter, because whatever she’s done has returned the light to Beatrice’s eyes. It might be darker than before, but it’s there. It’s there and that’s enough.

"Do you want me to wash your hair again?"

"No, thank you." Beatrice turns away, voice tight and breathing shaking.

"Okay." Ava smiles warmly, turning back to face the door and kicking her feet out in front of her.

"Ava?" Ava turns, eyes wide and bright. "Thank you."

Ava’s responding smile is soft and timid, a complete juxtaposition to the normal fiery grin Beatrice loves so much. Beatrice thinks she might like this smile more.

Beatrice is about to tell her when the doorbell rings, a five note melody that always gets stuck in her head for hours after it’s time has faded, and Ava pushes to her feet.

"Is it okay if I get it?" Do you want me to stay?

"Yeah. Thank you." I’m okay. I’ll be okay.

"I’ll be in the kitchen when you get done, yeah?" Do you want me to come back?

"That sounds good." I’ll find you there.

Ava hesitates in the threshold, one foot in the hall, one hand on the door. Beatrice considers calling her back but she bites her tongue, waits for her to leave the door open a crack before sinking beneath the waterline. She hears a murmur of conversation, someone making Ava protest before someone else makes her laugh.

Three solid knocks on the door.

"Bea, I’m coming in." It’s Shannon. Of course it’s Shannon. Beatrice pushes above of the water as the door creaks open. "You alright?"

Beatrice nods and Shannon frowns but she doesn’t say anything. She pushes onto her toes before rocking onto her heels, leaning back against the door until it clicks closed. Her hands are clasped behind her back and she puffs her cheeks out in the way she does when she’s trying not to speak. She’s looking around the room, observing the dust buildup on the vent and the dried splotch of toothpaste in the sink basin.

"Shan?" Shannon snaps to attention, finally meeting Beatrice’s eyes.

"Yeah, what’s up?" Shannon still doesn’t know how to act when Beatrice is like this. When Beatrice is small and quiet and hurting. When nothing Shannon could ever say or do will fix whatever problems Beatrice is suffering from.

"Is that my hoodie?" Beatrice glances pointedly at the Canadian flag embroidered across the grey hoodie before raising her eyes back to Shannon’s. It’s not. Shannon bought it when she went to Alaska with Mary two summers ago, but the question eases the rigidity in Shannon’s stance.

"You wish, loser. Your fashion sense isn’t nearly as sick as mine." It’s easy. The way Shannon slips back into the rehearsed conversation.

"You do look quite ill," Beatrice quips. Shannon smiles and rolls her eyes, lowering herself beside the tub to press a kiss against Beatrice’s temple.

"Are you alright, Speedy?" Shannon’s knuckles are bloodied and bruising.

"What’d you do?" Beatrice lifts Shannon’s hands to inspect them. The blood is dried and it doesn’t appear to be Shannon’s.

"Nothing." Beatrice glares at her. "I didn’t do anything, Bea. I promise. I - I wanted to. But I didn’t do anything."

She’s telling the truth. Her nose doesn’t twitch like it does when she’s lying. Beatrice believes her.

Beatrice wishes Shannon had done something.

"Okay."

"Okay." Shannon wipes a bead of water from Beatrice’s forehead, holds her face and stares intensely into Beatrice’s eyes. "You’re okay."

"I’m okay," Beatrice confirms.

"Okay. Well, I brought Chinese but it’s already cold because you were supposed to be at Ava’s and you weren’t."

"Ava lives like. Two blocks away."

"I didn’t say it was warm when we got to Ava’s. It’s just colder because you weren’t," Shannon smiles and flicks Beatrice’s forehead lightly. "So hurry up. Or I’ll put it in the freezer and you can eat icy lo mein."

Beatrice is okay.

~*~

"Shannon, I will file for divorce if you eat my egg roll," Mary’s threat carries down the hall, wrapping around Beatrice’s shoulders like a sweater.

