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willowedhepatica · 4 months

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Here's my humble offer to @lovelooksgudonu for the comic she drew about dark!ava. Of course the credit goes to her (and simplykorra) for parts of the dialogue she wrote, (I wanted to stay true to the source material)

Her art is absolutely amazing, go check it out if you haven't! (I hope this is okay, I got inspired)

—

The first thing that hits her when she wakes up is the stinging smell of sulfur. The distant remains of the fight that carried through in ash and dust, leaving her dazed and bewildered.

Ava had struck her in the back.

She hadn't even hesitated.

A chuckle comes from somewhere behind her and Beatrice shifts, the movement sending a sharp pain through her wrist and left arm. The rope is tied harshly, digging into her skin and keeping her there.

"That hit really did a number on you, huh Bea?"

Ava walks in front of her, brown eyes piercing. There's an easy smile on her lips, almost teasing, as if she found this situation amusing.

Beatrice leans forward, her voice hoarse. "Ava-"

"No. Don't give me that look." She cuts off, a sudden shift by the downturn of her mouth. She walks closer, leaning down to look at her properly, tied to the chair and bruised. "I've been merciful towards you, after all. Haven't I?"

Her hand comes up and takes a hold of her jaw. "You should be grateful."

The touch turns on several signals in her body at once. She sucks in a breath, the alarm battling with the craving of wanting more.

She hadn't felt her touch in so long. God, she'd missed it. Yearned for it.

But this wasn't her. This wasn't Ava.

"Snap out of it."

Her hold shifts, forefinger etching into her skin. "What was that?"

Her hands shake. They curl into fists as she looks up at her, meeting her eyes. "Snap out of it!"

Ava hums and for the first time Beatrice finds that she can't read her expression. Can't find any trace of the woman who showed emotions like the glow of a sun, drawing everyone in by her mere presence. She only shifts her hand, cupping her cheek as her thumb goes over her lip.

Beatrice can't suppress the shiver.

"Would you betray them for me?" Ava mumbles, face so close, breath skimming over her cheek, nail digging down into the flesh of her lip. It splits open with a sting of pain that slowly makes the blood spill out and drip across her jaw.

"Ah." Her voice cuts out and Ava's smile grows.

She leans even closer, teasingly drawing her nails over the part where her throat meets her jaw. "Yes?" It's a whisper. It's a lure. Her lips tickle against her own and she forces her to meet her eyes as Ava sinks down fully in her lap, keeping her jaw in a tight grip.

"You never were very talkative." She mumbles, her other hand trailing down her collarbone, her chest.

Beatrice tries to prevent the swelling in her chest, the pleasant tingling in her body over finally being touched.

"Let me make it easier for you." Ava continues, "if you say yes, I'll reward you. Shit, I'll even give you a little treat. If you say no however..." Her hand stops at her shoulder, eyes distant. She looks up at her. "What will it be?"

Beatrice thinks back to Camila, who had stayed up several nights in order to figure out Ava's position. She thinks about how much she's grown, how much she's overcome, how much they've gone through together.

She thinks about Mary and how she would scowl at the situation, telling her to not even dare make that decision.

She thinks about the OCS, the order she practically grew up in. It shaped her to who she was today. It took her through some of the worst periods of her life.

There had been so many sisters before her that had laid their life for the cause. For them. For her. She can't toss all of that away.

"I can't..."

Ava's jaw tightened. "Right. How could the perfect sister Beatrice ever do such a thing?"

"That's not-"

"Quiet."

Beatrice shuts her mouth. It's automatic.

The sharpness in her tone keeps her on edge.

"Maybe you'll come to better thoughts if I alleviate your pain a little." Her eyes fall down to her wrists where Beatrice is tugging against the restraint. "You'll never get anywhere like that."

"I'm fine." Beatrice bites out.

Ava tsk. "You're being stubborn." She brings something out from her pocket and her weight shifts in her lap by the movement. "I know you hurt your wrist in our fight, this will help."

She brings the pill up for her to see.

"I won't..."

Before she can finish Ava presses her thumb against her lips. This time they part open by the force and she continues by dragging it against the ridge of her mouth, scraping across the clench of her teeth. "We may not be on the same side yet, Bea, but that doesn't mean I want to see you hurt, baby."

Beatrice doesn't answer. In a way, she can't. Ava is still keeping her in a vice grip, a glint in her eyes that tells her she's planning to do something Beatrice won't be able to stop.

At least that part was still familiar to her.

Ava plops the pill in her own mouth, voice husky as she slowly inches forward. "Don't worry, I think you'll enjoy this technique..."

Before she knows it Ava's lips press against her own, mouth hot and tongue nudging to get more access. Beatrice gives in with a slight whine, feeling the pill slip inside. She swallows it and everything else falls away as Ava answers by pushing forward, body rising and kiss deepening. It's electrifying in the worst possible way.

