Also, not me not realizing you rbed a prompt post until now :( ONLY if you want to bc I'm like ten years late or smth!
27: I can't think when you keep looking at me like that.” for whoever strikes ur fancy :)
not me, replying, 10 years late as well...thank u for the prompt smo, 'twas truly lovely to write for :)
--
The living room still smells like the remnants of their breakfast. American-style this morning – maple sausages and fried eggs, waffles and coffee; something Ava had been craving, something Beatrice had given in to.
She’s sated and full, the meal sitting heavy in her belly, and she’d love nothing more than to indulge herself in some mid-morning cuddles with Beatrice, maybe even make out a little bit. Instead, she’s sitting on Beatrice’s lap on the couch, knees bracketing hips. Not a bad place to be in, not at all! But her hands are occupied with a stack of multi-coloured flashcards and she’s studying.
“Bea, don’t we have fake licenses expressly for this purpose? Don’t these rules go out the window when it’s my turn to drive, anyway?”
“You don’t have to take the test, but most of the time we won’t be having dramatic car escapades. You’ll have to learn the rules of the road.”
“I think a little rule breaking is healthy sometimes. Necessary, even.”
Beatrice hums. “You can’t break the rules if you don’t know what they are.”
Ava groans and throws her head back dramatically, Beatrice’s hands coming up to hold her by the waist to prevent her from falling backwards. “I think I'll know when the rules are broken when I get five honks in a row,” she says, addressing the ceiling. “Bonus points for prolonged honks that sound like harmony.”
“Please don’t cause unnecessary grievances for your fellow drivers,” Beatrice says. Ava straightens up at that. Narrows her eyes at Beatrice. She opens her mouth and is about to dispute the accusation when the hands at her waist squeeze hard, once, and the air in her lungs leave her in a stint of breathless laughter.
Beatrice leans in close. “What was that you were going to say?” she asks, fingers digging into Ava’s waist, making her laughter burst out unchecked.
“I said–” Another warning squeeze, and Ava’s cut off as she wheezes. “Okay, okay! I won’t– Bea, stop– I won’t cause unnecessary grievances for my fellow drivers.”
“Thank you, darling.” Beatrice reaches out to tuck a stray hair behind Ava’s ear, smiling when Ava presses a kiss to her palm. She goes back to her stack of flashcards – written by her own hand, thank you very much – reading each question out loud and pairing it with an answer before flipping to the back to check. Beatrice’s hands rest on her thighs, and she hums encouragingly.
Ava scans the newest question. “What should you do – uh oh, this doesn’t sound good – in the event of a fire in a tunnel?” The stack has lessened by half. Cards are scattered beside her on the couch, a few of them making a home between the cushions.
She narrows her eyes and tries to pry the answer from her mind. Step one: don’t get close to the fire, obviously, otherwise the car would explode. Step two: stop the car. Step three: find and use the SOS phone, or get out using the emergency exit. Wait, should she use the SOS phone before leaving for the exit? Maybe someone else had already reported the fire, but then again, what if nobody hadn’t?
She mouths the question to herself silently, fingers itching to turn the card over to get the answer. She squints at the question and traces the words, following the swoops and curves of the lettering, but it’s quite difficult to focus when there’s a more enticing view in her periphery.
Try as she might, but her gaze keeps getting drawn back to Beatrice’s face. In her defence, it’s a very pretty face – Beatrice’s eyes are a rich, dark brown, focus intense on her, and the way the morning light shines on her face makes her freckles stand out; not stars, but still constellations in their own right.
It all falls away, is the thing – the stack of cards is held in front of her and she can see the hard-practiced cursive of her penmanship that graces the paper, but it all melts away in the face of Beatrice’s attention on her. It’s thrilling. Addictive. The answer to the question eludes her, slips out of her grasp, driving theory all but forgotten.
“Ava?”
A huff and a pout, and Ava’s crossing her arms, hand gripped tight onto the cards to keep them from spilling everywhere. “Bea, I can't think when you keep looking at me like that.”