"Technically, half of this egg roll is mine. You know the whole what’s yours is mine and mine is yours schtick," Shannon giggles, waving the egg roll when she speaks.

"Technically, I’ve already found a divorce lawyer who disagrees with that statement." Mary lunges across the table and snatches it away. Lilith and Ava laugh at them, Camila twisting in her chair and smiling at Beatrice.

"Hey." Camila’s greeting quiets the room, the group turning to greet Beatrice silently.

"You look like shit." Lilith doesn’t do comfort very well. She hasn’t since Beatrice met her when they were seven years old, Lilith finding Beatrice crying in the garden outside a gala after being told she has buck teeth by a senator’s son. Lilith had "accidentally" broken the boy’s nose twenty minutes after she’d told Beatrice her buck teeth suit her face. "You should like. Eat. Then sleep. Then probably sleep some more."

Beatrice chuckles, slipping into the seat beside Ava.

"Talk to my baby sister like that again and I’ll rearrange your face," Shannon threatens playfully around a mouthful of Mary’s egg roll.

"You bastard! That’s mine!" Beatrice giggles when Mary points accusatorially at Shannon, Ava’s hand finding hers and squeezing softly. "I’m taking Jasper and Bea!"

"Good luck with that. Bea’s always been mine and Jasper won’t even sit when you tell him to."

"Then I’m taking…" Mary glances around the table. "Lilith and the sesame chicken."

"Hey," Camila bumps Beatrice’s knee with her own.

"Hello." Beatrice gives her a polite half smile. It’s all she has the energy to muster.

"Do you need to hear anything from me? Is there anything I can say to help you feel better?" Beatrice considers her question. She’s never been asked how someone could help before. Except by stockers in a market.

"Can you just - can you tell me it’s okay?" Beatrice doesn’t have the energy to fight her voice crack or watery eyes.

"Hey, Bea?" Camila leans closer, ghosts her hand over Beatrice’s before taking it and squeezing it tight, staring intentionally into her eyes. "It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay. I promise."

"Thanks." Beatrice can barely whisper around the lump in her throat. Camila nods and squeezes her hand again before releasing it.

"Do you wanna watch Barbie: Fairytopia or Barbie: Mariposa first?" Lilith holds up both DVD cases for Beatrice.

"What if I want to watch an adult movie?"

"You can watch all the adult films you want in the comfort and privacy of your room. We’re having a movie night and I wanted to extend you the courtesy of choosing the first title, but you’ve lost that right now. Now we’re watching Fairytopia because Bibble is my favorite. You’re welcome to watch your adult films while we watch this though." Lilith is painfully deadpan, waving her hand dramatically down the hallway to gesture towards Beatrice’s bedroom.

Beatrice almost smiles. If Beatrice’s body wasn’t so heavy and she wasn’t so tired, she would probably have a witty rebuttal to Lilith’s statement. But she doesn’t.

"Are we making a fort?" Mary tears the table’s attention away from Beatrice’s blank face. "Shannon brought her favorite blanket fort materials, I think we should go make a fort to watch the movies in."

"We’re staying all night, right?" Camila asks as she follows Shannon and Mary into the living room. Someone responds, Beatrice isn’t sure what’s said.

"How bad is it, Bea?" Lilith drops her façade, forced neutrality falling away to genuine concern. "Better or worse than the One Direction breakup?"

Beatrice laughs. Lilith had claimed she was going to die when One Direction announced their split. Lilith had mourned the loss more intensely than the death of her father. But she’d been okay in the end.

Beatrice will be okay, in the end.

"Equivalent?" Beatrice doesn’t think it’s worse, but she’s certain it’s not better.

"Do I need to commit another felony?" Another. Lilith’s as pedantic as Beatrice when it comes to breaking rules. Lilith, to Beatrice’s knowledge, has never committed a felony.

"No, I will certainly inform you if and when you need to commit your felonies, Lil." Lilith grins before forcing the smile away and donning a faux serious look.