"Mmm, see, the way you respond tells me you're not as restrained as you pretend to be."

Beatrice whimpers.

She wants more. She needs more.

She can't.

Finally - far too soon - not soon enough, Ava pulls away, resting her forehead against her own. She exhales, open-mouthed and smiling and when she speaks she's grown considerably softer. "The medication won't kick in for a while, would you like me to distract you some more?"

“Ava… please…”

She traces a path down her cheek. “Look how red you are, don't tell me you don't like this?” Her fingers skim across her ear as she tucks away a strand of hair that had gone loose. “Don't tell me you haven't thought of this ever since our time in Switzerland.”

Beatrice looks away, teeth clenching.

“Hm? Not speaking?”

“That's okay, let me show you just what I've been thinking about during my time across the arc.” Her hand leave her cheek and nudges at the end of her shirt. “You remember that night when we got drunk at the bar?”

Beatrice watches as her hand slip under the fabric and graze across bare skin. Her stomach ripples by the touch.

One nail starts to press down ever so slightly.

“Bea, answer me.”

“Yes- yes I remember.”

She smiles, satisfied. “I remember it too. I've had a lot of time to replay that moment.” She leans closer, close enough that her lips skim over her ear. “A lot of time to let it derail too.”

Ava doesn't wait for her to answer before she continues, nails scraping lightly across her skin. Like a game. “I thought. What if Beatrice noticed me? What if she knew that when I looked at her all I wanted to do was to let her pin me against a wall and fuck me.” She glances down to their position. “Looks like things have taken a slight turn.”

“Ava.”

Ava tuts. "Not yet. It was my turn, remember?”

If Beatrice knows Camila correctly, she's searching for her. She will find her eventually. She just needed a little more time, a little more information…

She shifts. "What more?”

“Excuse me?”

“What more have you thought about doing?”

Her eyes glint with slight surprise and then approval. “I'm so glad you asked.”

#warrior nun #avatrice #dark!ava #im just so hooked on this scenario

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possibilistfanfiction · 11 months

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hey!! saw you reblogging some of your butch bea stuff & just wanted to tell you that it lowkey changed my life and that if you ever want to revisit that universe you’d have at least one very avid & enthusiastic reader. there’s no pressure though — im grateful it exists at all!!

[i am going to be completely honest, i have no idea what this little prompt fill is but i love butch bea sm, it's soft & basically plotless. feeling so normal about her this pride month lol. also some lilith pov for the culture.]

not that you like people, but if you had to pick a favorite, under deep duress, beatrice would be at the top of your list. not that you would ever, ever tell her that, but, unfortunately, you're also pretty certain she knows. and, to your utter horror, you find that you have a reluctant soft spot for ava — you try to contribute it to beatrice being your sister, and therefore ava is basically your sibling-in-law, because they're not married yet but you watched beatrice say goodbye and you watched her grieve and you watched her fall in love, disgustingly, every second of every day, when ava returned. and, sure, ava is steadfast and faithful and far too brave and saved the world, twice, but, like. his relentless optimism and terrible sense of humor is too much sometimes.

but, you remind yourself when you get his text — he's your family too. someone who should have never forgiven you, you remember, like acid leaking in your stomach, but ava has always been too generous. and so you answer with an eye-roll emoji but also I'll be there in ten.

it's not the first day that ava has asked for help, and you're sure it won't be the last, but these days don't happen all that often anymore. you understand, though: your wings ache and sit heavy some nights when you can't sleep, and even if you fly over mountain ranges or tropical fjords or the flat, gorgeous planes of the savannah, deserts and oceans, the world — this admittedly beautiful earth, better than all the heavens — isn't quite enough to hold your sorrow. or, maybe it holds it along with you, and you can't quite put it down.

so you diligently mask your scales with jillian's annoying but very useful tech, and you put on an outfit that nun-you would have deemed inappropriate and nun-beatrice would have blushed furiously at, and teleport from your favorite room, tucked away in the middle of nowhere on a tiny island off the coast of iceland to beatrice and ava's sunny, big house on the beach. it's cool today, though, the day covered in a marine layer that's lingered for months. beatrice looks surprised when you show up in their kitchen, where she's staring off into space while, apparently, very slowly unloading the dishwasher. ava says hello from the living room, where you assume they're on the couch with korra by their side.

'hello, lilith.'

you pop a fresh grape into your mouth from the bowl sitting there in lieu of greeting.

'those are for ava,' beatrice says, and her hands shake and you can tell from the set of her shoulders that ava was right, that the world stings in your palms and up your spine, and sometimes you just need someone to see you through it until it calms.

'he can share,' you say, eat another one and swipe the bowl with beatrice scowling after you as you walk into the living room. ava is, unexpectedly, watching some reality tv drivel — so what if you're caught up on all ten seasons of vanderpump rules, it reminds you of hell if anyone asks — but she smiles sincerely when you hand her the bowl, one you're pretty certain beatrice had sculpted and glazed with her own hands.

