by Spyrel


Cold blasts through the door, ice crystals pricking my cheeks before swirling out over Quark's and—beyond the holographic matrix—disintegrating in tiny sparkles of light. An arm shields my eyes. “Jadzia?”

The howling wind tears my shout away.

Step inside. The door slides shut, disappears; the noisy monochromatic brightness is absolute.

Turn to go. Jadzia's love of holoprograms be damned; deaf, blind, and freezing is not my idea of fun.

A hand closes around mine, pulls me deeper into the white. Heart pounding, half-ready for a fight, I stumble along behind.

A hut swirls out of the glare. I can't climb inside fast enough.

Off come the hood and goggles. Jadzia eyes my thin jacket. “That's your idea of dressing warm?”

“You said ‘chilly,'” I snarl, “not frozen. I think my nostrils fused together.”

The Trill leans in, warm lips brushing my ridged nose. “Better, Nerys?”

I recover, clear my head. “I think my lips—”

Drown in the kiss. Tear away to say, “The heat's up too high.”

She laughs. “It's not on.”

“Then I'm overdressed.”


Sure fingers help trembling ones. It's still new to me, unfamiliar, strange. Lava kisses heat each inch of flesh as it is bared. Knees melt as her mouth stirs my volcanic core. I shudder and sag against the side of the hut, glad for the cold against my blazing skin. Her fingers slip in. I gasp, pant, “What's this program called?”

She looks up, eyes shining. “Snow.”



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