"That is all I ask, Beatrice. Thank you for your support." Beatrice exhales heavily, hoping it sounds enough like a laugh that Lilith is satisfied.

She must be because she doesn’t stay. She joins the group arguing over building a blanket fort in the living room and leaves Beatrice to hide into Ava’s comfort.

"Do I need to tell them to go?" Ava holds Beatrice when Beatrice drops against her side.

"No. I’m okay." Beatrice doesn’t have the energy to speak with any intonation, her words monotonous and hollow. Her bones hurt.

"You’re exhausted." Its not a question. Ava knows. Beatrice can’t deny it. It’s a fact. "Bea, let me send them home and you can go to sleep."

The chatter from the next room makes Beatrice feel safe. Her friends less than ten steps away make Beatrice feel safe. Ava’s hand in her own, her heartbeat in Beatrice’s ears makes her feel safe.

Beatrice just wants to feel safe.

"No. Please." She’s too tired. She doesn’t know if she’ll make it through the pre-movie credits before she sinks into the nothingness that’s tugging her under now. But she wants to try.

"Okay," Ava’s voice is soft, like she’s scared her words will break Beatrice. "Then. Do you want to join them?”

Beatrice nods but she doesn’t lift her head from Ava’s chest, twisting in her seat until she’s nearly fallen in Ava’s lap.

"Hey, Bea," Shannon pauses in the doorway. "Is she asleep?"

"Mostly," Ava answers quietly, running her fingers through Beatrice’s hair.

"Let’s get her in there before we have to carry her," Shannon kneels beside Ava, shakes Beatrice’s shoulder cautiously. "Bumble Bea, can you stand up for me? So we can get you to bed? Sleeping in this chair will wreak your back."

Beatrice murmurs her discontent but allows Shannon to help her to her feet, one arm wrapping cautiously around Beatrice’s hips. Shannon leads Beatrice past the couch and into a blanket fort similar to the one they’d made when Shannon and Mary had broken up when they were nineteen (Beatrice had told her it wouldn’t be forever but Shannon had cried for three weeks). Shannon settles her carefully in the center of the blankets while Lilith and Mary argue over how to use the DVD player. Camila drapes a blanket over Beatrice’s legs and Ava waits until Beatrice makes a grabbing motion with her hand and tugs Ava down beside her.

With Ava’s heartbeat in her ear, Shannon’s shampoo pressed against her back, and Lilith and Mary arguing at her feet, Beatrice falls asleep. She doesn’t make it to the movie trailers or the third bag of popcorn that Camila burns, she doesn’t wake when Diana comes to investigate the voices and presses herself between Ava and Beatrice to fall back asleep.

[theangrykimchi]

if icicles form

“Still having trouble sleeping?” A voice breaks the silence of the night suddenly, but Arthur doesn’t startle; he’d heard the warehouse’s door when it slid open, nearly silently, moments ago. Eames’ steps might have been soft through the snow-covered yard as he made his way closer, but Arthur was so attuned to his presence he’d known it was Eames the moment he stepped outside. Arthur exhales the cigarette smoke before he turns to look at him. Eames is wearing the ugly orange parka he arrived with, a hat pulled down over his hair but his nose is already turning red from the cold.  “Still despising the cold?” He asks back, a smirk pulling at his lips at Eames’ amused laugh. He comes to sit on the ledge beside Arthur, wiping the thin layer of snow from it first. The parka makes him look and feel bulkier than he already is. “This cold’s bloody awful, Arthur. I don’t know why I still accept jobs in such godforsaken climes.” Arthur takes a pull from his cigarette, talking through it. “For the same reason you take jobs in climates that would better fit the lowest levels of Hell: Μoney.” “Touché. Got any more of these?” He’s pointing at Arthur’s cigarette, a ring on his middle finger that he lifted from a shop yesterday while they were tailing their mark. It catches the moonlight, shining gold for a moment. Arthur fully expects him to get bored of it sometime in the next few days and sell it off to some unlucky soul for three times its original price before something else catches Eames’ magpie-like attention. “Yes,” Arthur says but makes no move to retrieve the pack from his coat pocket, simply rolling the cigarette between freezing fingers, offering it to him. Eames takes a deep drag, watching him as Arthur stares at his full lips wrapping around the thin stick. The corner of his mouth quirks up.