The blush that blooms on Beatrice’s cheeks is so pretty, even now. Ava feels her teeth ache with it. “My sincerest apologies. Let me remedy that immediately,” Beatrice says, the corners of her mouth twitching. She furrows her brows and frowns in mock-seriousness, and shuts her eyes.
Ava privately laments her loss but this, at least, is more conducive to her focus.
She’s about to read the flashcard again to remember what the question was exactly, when she feels calloused fingers gently slide up her thighs. Beatrice’s hands reach the bottom of her cotton shorts, fingers barely dipping underneath the hems, before they rest there. She’s used to the frequency of Beatrice’s tactility now, but her chest still warms whenever Beatrice initiates the contact.
It would have been fine if those hands had stayed, but no – they make their way down her thighs slowly, fingertips dragging, before moving upwards once again with a more pronounced pressure.
Ava’s breath hitches. The smirk that graces Beatrice’s face is indicative that she caught it, her smile growing wider as Ava’s hands migrate to rest on her shoulders. Ava pitches her hips forward to lean into the contact, and she lets out a whine as Beatrice retracts her hands ever so slightly. “You’re such a tease. Aren’t you supposed to be helping me study?”
“I recall that you’re the one who suggested this method of studying,” Beatrice points out. Her tone wobbles slightly, laughter barely held in check, and Ava shoots her a half-hearted glare – not that Beatrice can see it. “Call it a sneak peek,” Beatrice says, “twenty more questions, then we’ll take a short break.”
“Ten.”
“Fifteen.”
Ava beams. “Deal. Although, I think I need a little something to help jumpstart the studying process again. You know, to remind me of why I’m doing this in the first place.”
An eye cracks open at that, and Ava flutters her eyelashes for good measure. The coaxing is unneeded, though – Beatrice lets out a quick huff of laughter as she leans in, and Ava meets her in the middle.
The kiss is slow and sweet; a delicious sample of what’s to come. But Ava’s never been particularly good at waiting – she’s harboured an itching sense of impatience ever since the Halo had been embedded onto her back, the feeling only exacerbated by the blue-shifted timeline of the Holy War. Thus, the desire to take life by the reins, to devour its offerings, had become a habit formed quickly by will and necessity. Every facet of life she’d missed out on – she’d wanted it all, had always been hungry for it.
But – the war is over now. The life she’s building together with Beatrice is never going to be snatched away by divine hand, by demons or monsters or duty or sacrifice, not anymore. Ava’s still oh-so-hungry for it, and she can afford to linger now, but still, in moments like these? Where it’s just the two of them, unhurried, where love permeates every breath, every look, every gesture? It’s hers, it’s Beatrice’s, it’s theirs for all time, but somehow it’s moments like these where Ava can’t help but feel the most greedy; can’t help but give in to the urge to take, to hold between the canines of her teeth.
She tilts her head to deepen the kiss, fingers twitching against Beatrice’s shoulders. The hands on her thighs tighten their grip in approval, and the feeling sparks a hot thrill up her spine that disperses rapidly through her veins.
But all too soon, Beatrice pulls back. She doesn’t move far though; her lips ghost over Ava’s chin, her jaw. Ava holds herself still, waits until Beatrice’s mouth brushes against hers in one last kiss. Only then does Beatrice lean back. And only then, in the gift of this space, does Ava let her composure crumble, body and spirit rejuvenating with a harsh and shaky inhale.
“Can I open my eyes now, or will that be too distracting for you?” Beatrice’s voice is low and sweet with the tease, the cadence of her breathing unfairly even; this close, her breaths fall damp over Ava’s lips and taunt her with their proximity, and Ava has to fight to loosen her muscles, to not give in to the chase.
Tempting as always, but – Ava stays strong. She places a small kiss on the tip of Beatrice’s nose, revels in the warmth of her smile and how her eyes crinkle at the corners, before settling in place and returning to her flashcards once more. “Keep them closed, please, or I’ll never learn how to drive normally.”
I love how many small things Watcher picks up on; like how Adam always gets the last word in From Shadows. It's such a minute detail, but it's so important.
It’s things like this that I didn’t pick up on before. It’s making it really nice to go back through everything.