'i can share a few,' ava says, and you don't bother to stop yourself from scratching korra's head in greeting when ava nods. you can admit that korra is awesome; she has loyalty to ava but at least you can understand that one. she's wearing a hoodie you know is beatrice's favorite, so it's ava's favorite too, and a beanie; ava hadn't mentioned it, but you know on really bad days her body has trouble regulating its internal temperature too — and if the pile of blankets at the foot of the couch is anything to go by, you're guessing that's happening too.

'you've looked better.'

ava rolls her eyes and beatrice flicks you on the back of the head. 'so have you,' ava says, but you look hot and so you know by that lackluster insult she really is in a good deal of pain.

'ava's back is bad today,' beatrice says, as if that wasn't completely obvious from the way ava has a heating pad and special pillow and is propped up on the couch with korra attentively lying next to her, ready to get anything or alert if she needs to.

'lots of hand spasms,' ava says, 'which are the worst, who knew?'

the only reason you refrain from making a dirty joke is because you'd never want them to think you have ever, for one moment, thought about their sex life. 'well, i'm taking beatrice for a bit,' you say, which is just what ava asked for, 'so maybe some heavier duty pain meds and a nap? we can bring you a late lunch.'

you feel beatrice stiffen behind you. 'i need to be here today,' she says, clipped and anxious. 'what if ava —'

'what if i what, bea?' ava says, without any malice, but with a glint in her eye that even you know to be careful of. 'i just need to sleep today and watch some stupid tv. we can go through all my rehab exercises in the evening again, like we always do.'

beatrice's jaw is clenched, and she bites her bottom lip.

'bea,' ava says, and reaches for her hand, and, not for the first time at all, do you feel a little out of place. lonely, and sad, and aching: they are in love, however much it annoys you. there's a care there that you're fairly certain you will never have, and never be able to give.

'a few hours, beatrice,' you say. 'that's all.'

ava had texted that beatrice had been losing track of time and tasks all morning, which is a sign you'd all started to understand as a bad ptsd day, not infrequently leading to a panic attack or a flashback if she's left to her own devices. usually, they won't have bad days at the same time, some divine knowledge of something, but today the stars hadn't lined up.

but beatrice sighs and then nods: she knows herself, knows when her brain is misfiring or misaligned, when things aren't quite as real as they should be. ava's hands are in painful, involuntary fists and so it's up to you today, to hold beatrice's through it.

'great, now that that's settled,' you say, when she offers nothing else. you take her wrist and, just for fun, teleport her right into the middle of the ocean, until she's spluttering and yelling but then, blessedly, lets out a laugh. you teleport her right back to her shower and even ava is grinning from inside. 'get ready,' you tell her, throw a towel at her from the neat stack in their patio bin. 'see you in fifteen.'

'don't have too much fun catching up on vanderpump rules without me,' she says, color back in her cheeks and a clarity seeping into her eyes.

'i hate that show.'

'sure,' she says, dismissing you with a wave of her hand, and, fine, you do join ava on the couch, but it's only because he's high and divulges, eagerly, beatrice's latest cooking mishap. beatrice comes in from their bedroom a few minutes later, looking a little steadier still, in soft, tailored pants and an oversized t-shirt, tucked in precisely. she's put contacts in and has sunglasses slipped into the collar of her shirt, a thick, fancy watch on her wrist. ava, even in a lot of pain, looks like they might start drooling. 'great.' you fling a pair of pristine birkenstocks at beatrice, who catches them with a scowl, 'you look fine to be in public. let's go.'

'bye, baby,' ava says, frustratingly unfazed by you. beatrice smiles, gently, her eyes clear for the moment when all she has to focus on is ava, and kisses her forehead, gently cups her jaw in her hand. 'love you, have fun.'

'i love you too,' beatrice says.

'no fun,' you say, and ava's still laughing as you touch beatrice's elbow and teleport on your way.

'this is my sister, lilith,' beatrice introduces, and, like, whatever, your heart swells in your chest and you feel warm and kind. you sink into it — only for a moment.

'nice to meet you,' beatrice's barber says, offering her hand with a genuine, easy smile, not batting an eye that you and beatrice look absolutely nothing alike; you feel warm and kind again when you think about beatrice talking about you as her sister to people you've never met, that you matter to her enough to mention. 'i'm xavi.'

'xavi, cool.'

beatrice sits down in the chair, comfortable and present, even though her hands still shake, but it's clear that this is a space she's always been made to feel safe. somewhere she's always been made to feel seen, which you realized, over the past few years, she had never had, despite how much you had — and still do — still love her.