Read on AO3

Fill #2 for @inceptionbingo with the prompt First Kiss Rating: T Words: 1,521

[princesskenny1998]

South Park | Kenny McCormick x cartman!f!reader ~ Crushing from Afar, PT.3

You had been waiting for this moment for years. Ever since you were old enough to understand what a crush was, you’d had one on Kenny McCormick. It was ridiculous, really—he was your brother’s best friend, the kid who wore that same orange parka every day and somehow managed to make poverty look almost cool. But there was something about him. The way he carried himself, that easy confidence, his laid-back attitude toward everything. You couldn’t help but be drawn to him.

For years, though, you kept your feelings hidden. It was hard enough being Eric Cartman’s little sister. Everyone in South Park knew who you were by association, and most people didn’t bother trying to get to know the person behind the name. But Kenny? He was different. He never treated you like you were just “Cartman’s little sister.” And that’s what made your feelings for him grow over time—until now, when he finally asked you out on a date.

You couldn’t believe it when he asked. It had been a casual conversation after school, one that you hadn’t expected to turn into anything special. But when Kenny had leaned in close and asked if you wanted to hang out with him, just the two of you, your heart had skipped a beat. You said yes before you could even think, and now here you were, standing in front of your bedroom mirror, trying to figure out how to look good without looking like you were trying too hard.

You ran a hand through your hair, smoothing it down one last time. The outfit you’d chosen was simple—jeans and a cute top—but you still felt nervous. This wasn’t just any date. This was a date with Kenny McCormick, the boy you’d been crushing on for what felt like forever. And while part of you was over the moon that he finally seemed to notice you, another part of you was terrified. What if it didn’t go the way you wanted? What if you weren’t what he expected?

You were still fidgeting with your hair when your bedroom door burst open. Eric stood in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, a sour look on his face.

“So,” he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “you’re really going out with Kinny, huh?”

You sighed, already dreading where this conversation was going. “Yes, Eric. I’m going out with Kenny. Can you not make a big deal out of it?”

“Oh, it’s a big deal,” Eric said, stepping into the room and leaning against the doorframe. “Because I don’t know if you realize this, but Kinny? He’s not exactly boyfriend material.”

You frowned, turning to face him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eric smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “I’m just saying, you’re not the first girl he’s gone out with, you know. Kinny has a reputation. He’s been through pretty much every girl in South Park by now. And you? You’re just the last one on his list.”

Your heart sank at his words. It was like he had reached into your chest and squeezed. This was your worst fear—that you were just another name on Kenny’s list, another girl he’d go out with, hook up with, and then forget about. You had tried to push those thoughts out of your mind when Kenny asked you out, but hearing Eric say them out loud made them feel real.

“That’s not true,” you said, though your voice wavered. “Kenny wouldn’t—”

“Please,” Eric cut you off, rolling his eyes. “You think he actually likes you? You’re just the last girl he hasn’t fucked yet. Once he gets what he wants, he’ll move on. That’s how he is.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You didn’t want to believe Eric, but the doubt was already creeping in. What if he was right? What if Kenny didn’t actually care about you? What if you were just another girl to him, a way to pass the time?

Eric must have noticed your expression, because his smirk widened. “Oh, come on. Don’t cry about it. I’m just trying to save you from making a mistake. Kinny’s a player, and you’re just his next target. Don’t be stupid.”

You wiped at your eyes, trying to keep the tears from falling. You didn’t want to cry in front of Eric, but it was too late. The fear, the insecurity, everything you had been trying to keep buried was bubbling to the surface. Maybe Eric was right. Maybe this date was a mistake.