Fresh eyes let’s me see things I didn’t notice before.
Idk if you've said this before and sorry if so but I'm curious; who, if anyone, do you ship w/ May?
Who do I ship with May? Am I allowed to ship my own character in a series? Is that something I can do?
-cue the “wait that’s illegal” RvB meme-
Okay, IF I did, it would mostly just be me projecting my character crushes. (I will however leave some of my non-lead character crushes in the tags of this)
So, rather than that, I can attempt to start a discussion... who do YOU ALL ship May with? (Reblog/Leave A Comment)
Hhhhhhh Ava-Mary?? Or Bea-Mary for “Birthday”:) love u
ty for the prompt smo ily
//
Beatrice's ringtone blares loud in the darkness of their bedroom, and beside her Ava shifts restlessly, mumbling something into her pillow. Beatrice is already half out of bed, one hand reaching for her phone, the other soothing Ava back towards sleep.
The number isn't familiar, but the sinking trepidation in the pit of her stomach is, and she's driven almost towards prayer as she answers the call and slips out into the hall. "Hello?"
"Beatrice!" Mary's voice is slurred, tinny like she's just a bit too far from the phone, but Beatrice still recognizes it immediately.
"Where are you?" She's already pinning the phone between ear and shoulder and shrugging halfway into her jacket, grabbing it again so she can shimmy the jacket up the rest of the way. She pulls a toque over her hair, sticking out every which way in cowlicks formed by the hour she'd spent lying beside Ava trying to fall asleep. She'd probably been unconsciously anticipating this call, she realises distantly.
"Whiskey bar downtown," Mary replies, and then there's the murmur of another voice on the other end of the line. Beatrice puts the phone on speaker and sits to slip her boots on, fingers fast on the laces.
An unfamiliar male voice sounds through the speaker. "Your friend's had a bit too much to drink. Smashed her phone." He gives her the address and she thanks him before hanging up.
//
Mary's deep in one-sided conversation with a harried-looking bartender when Beatrice slips into the bar. He looks her up and down as she approaches and his lip curls momentarily as he takes in her paint-splattered sweatpants. He brightens, though, when she perches on the stool next to Mary and lays a careful hand on her shoulder.
Mary spins in a wobbly arc, a fraction of a second slow, unbalanced, and Beatrice catches her by the front of her shirt before she can pitch over into Beatrice's lap.
"Beatrice!" she crows, still tilting into the steadiness of Beatrice's touch.
"Mary," Beatrice replies, forcing her voice to stay even.
"Bea. Hey. I broke my phone, Bea." She waves it between them, shattered screen backlit by the photo of her and Shannon that had long sat on Shannon's desk.
"I heard."
"I forgot. For a moment I forgot. And then I saw my lockscreen."
"M'kay." Mary goes to stand and rocks into Beatrice's side, her face slotting into the crook of Beatrice's neck. "I miss her," she mumbles, her breath hot and wet against Beatrice's skin.
"Oh, Mary." She rubs Mary's shoulder. "We'll get it fixed tomorrow, okay?"
"I know, darling."
"No, you don't. Ava came back to you."
"Mary–"
"Don't say it. Give me one night."
"Fine. Fine. Do you have your wallet?" Mary gets caught up in digging through the near-infinite pockets of her jacket, and Beatrice uses her distraction to slip her credit card across the bar. "My apologies for her conduct," she says, leaning against the bar. "Today is difficult for her."
The bartender nods his understanding. "I'd figured. She mentioned it was Shannon's birthday rather frequently. Had a lot to say about her."
Beatrice nods. "It's the first one since we lost her," she confides quietly.
The bartender passes her card back with a sad smile. "My condolences."
"Thank you. And thank you for calling me. I appreciate it."
"Of course." He gives her a nod and moves off down the bar.
Beatrice turns back to Mary, still busy digging through her pockets. "Let's go, darling," she says, moving to slide an arm around Mary's waist. "Let's get you home, okay?"
"I can't ever go home," Mary says quietly.
Beatrice presses a kiss to the side of Mary's head and tries not to sigh. "I know, darling. I know."