'same thing, bea?' xavi asks.

bea nods. 'you can take the skin fade up a little higher, i think. it just grows so fast.'

xavi nods. 'sounds good.'

and it's not like you don't spend a fair amount of your time with beatrice and ava, because they live somewhere beautiful and it brings you deep joy to annoy them, and, like, drag brunches and queer bars are admittedly very fun, but to see your sister just be is kind of moving. and maybe she realizes that too, that it's special you're here, that it's special you're allowed to be here, in this space that is very much hers, the quiet hum of the clippers in the background, while she chats with her barber about the latest ridiculous episodes of love island — which, yes, you have watched; yes, you do participate in the conversation after beatrice includes you immediately, because you're only so strong and it's always been a summer tradition of yours to watch nightly — and they laugh together. you laugh too, and then all of a sudden beatrice is crying, and xavi turns the clippers off carefully. beatrice snakes a hand out from under her cape and tries to wipe her eyes.

'i apologize,' she says, really trying to get it under control. 'i — sorry.'

'she's having a weird day,' you offer, and beatrice nods with a sniffle. you don't bother to explain further — that's beatrice's to tell, if she ever wants to — but it seems to calm beatrice a little bit.

'sorry,' she says again. 'i — i'm just happy to be here,' she says, adds a quiet, 'as i am,' and xavi just squeezes her shoulder.

'i'm happy about that too.'

beatrice lets out a big breath and steadies herself; you feel relieved too that you won't have to deal with a panic attack in the middle of a barber shop while beatrice's hair isn't nearly faded properly. 'i never cry.'

you roll your eyes. 'if by "never" you mean five to ten times a week...'

beatrice shoots you a glare through the mirror and you just grin, all teeth.

xavi laughs a little and turns the clippers back on. 'it's okay,' she says. 'you're secret's safe with me.'

admittedly, beatrice's hair does look great, a clean fade and a little messy pomade on top, but you've already complimented her on this haircut twice so you're certainly not doing that again. you walk with her along the street her barbershop is on, that she knows well and it hits you quietly that you know it well too. you don't have a home — you haven't had a home in a while — but this might come close.

years ago, before the war, before all of it, on a bad day the two of you would go at it for hours sparring, blood on your knuckles and along your teeth and once mother superion had been irate when you got such a good shot in beatrice's eye was swollen shut for days — but there is no war anymore. there are small battles, but beatrice hasn't fought since she got hurt; even though she's better now, with a sturdy rod down her femur and scars that don't seem to bother her much down her abdomen, you think, unofficially, that she's not ever going to fight again.

you don't have the same fate, you know, but for today you look beautiful in an easy bright blue shift dress and sunglasses, your hair dark and long, and beatrice's hands have stopped shaking.

'sushi?' you ask, a reach, maybe, but when she smiles you know you were right.

it makes you realize, too, when you sit down at a restaurant you've come to so many times with her — and ava, too — that you know the server, who greets you both by name and brings you shishito peppers and spicy edamame without you even having to order. beatrice relaxes in her chair after a second on the patio, lets out another deep breath.

'all right?'

she takes her sunglasses off and nods. 'thank you.'

you shake your head. 'you're my sister.'

you mean it: i have not forgotten who you are; i have not forgotten who i am. you mean it: i love you. even if the words get stuck in your chest, even if you can't quite say them — you mean it.

'plus,' you say, 'you're paying, and i'm ordering the best sake on the menu.'

she laughs, bright and easy, and shrugs. 'you know the catholic church and my horrible parents are footing the bill anyway. we should order whatever we want.'

you remember when you were nineteen and beatrice was brand new to the ocs, how much you felt frustrated by her, deeply: she was earnest, and so serious, and very hurt, but kind in a way you never could be. the pressure sat heavy on both of your shoulders, but she held it with grace. 'could you have imagined this life when we first met?'

she seems as surprised by your question as you are that you even asked it, but her smile is easy and she runs a hand along her buzzed hair with a laugh. 'i think i would have had a heart attack if anyone had told me even a sliver of what my life is now.'

you wait a beat but then you do laugh, because it's true. your server brings you your sake and some sashimi you'd ordered, along with some scallops that are your favorite. ava sends a text in the group chat the three of your have — which you refuse to really participate in, but fine — saying that she's doing fine, that she had to take a fever reducer but korra's been on top of anything she needed to get so ava hasn't had to try to get up, that the protein smoothie beatrice had made her had been fine and she's just going to try to sleep some more. it makes beatrice relax even more, palpably, and you understand, in some way.

'you've retired, haven't you?'

she calmly swallows her tuna and then puts down her chopsticks. 'fighting? yes.'

it's simple and it's big and it's quiet. you knew already.

'but i'll be around. you know i enjoy research, archival, collaborations with jillian. i'm not — this will always be part of my life.' it's unspoken too: you will always be part of my life. and you know she means it.