But even as those thoughts swirled in your mind, there was another part of you that didn’t care. You had wanted this for so long. You had spent years pining after Kenny, wishing he would notice you, hoping that one day you’d get the chance to be with him. And now that chance was here. Maybe it wouldn’t work out. Maybe you’d just end up another name on his list. But even if that was true, you still wanted to go on this date. You still wanted to be with him, even if it was just for one night.

Taking a deep breath, you turned back to the mirror, brushing away the last of your tears. “I’m still going,” you said quietly, your voice steadier now. “Even if you’re right, I’m still going.”

Eric scoffed, pushing himself off the doorframe. “Whatever. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He left the room, slamming the door behind him, and you were left standing there, staring at your reflection. Your heart was still heavy, your eyes red from crying, but you had made up your mind. You were going on this date with Kenny, no matter what.

A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Your heart leapt in your chest. It was time.

You grabbed your jacket, taking one last deep breath before heading downstairs. Kenny was waiting for you at the front door - your mother had probably let him in - his hands shoved into the pockets of his parka, that familiar mischievous smile on his face. But when he saw you, his smile faltered.

“Hey,” he said, stepping closer. “You okay? You’ve been crying.”

You forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… had a talk with Eric.”

Kenny raised an eyebrow, his expression softening. “Cartman giving you a hard time?”

You shrugged, not wanting to get into it. “It’s nothing. Let’s just go, okay?”

Kenny didn’t push it. He nodded, opening the door for you, and the two of you stepped out into the chilly South Park evening. The air was crisp, the sky just starting to darken, and as you walked side by side, you tried to push Eric’s words out of your mind.

[words-into-worlds]

It was bright in here. He hadn’t expected that. The big hall had been softly-lit and enormous, with light coming in through slits in the ceiling and dimness almost everywhere else, but here, in the detention section—

—down the stairs, struggling against the arm of the guard until he’d almost slipped out of his hold and then another guard had grabbed him, two Cardassians to hold one Augment, and they’d pulled him along the hallway (his feet scrabbling on the stone floor) and through a door and he’d been thrown into a cell, forcefield flashing into red life behind him, a small bench to sit on, a small fresher, completely exposed and no way out—

Here it was very, very bright.

Probably to be uncomfortable, he imagined. The guards had put on small red visors. It was probably blinding to them. To him it was just irritating. So that was something. Take that, Cardassian jail. You won’t defeat me that easily.

He found he was sitting down, leaning forward, and very suddenly had to suppress a powerful urge to be sick.

My own fault. All of it, my own fault.

It had seemed so simple, once he was off the Hamalki ship: make himself presentable, go to the Central Plaza, find Garak, and fix things - one way or another. And it had been. He’d tidied himself up quickly in a small washroom in the spaceport. He’d force-fed himself something from what was probably a fast-food restaurant; it had been unrecognizable and mostly tasteless. He’d rented a small orienter from a self-service stall. The air outside the spaceport had been unexpectedly pleasant, not the sauna heat he'd grimly expected - but of course it was winter here now, wasn't it: a comfortable sixteen degrees Celsius, and he'd stepped outside and blinked up at the sun, surrounded by side-eyeing Cardassians in parkas. There had been little trees, and a train stop. It had been so weirdly, strangely… normal.

It had only taken one train ride and a short walk to reach the Central Plaza. There hadn’t even been restrictions on entry at the Plaza, at least not to reach the first few government-related levels, and that was all he’d needed anyway. As he’d walked into the hall, he’d been furious: at Garak, yes, but also at himself, because after all this worrying and self-recrimination and what-if, all he’d had to do was get here and Cardassia had just been another place, no barrier at all, it had been so easy—

He stared at the poured-plascrete floor of the cell, forehead rested on his hands, arms braced on his knees. Right. Easy.

It was very hot in here. It hadn't been so bad in the huge, airy great hall, but here it was… close. Not much in the way of air currents. Just him in his uniform, sitting there, quietly sweating.