The bedsheets have been worn rough with repeated washings, but they're still a comfort to Shannon. It's what she deserves, that abrasion against her skin, pulling and catching, a friction that keeps her awake long into the night even with the painkillers dulling her nerves.
It's worse now that Mary's been called back to Cat's Cradle, now that Shannon's been left to wonder if this is the very sickroom Suzanne had convalesced in all those years before, when she'd left the Cradle broken and returned hard and cold as ice. It shouldn't be much longer, the sisters tell her, the younger faces among them painfully familiar, the elder few and far between. She feels just as much a remnant as they must, these women used up by the OCS and then cast aside when they had nothing left to give but their lives, when their fingers could no longer grip a hilt or pull a trigger, when the slightest sound sent them ducking for cover.
Sister Rachel, glimpsed briefly in the haze of those first few days when Shannon had yo-yoed in and out of consciousness, who'd almost lost a leg to compartment syndrome during Shannon's first month with the Order. Sister Anne, who'd screamed herself and everyone along her hallway into wakefulness night after night until being whisked away early one morning. Sister Margaret, her lumbar spine crushed beneath the rubble of a collapsing building. The cast-offs of decades of Order work, squirrelled away in a convent near Madrid. And for what?
A knock stirs Shannon from her reverie, and she lifts a heavy hand to wave them in, barely wincing any longer at the drag of muscle against the half-healed wound in her back. A familiar smell accompanies a familiar tread, and her teeth grind together as her jaw tightens.
She forces her muscles to relax, twists her mouth into a mockery of a smile. It's still Beatrice, no matter the– It's still– "Hey, Bea," she manages finally, before the dregs of the smile slide right back off of her face.
"Shannon." Her voice is stiff. Formal. It's an uncomfortable task, Shannon recalls in vivid detail, to put yourself face to face with a woman who failed to carry the burden you now found placed on your own shoulders. But Shannon had never quite taken to it with the alacrity Mary had said Beatrice has shown. "I brought dinner."
"Thought I smelled Mary's cooking." She props herself up on an elbow as Beatrice rounds the bed. Beatrice busies herself unpacking containers from her tote bag, and Shannon takes the opportunity to take stock of her.
It's the first she's seen her since the mission, since she'd taken one look at the hell they were about to step into and turned to handcuff Beatrice in the back of the van without a moment's hesitation before diving into the fray. There's a rigidity to her posture that hadn't been there before, steel replacing that whipcord looseness that she'd come to associate with Beatrice, the way she'd grown into draping herself easily across every surface, into perching readily on chair backs and countertops. This Beatrice sits stiffly in the ladder-backed chair she drags to the bedside, her shoulders drawn back as though to shield the Halo in the concavities of her scapulae.
There's a curl to her lip when she forces her gaze to meet Shannon's, and the hint of the tip of her tongue pressing at the corner of her mouth is the only thing in her that still feels wholly Bea.
"I'd have thought you'd be on assignment with Mary," Shannon ventures after the silence has stretched thin between them.
"Father Vincent sent her on a solo run up north to meet a contact who's not exactly fond of the Church."
Shannon's blood runs cold and she starts up with such rapidity that Beatrice shoves her chair back a foot. There's warmth slipping down her back, skin torn apart by the abruptness of the movement, but she doesn't pay it any heed. Can't. Not when– "Was she sent on his orders alone?"
Beatrice's brows arch. "I wasn't aware that was something I needed to keep track of."
"It's not–" Shannon presses the heel of her palm to her forehead, tries desperately to piece together a way to present this that doesn't sound like she's– But maybe she is losing her mind. Maybe her loss of the Halo is just further testament to that. How else is she meant to explain the dreams, the visions, the reality in which she's found herself. "Don't trust him, Beatrice," she says finally, desperately. "Please."
"Don't trust Vincent?" Beatrice's laugh is harsh, cuts straight to the bone. "How am I meant to trust you, Shannon?" There's an edge of warning to her voice. "In what world do you deserve to have any more say about who I put my trust in? You betrayed me, you betrayed the Order, and you betrayed the Halo. No wonder it rejected you."