'good,' you say, and for the first time in longer than you can really remember it feels like you're able to offer a benediction.

her eyes are soft as the clouds burn off, finally, as the afternoon turns warm. 'i — i want to live a long life.'

you can't say anything, but you can nod. you want that too — for her, for all of you. 'plus,' you say, 'ava was even worse than normal when you got blown up.'

she rolls her eyes, as glad for the levity as you are. you drink more sake and order more sushi and laugh as you watch people walk by on the street and beatrice offers — delightfully and playfully kind of mean — commentary about some of them. she's been your person for a long time, you remember, her gentleness despite bullets and arrows and bombs, despite holy wars, despite knuckles — yours, or hers, or both — split open to the bone. beatrice holds her chopsticks easily, steadily, and the scars on the tops of her hands shine white in the sun, but they've faded. you can only see them if you know where to look.

#wn #wn fic #avatrice #avatrice fic #yknow i am always sososo normal abt found family but especially during pride #sisters!#prince & ollie here u go ur girl #butch bea 🥺🫡#who knows. not me. thank u for this kind ask tho anon :)

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unicyclehippo · 1 year

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Bubbles

[for @possibilistfanfiction started out as smth soft n goofy for u, then tilted toward sad :/ sorry. also i guess this is canon divergence where ava doesn't go through the portal but also she's fine? cannot emphasise enough that im not Thinking just vibe w me]

there's a bath in jillian's safe house, a really good one. it's deep and fancy, in the way that really expensive things are where they're sort of deceptively simple—it doesn't have a billion dials, or jets, it's just a comfortably large tub made of some heavy, smooth material that your fingertips glide over when you touch it.

you're dying to fill it to the brim with burning hot water and just. soak. for one hour, maybe twenty. you heard somewhere that a hot bath is good for aches and pains and that sounds like exactly what you need. you hurt now, everywhere. your body, your skin, your heart.

'ava?'

beatrice is hovering in the doorway. she looks totally serene but that's a fucking lie and you know it is because there's no way she can be calm, be serene, because you fought and killed an angel (big question mark there) and saw and rescued god (two big question marks) and you kissed her (you kissed her and she kissed you back) and no one was supposed to die but michael isn't here in this big house that his mum bought so that she could lock herself away in it and rip open time and space and save him and she let you back into her house even though you let him die and beatrice is standing in the doorway of the bathroom and there's two strands of hair knocked loose from her bun and the sight of it saves you, a little bit. you're going to lose your mind thinking about angels and gods and the halo in your spine and the way your whole nervous system feels like a livewire right now, stinging you raw from the inside out, but beatrice is here and you want to touch her hair. tuck the strands behind her ear. maybe, if you're lucky, she'll let you linger. twist one around your finger so you can feel the silken slide of it.

'yeah,' you croak, 'hi.'

beatrice smiles. her eyes roam over your face. she can't look away and you knew that she loved you before you kissed her, before you left her, because everything she wouldn't let her hands do, she did with her eyes instead. beatrice wants to touch you now—you want that too, of course, but you don't know how yet and you're hurting—so she stares.

'i can run a bath,' she offers. 'i can do that for you.'

you'll do anything for her. you'll die for her. you'll strip down out of your bloody clothes so that she can look but not touch. you'll let her run a bath for you.

'please.'

beatrice steps into the bathroom. it's about as big as the whole apartment had been, back in your little mountain town, but it doesn't feel like it. there's nothing in the world but you and beatrice and the four paces that separate you; the world is closing in around you and your shoulders are shaking from holding the collapse at bay. atlas, you think, was lucky. he was all alone. but there's a girl in front of you who wants to take some of the burden off your shoulders and you want to let her, except the burden is you and you don't know how to hand it off gracefully, you don't know how to divide the weight evenly, you don' t know how to split the world into orange slices and hand her just the northern hemisphere, or just your fear and trust. you don't want to hurt her but it's crushing you.

the taps open. water spills from the spigots, steam curling up toward the ceiling. she pours something into the water—lavender? its dusty, dusky in your nose, on your tongue. white froth builds in the base of the tub and grows.

beatrice is pouring you a bubble bath. you're going to cry, definitely; it's not a matter of if but when.

you sit on the edge of the tub and start to peel off your armour. it takes time to figure out how; teeth gritted, fingers curling stiff and unhelpful into your palms, you have to ask for her help.

'does it hurt?'

'no,' you lie.

beatrice stares at you hard but pretends to believe you, which is nice of her. she opens you up, peels your armour away like the skin of an orange. maybe there's something citrus in the bubbles she poured out, maybe you're hungry, maybe you're tripping fantastic on jillian's pain medication and thinking way too much about the gold light of adriel's church and how kissing beatrice had stung, just a little.

'stand up,' she says instead, and helps with your pants too. she's touching you, so she's looking away, eyes averted. you wonder what it would feel like if she let herself look and touch, both at the same time, and then quickly stop when it makes your head spin more than it already is. 'careful getting into the tub.'

her hands are on your elbows. they always seemed like weird body parts to you, useful only for bending your arms, helping you reach out with your hands. now, when she is touching you there, you think they might be the best thing god (huge question mark) ever invented. you tuck the feeling away for later, for some fun alone time, and refocus on the way her fingers tremble and her hair isn't perfect.