One of the guards had left, no doubt off to harass other idiots. The other had seated themself at a terminal that faced the cells and begun working away at God-knew-what. They didn’t seem very interested in Julian. That was probably a good thing. It didn’t seem likely that it was good to be interesting in Cardassian jail.

Don’t throw up. Don’t throw up. The horrible spaceport food had been bad going down; he couldn’t imagine it would be better coming up. Oh, God. What an embarrassment I am…

He curled into himself, sweaty and tired, adrenaline and lack of sleep catching up with him.

Time passed. The guard pecked away at their terminal, occasionally making and taking calls. The lights stayed bright. Julian eventually settled himself on the little bench and tried to rest, letting his eyes slip shut. He couldn't sleep, but he managed to drift a little, and the noises of the holding area floated by him mostly unnoticed: doors opening and closing, the steps of people in other cells, someone's fresher activating, the guard murmuring…

He snapped to wakefulness, eyes opening, when he heard the click of heeled shoes, and a voice he had not expected to hear again—

"Good day, Guard."

"Secretary," replied the guard politely, also sounding a bit surprised; Secretary Nuril was not apparently someone who spent a lot of time in the basement dungeons. "Can I help you?"

"I need to talk to that one," and she was pointing at him. "Alone."

More surprise in the guard's voice now. "Secretary?"

"The discussion will be above your clearance, Guard. I wouldn't want you to compromise your opportunities by accidentally overhearing it."

The guard was frowning. "It's not safe for you to be alone with a prisoner, Secretary—"

"Unless you have Indigo-clearance personnel tucked away around here somewhere, I don't see much of an alternative. Do you?" Nuril's voice was quite complacent.

"I won't do anything," said Julian, knowing he shouldn't talk and for some reason not being able to not do it anyway. "I don't want to hurt anyone, I just want to talk to—"

Nuril wheeled on one heel, staring at him, and he shut up.

The compromise the guard arranged was a small interrogation room just off the cells, with Julian in a very uncomfortable chair and Nuril staring down at him across a small table, and the guard bowing themself out with repeated assurances that they would be observed - yes, Secretary, with sound off, yes, understood…

Julian looked up at Nuril, who glared down at him—

And closed her eyes, and sighed, and dropped herself into the interrogator's chair with a put-upon hand over her eyes. She had long red nails, Julian noticed. Claws, really; one of the few Cardassians he'd seen who didn't file them into polite nubs.

"Secretary, I—"

"Shut. Up." She sighed another elongated sigh and dug into a little purse slung at her side, pulled out a small drawstring pouch, and tipped out something round and reddish into her hand. She took it between thumb and forefinger, claws clicking, and stared at it meditatively.

"Do you know what this is, Lieutenant?"

Um. "No. Should I?"

She ignored him. "This is a kobel nut."

"It looks very—"

"It's sweet. It melts in your mouth. It calms you down. It's not refined to suck kobel, but it's hard to stop, because it's addictive. I've been trying to quit." She frowned. "The brand I like best is Golet. Their kobel comes in a variety of flavours. My favourite is baked-lafa. This one is mulvan. Not as good, but I don't have any of the ones I like with me, because I haven't bought any, because through force of will I actually haven't sucked kobel in three weeks."

Staring at him, furious, she popped the nut into her mouth and sucked at it loudly, then rolled it into her cheek. She pointed at its bulge and said indistinctly, "This is your fault."

There didn't seem to be much to say to that.

Nuril looked at him, waiting, then dropped her head into her hands and made a sound of growling deep-throated irritation. "So, Lieutenant," and she peered up at him between her long red claws, "are you actually mentally deficient in some way? Or just incredibly selfish?"

Ah. All right. "Honestly, a bit of both."

"Of course you are." She rubbed at her eyes. "Or, perhaps, you think you're better than everyone else."

"That, too."

"The only one who truly understands the best way to manage a situation."

"Sometimes."

"The only one who can see the path we should take to move forward. The one who won't listen to anyone or consider that someone might have a better idea. The one who takes things into his own hands despite the advice of his superiors every single time."