"Beatrice–"
She rises sharply, tips her head towards the door. "I will be back in half an hour for the dishes. Have a good meal." Beatrice strides from the room, leaving Shannon reeling in her wake.
moiraine x siuan + raised (big fan btw. love ur writing) :)
love u smo 🥰
//
The sounds of celebration ring through the city. In her bedchamber a few floors up the Tower, the Watcher of the Seals, the Flame of Tar Valon, the Amyrlin Seat flops facedown on the bed with an unceremonious groan. The festivities will continue for the remainder of the month, but Siuan has not had the time, the energy, nor the inclination to partake.
"Mother–" Moiraine begins from beside her, and Siuan can feel the shit-eating grin plastered on her face as surely as she can feel her own heart thudding in chest.
"Don't you start," she grumbles, whacking blindly at whatever part of Moiraine lies nearest. "Light, it's bad enough that Sheriam spends half our conversations mid-curtsy.”
“You poor thing, however do you survive?”
Siuan drags a pillow over her head and groans again, louder and more prolonged. "Hello to you too. Have you come back to do anything other than mock me and steal another angreal?"
"'Objects of the One Power are the property of the White Tower'," Moiraine quotes back at her, her tone still a perfect mimicry of Verin's distracted lectures even ten years removed from those lessons.
"An Aes Sedai answer if ever I've heard one."
"If you must know, I was in the Foregate when I got word that a new Amyrlin had been raised. I felt it was my duty to pay her the proper respects in due haste."
"Not feeling very respected over here."
"As is proper," Moiraine replies, but her voice is fond. Her hand lands on Siuan's back, rests warm and heavy between her shoulder blades. "Did you send that pigeon before you were even summoned to the Hall?"
Siuan hums noncommittally. She had, of course, scrawled the message in the scant minutes between Leane's rushed warning and the arrival of the Hall's envoy at her door, but Moiraine doesn't need to know that. (Moiraine already knows that she's the first person Siuan thinks of telling whenever something occurs. Moiraine has absolutely no need to know that even now Siuan catches herself tilting her head and darting her eyes to the side, seeking Moiraine to share a quip or a laugh.)
The pillow is tugged away from her head, and the mattress bows beneath them as Moiraine leans down to press a kiss behind her ear. "I'm proud of you." Her breath is hot on Siuan's skin. The bundle of emotion in the back of her head echoes the sentiment, pulsing warm and solid and supportive.
The feeling rankles Siuan for some reason she can't quite put a finger on. She grunts.
"I am, darling. You will do well. No one could be better suited to the role." Moiraine clicks her tongue, fingers tracing the columns of muscle flanking Siuan's spine, and then she shifts, throwing a leg across Siuan to straddle her hips. "You need to take better care of yourself, though," she chides gently, working her thumbs into a knot at the base of Siuan's neck. "If running your little network of spies was enough to give you tension headaches, then this weight…" She trails off, her voice thick, worry coming off her in waves.
"My network was hardly little," Siuan retorts. The words are loaded with far more venom than she'd intended, and she rests poised on the brink of an apology until a faint feeling of mirth thrums across the bond. She curses herself for taking the bait so easily. "I'm sure you've stayed in perfect health while off sleeping in a ditch."
"Several ditches, actually," Moiraine corrects, her hand stroking down the slope of Siuan's shoulder. "And Lan would not allow for anything less, as you well know."
hrrrr maybe "I thought we were past this" with anyone your mind goes to? [polite eyes emoji]
The tips of Lilith's sabre and her boots drag over the ground, bouncing off the dips between the flagstones, as she crosses the courtyard. Her mother tears her mask from her head, heedless of the way Lilith winces when the tongue pulls against her hair, and thrusts it into Lilith's chest.
"I thought I had made it clear," she hisses, casting a glance over Lilith's shoulder towards her fencing partner, "that that girl was no longer welcome on these grounds, Lilith. I thought we were past this."
"I-" Lilith begins, reaching for an apology, an explanation, but she's cut off almost before she can begin.
"You may see her to the gates," her mother interjects, "and then you are never to see her again."