'i'm okay,' you tell her, because she hasn't looked at you, and you think she might not realise—the divinium is gone, the shrapnel tugged out of your chest and belly and legs, even the little bit by your wrist. then, you step into the tub and the water is hot and you feel like it's searing away all your fear-sweat and blood and as you start to half-fall, half-sink down into it, you say, 'will you stay?' because you got exploded a little and if there's ever a time to capitalise on that, it's now.

beatrice keeps her eyes on the ceiling as she lowers you down into the water. it sloshes over the side, splashes a line at beatrice's thigh where she's leaning against the side of the tub to help you.

'you don't have to. you don't have to do anything. you don't.'

'i'll stay,' beatrice says, and now that you're covered by the water and bubbles, she looks at you. looks at your lips and lifts her hand to touch your cheek, thumb at the corner of your mouth.

you want to kiss her again. you want to fall asleep. you want to sit in this bath and cry and hold her hand. you think, wildly, with a little luck you will get to do all of those things and more.

'do you want to get in here with me?' you ask, because if you believe in anything in this world it is pushing your luck. pulling your knees up to your chest. the water is deep enough that they only barely break the surface.

beatrice smiles. 'yes.'

'holy shit.'

'but i won't.'

'totally fair.'

'but...' she strokes the corner of your mouth, and you swear you feel the water heat up another degree around you. 'i want. i want to stay.'

#prompt fill #tagging my stories #avatrice #warrior nun

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slugterra-twisted-ends · 9 months

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Random Headcanons 3

Trixie lived in/near High Plains Cavern. Her best friend growing up was Brodie and two would occasionally babysit Trini.

Trixie was the one to introduce Trini to makeup and filmography.

Trixie, Brodie and Trini LOVE Max Jackson films. They used to binge them whenever Trini was under their care

#slugterra #bajoterra #slugterra twisted ends #slugterra headcanon #head canon #trixie sting #trixie #beatrice sting #slugterra trixie #brodie #slugterra brodie #trini #slugterra trini

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kendrene · 1 year

Note

oooOOOOOOH how's about avatrice with "You’re so warm.” ?? :)

The paper is thin under the pads of her fingers.

Ava smooths it flat against the surface of the table, holding it there. Presses hard enough she can feel the ridges of the old wood through it, where age and neglect chipped the paint job away. Her thumb catches against a deep groove. Some past accident. The table meeting a knife.

She pushes down harder. Her fingers, her hand, all the way to her elbow it’s just one big ache. She aches all over today. Then again, she hurts all over most days. Her free hand scrambles past a stack of unused paper for the pencil she’d let go to shake off a cramp. It skidded far across that sea of white and Ava is forced to stretch, bow over the table in order to grasp it. The motion tilts her halfway out the chair, which rolls back; Ava shifts her hips forward and sets herself back to her task.

The book she's copying words from is the one Bea had gotten for her second-hand the first and last time they were here. The apartment is the same too, down to leaking pipe beneath the sink Beatrice still hasn't figured out how to fix.

It's Ava who's different. And everything else that has changed.

In the textbook, rows upon rows of German words and phrases march alongside their Portuguese counterparts. It had taken several tries for Beatrice to find it, days of scouring flea markets in the small towns nearby. Sometimes alone, most often with Hans.

“It’ll be easier to learn if you build up from your native language.” She explained after Ava had pointed out an English to German book would have worked just as fine. It had been. Easy.

Except now it’s hard.

Today’s lesson is about the items used in the kitchen. Der Wasserkocher, Ava writes diligently, eyes flicking to the battered red tea kettle sitting on the stove. Der Ofen, she adds on a whim. Even though it isn’t in the book, she knows the German word for stove.

She’s about to write down the word for dishwashing detergent, which is long winded and sputtery both in letter count and in sound, when another cramp hits.

This is the worst one so far. It starts at her fingers, trailing up from her hand to the hinge of her wrist in increasingly powerful waves. Ava’s entire arm seizes. She watches her hand contract like it isn’t her own. Clench, release, tighten, release. The final shock has the pencil tear a hole through the last, half-written word, then snap against her palm.

Ava sucks in a breath at the sting. A sharp fragment of wood scores in her skin. She wills her hand to relax so she can take a look at the damage, but it’s an impossible ask, as though her internal wiring has been cut. Ava thinks about her fingers uncurling, face fixed in a frown. Thinks about it so hard she makes herself dizzy. Her hand stays exactly the same, and droplets vivid red, more viscous than ink, patter down on the page.

The rest starts while she watches the droplets expand. Ava knows, logically, that she’s not bleeding that much. Wherever she looks, though, she sees red. Red kettle, red microwave, old red radio on top of the fridge.