Um. "I think you might be projecting—"

"I don't think so, Lieutenant," said Nuril around her kobel nut. "I think I'm exactly right. I think you are going to keep circumventing blocks, and inverting rules, and making everyone's life very irritating until you get whatever it is you want. Aren't you."

Julian shifted in his chair. It was uncomfortable. On purpose, I'm sure. "That's my plan, yes."

Nuril scratched idly at a forehead ridge with her claws, indenting the flesh slightly, and looked at him coolly for a moment, then: "Why?"

"I'm not sure it's your business—"

"His business is my business, Lieutenant. Top to bottom. That's how it works now. And you're here on your business, not on his."

He felt his nostrils flaring; he kept himself quiet, somehow.

"What benefit is it to him that you are here? What will improve his situation? What will he get from your presence? Does he need another insect buzzing in his hear?" She scratched a claw across the table, making a little metallic noise. "He has many of those already. Many, many people would like the ear of the Minister for Accountability. And you're… just more noise."

His fingernails were digging into his palms. "Am I?"

"So far you seem to be," said Nuril, and clicked her claws against the table in a quick rap rap rap. "He told you that things between you were over."

Julian hated that she'd read that letter. "He did, yes."

"Is there some reason that you don't believe him?"

"He's a liar. You know him, so you know that."

Nuril put up her brow ridges. "That's a very forward thing to say about a Cardassian government official, Lieutenant."

"He's not that to me. He's my friend. He's someone I know very well. Better than he knows himself, sometimes."

"Oh, certainly. You strike me as very insightful," said Nuril drily.

"I'm serious. I… we've been in tight spaces together, and I know how he reacts, and he knows me, I— Listen. You do know him, and I think you care about him."

Nuril didn't say anything, watching him.

"Do you know who he was, before?"

More nothing, more cool eyes, slitted pupils reflecting little. "What has that to do with why you're here?"

"All right. This is probably an overstep, but…"

"Oh, this should be good."

"But he needs to be with people who care about him. Who will protect him—"

"I'm sure he can protect himself."

"Who will protect him from himself."

Nuril tilted her head, and rolled the nut from one cheek to another. "Self-destructive, is he?"

"No! No, just— he'll do anything. Anything, for what he thinks is right. It may not be what you or I would think is right, but if it's what he thinks needs to be done… he'll do it. Even if it's absolutely not going to end well. Even at the risk of his own life."

"It's his life," said Nuril, resting her head on her hand and looking at him.

"All right! All right, fine, look at it as— as resource preservation, then! Is he good for Cardassia? Is he doing a good job?"

"The Minister is overseeing many projects in an effective way," said Nuril, "and although the current situation in the city is non-ideal, I would say things are moving in a direction I approve of." There was a dry undertone to her voice, and Julian thought he understood: no one is getting away with anything much lately.

"All right, good— then listen. I imagine this is a strain on him. And Garak can take a lot of strain. But eventually something will snap, and then… it can go wrong for him. Quite quickly."

Nuril popped her kobel nut out between her lips for a moment, then tucked it away again. "You've seen this happen, I take it."

"More than once."

"But he's still here."

"Because I was there!"

"You do think quite a lot of yourself, don't you, Lieutenant," said Nuril, and Julian had to bite his lip, had to pull his feelings in and breathe for a moment before he said, as calmly as he could, with as much authority as he could muster in a sweaty uniform in an interrogation room in a place where he was no one at all:

"I will take care of him. Whether he wants me to or not. I've done it before and I'll do it again. And you have my word on that."

Nuril rolled her eyes. "The word of a Starfleet Lieutenant—"

"The word of me," said Julian, calm and plain and very, very certain. "And whoever you may think I am, I think you know that I follow through on my promises."

He meant it. All through him, he meant it.

Secretary Nuril stared at him, hands in front of her on the table, fingers interlaced, then smiled at him. A small smile. A very irritated, last-nerve kind of smile. But definitely a smile.