Ava closes her eyes, or maybe it’s her vision that crawls dark at the edges. There is a shift, a tilt to her axis, and the next thing she is aware of is her cheek, bruised, pressing against linoleum warmed by the sun.

“Ava?” Beatrice calls, voice uncertain, from what could be the opposite side of the world. “Ava I heard a noise. Are you —?” Ava blinks hard. Next to her, one of the chair’s rear wheels revolves slowly. “Ava?” Beatrice again. Closer. “Do you need me to — oh.”

Strong hands cup beneath her armpits. Lifting, pushing, pulling away. Ava’s world spins with the faltering speed of a merry-go-round that’s finally come to a stop, and she finds herself propped against something that is, at once, solid and soft.

“Hey.” Beatrice’s lips are pressed to the shell of her ear, mouth half slanted in the hair behind it. “Ava, I think that you’re having a panic attack. I’m going to put my arms around you now. I don’t want you falling again. Is that okay?”

Ava just nods.

She feels as battered and old as this house, where some things are broken and others don’t work like they should. Her body isn’t even her own anymore; she’s along for the ride, but doesn’t control it. Walking and running — something as stupid as writing. She can’t seem to be able to consistently do any of it anymore.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Beatrice’s arms wind around her middle and she’s rocking the two of them gently, back and forth, in time with the sobs Ava hadn’t even realized are shaking her shoulders. “It’s alright.” One of Beatrice’s hand worms its way under her shirt, to the spot where the Halo sits heavy and idle and so very cold. “Just breathe with me. Do you think you can do that?”

Beatrice takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “Like so. Now we do it together okay? On my count. One. Two —”

On three Ava opens her mouth. The first breath is torturous, like pulling in air through a straw. It doesn’t help that her nose is runny and clogged, and that the hand she lifts up to wipe it only makes it as far as her chest.

“Here.” Beatrice’s fingers guide hers around a handkerchief she must have had in her pocket, then help Ava bring it to her nose. The fabric is the kind of soft that comes with a lot of washing and the pattern — Ava thinks it was once a herd of stylized galloping horses — is pretty much gone. She blows her nose, and the next breath she takes comes a bit easier.

“Better?”

“I think so.” Her voice still feels off, as if she’s speaking a language she doesn’t quite know. Ava fights down another sob. “I don’t know.”

“Okay.” Beatrice scoots them backwards so that they’re further away from the table and fully sit in the sun. Ava watches her legs trail along; she’s starting to regain a measure of feeling, and with it comes the pain from her fall. It will be a while until they can move, longer until she can heave herself up on the wheelchair on her own. If she’s lucky, tomorrow will be a good day and she’ll be able to walk. If she’s lucky.

Lately, she’s not been very lucky at all.

“Have you heard of the 3-3-3 rule?” Beatrice asks, breath a warm wash against the side of Ava’s throat. Her hands have never stopped moving. One splays over the Halo, steady and grounding. The other covers Ava’s nerveless fingers, thumb tracing the network of veins at her wrist, that look bluish-black in the sun.

“I know the 5 seconds one.”

Beatrice snorts. It tickles.

“That’ll do. Can you tell me three foods that you like then, Ava?”

Ava frowns. She’s starting to come back to herself, and with her mind clearing up and the fear wearing away it’s easy to see what Beatrice is doing.

“I know what you’re doing.”

“Then humor me, please?” The hand at her back pauses, and a hum rises from under Ava’s skin in response. It’s nothing. It’s nothing. The Halo has barely kept her alive as it is. Ava tries not to get her hopes up. She did at the start, after she came back through the Arc, and it was a big disappointment.

She can’t afford to get hurt that way, not again. She wouldn’t survive.

“Ugh, fine.” Afternoon sunlight, buttery smooth, streams in through the window, coating the entire world gold. “Mint chocolate chip ice cream.”

“You have horrible taste, but go on.”

“Tacos al pastor.”

“Okay, I can get behind those.” The hand on her back travels lower, following the ridges, the dips of her spine, and Ava feels it again. The tiniest hum, a buzzing. It’s almost a sigh. “What’s the third food?”

“You.”

The hand falls away. Beatrice’s arms around Ava tighten. Chin hooked over Ava’s shoulder , she rests her head there for a beat, face naturally tilting into the space between collarbone and jaw like a comet unable to resist a planet’s orbit.

“Ava.” A flash of heat spreads across Ava’s back, and she can’t tell whether it comes from the Halo or if Beatrice is blushing.

“What?”

“I just —” Bea smiles against her shoulder, plants a kiss there. “I’m not very nutritious, calories wise.”

“True.” Ava twists around in Bea’s arms, makes herself comfortable there. Given a choice, she’ll stay like this for the rest of the day. “But you’re tasty.”