"Do you know something, Lieutenant Bashir: you are very irritating." She pointed at him, like a teacher making a point: "You are the most irritating person I've met in some time. You deserve some kind of small award, like in little-school: 'Most Irritating Person'. But you'd probably like that."

Julian looked back, trying on a little smile of his own, and Nuril rapped her claws pensively against the table, then nodded once sharply: "You deserve each other. The two most irritating, self-righteous, know-it-all, obstinate people I've ever met… You can bother each other, and perhaps that way neither of you will bother me."

"Thank you," said Julian, and Nuril groaned out loud and said, "Shut up," so he did. She tapped quickly at an armband communicator, stood, looked at him impatiently: "Are you coming or not?"

Outside in the main cell area, the guard looked up as Nuril clicked over to him. "Secretary?"

"He'll come with me. Release him to my recognizance, clearance code Atvik-HetUl-Four-Five-Green.”

The guard looked extremely surprised. "Secretary—"

"I should not need to repeat myself," said Secretary Nuril, suddenly very mild, almost pleasant, and Julian nearly found himself feeling sorry for the guard, who appeared to have had an acute attack of indigestion.

"Understood," said the guard, tone slightly choked.

Out they swept, Julian trotting along to keep up with Nuril who was making very good time despite her heels, out and along a hall and through a key-coded door into a stairwell and up the stairs, and Julian couldn't wait, had to know—

"Where are we going?"

"Where you shouldn't. Stop talking."

"But I—"

"You are just like him. For the love of my sanity, stop talking."

He kept his mouth shut and focused on climbing endless stairs, which turned into endless turns through endless hallways until Nuril finally stopped at a door which looked like every other door. She tapped on it, waited, nodded, unlocked it with a code. Inside was…

An empty conference room. Which, it turned out, looked on Cardassia much like a conference room everywhere else. A table, chairs, some kind of little refreshment station in the corner. No windows, which was a bit concerning, and a camera blinking down at them from one corner of the ceiling, which was more so.

Nuril saw him looking at it and pursed her lips. "Offline. Because I'm not an idiot."

He didn't say anything. There didn't seem to be much point.

"Sit," said Nuril, and pointed at the chairs. She fiddled with the refreshment station until it produced some kind of pastry and a cup of, surprisingly, coffee, both of which she slid to him down the table. "Eat. You look like pudding with a skin on it."

Julian blinked, stomach churning. "I, uh… I don't—"

Baleful exhaustion on Nuril's face, and Julian gulped and bit into the pastry. It had little fruits in it. Not awful, actually.

Now Nuril seated herself in one of the rather plush chairs around the long table. She rocked the chair slightly back and forth, apparently waiting, and sucked angrily at her kobel nut, in between slurping sips of her own coffee. Another cup steamed next to her, apparently extraneous. She was waiting. Julian waited too, carefully, eating his pastry and drinking his coffee-analogue, still half-expecting guards to burst in, but there was… nothing. Nothing but waiting in a dim conference room. It was strange. It was banal.

And then he heard footsteps in the hallway, a cadence he recognized, and a knock at the door in a quick twice-repeated rhythm—

"Ah," said Nuril, watching his face. She smiled a sideways smile around the bulge of the nut and rose from her seat to unlock the door.

Garak came through it, rubbing his eyes, posture tired and irritated; "Nuril," he said, leaning on a chair, "this day will be the death of me," and then dropped his hands from his eyes, looked over, saw Julian—

Julian had seen Garak surprised before, but only for a given degree of the emotion: mildly surprised, say. Slightly irritated. Taken aback. Perhaps even aghast, once.

This was none of those. This was flabbergasted. Enormous blue eyes, dropped jaw, gaping mouth - Julian could have sworn Garak's hair stood slightly on end as he jerked upright with clenched hands—

Between them, seated once again, Nuril emitted a loud, vicious, triumphant slurp, and slid Garak the extra coffee cup.