Beatrice clears her throat. “We should get you off the floor.” She suggests, deflecting. Her gaze cuts away to the floor, and she swallows. Ava will never tire of it, of how even the slightest flirting will have Beatrice in knots. Of how she’ll swallow, cheeks suffused red, pulse racing, near visible, under the cut of her jaw.

“Wait.” Ava digs in, hand gripping the front of Bea’s light pullover. She sways forward and in, and her lips brush on purpose right at Bea’s throat. Her heart pounds so fast Ava can taste it. Or maybe it’s her own. “Can we stay here a while longer? You’re so warm.”

Beatrice pulls back to look at her, mouth quirking into a bigger smile.

“We can stay here a while.”

“Die Schwester” Lilith has picked up Ava’s textbook after dinner and is making her way through some words, mangling them all.

“Your German is terrible.”

“My German is perfect, thank you very much. It’s simply accented.”

“Whatever. Give me my book back.” Ava braces one elbow against the wheelchair’s armrest and stretches up, the other arm fully extended. Lilith puts the book down, just out of reach.

“I’m so gonna run you over.”

Lilith scoffs. “And how do you plan to do that?”

“We’re in the Alps. I’m going to wait until you’re on an incline, then let gravity do the rest.”

“Sure.”

Lilith phases. Reappears behind Ava a second later to help her closer to the table where Camila and Mary are setting the pizza they ordered for dinner on plates.

“Why are you learning family vocabulary anyway? You and Bea are pretty fluent already.”

“I’m not.” Ignoring the plates, Ava grabs for the box of pizzawitheverythingonit nobody else has the stomach to touch. The first bite is delicious but hot. Ava juggles the food in her mouth, speaking around it. “I have the best family ever already.”

Everything’s changed.

Nothing is ever the same.

Ava will not walk today and she may not walk tomorrow. But as the sky fades to black and they crowd on the old couch, fighting over whose turn it is to pick a movie, Ava thinks change is alright.

#warrior nun #avatrice #ava silva #sister beatrice #ava x beatrice #I have to do the positive disabled!ava representation around here #dren writes

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verycorrectslugterraquotes · 17 days

Text

Eli: Name a way to be nice to others.

Trixie: Don’t kill them.

Eli: Setting the bar a little low, but I’ll allow it.

#source: tumblr #slugterra #incorrect slugterra quotes #incorrect quotes #eli #eli shane #trixie #trixie sting #beatrice sting #mine

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daisychainsandbowties · 10 months

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thinking about how groups in isolation grow close with rapidity, develop bonds and rely on each other for physical comfort at the same speed with which lesbians U-Haul, and so you shove a bunch of queer girls into a socially isolated situation like Cat's Cradle and they develop a shorthand, they seek each other out for the quiet touches they can't get from family or friends anymore, they collapse into cuddle puddles in the grass after training and braid each other's hair and hold each other close and watch each other die

Help I’m thinking about this post and shanmary signing to each other and the implications of that across the whole OCS.

Shannon sitting cross-legged with Beatrice in the afternoons when they’re both exhausted from training, walking her through the movements and the syntax and the variations on each sign.

Bea and Shannon use it when Shannon finally persuades Beatrice to be her lookout while she pranks Lilith.

The tall, intimidating figure who catches Bea the first time because she’s too distracted by conspiratorial grins and Shannon touching her arm as she sprints down the hall.

“Come on!” but Bea’s still fresh to the OCS, and this request is absent the snap of command that usually shadows Shannon’s voice.

In a flurry of dark hair and angry eyes she finds herself pinned to the wall by Lilith, her nails bloody from climbing the drainpipe after Shannon emptied a bucket of water down onto her from the window above.

Stunned by that touch, unmoving. Lilith, who quirks an eyebrow, “Not even going to put up a fight?”

Shannon signing to get Bea’s attention when she’s on the verge of a panic attack. Naming sensations and they’re variations on “i can feel you. i can hear you.”

“you’re here.”

Beatrice with all her languages learning this new one from Shannon and also a separate language of touch. She’s so remote at first, flinching from everything but fists, until Mary pulls her aside and makes her play stupid hand-dexterity games that leave her palms stinging and her face flushed.

Sometimes, Lilith catches her under the chin with her fingers as she walks by, a silent “chin up” reminding her she’s a warrior now, not a disgraced daughter.

Mary bracing Bea with her arm when they stumble out of a tear-gassed room, palm over Bea’s mouth because fuck knows what they put in those cannisters, fuck knows if it might be lethal in high doses.

Beatrice learns to do these things in return, turning her head into Lilith's chest when the field medic takes her gloved hands out of someone’s chest and asks for the time. Lilith's mouth, warm on her temple, she who never looks away.

Helping Mary clean the guns and butting shoulders as they work, sharing Mary's earbuds. Beatrice only nodding cryptically when Mary asks if she likes a particular song - in her head thinking ‘I like you. the song’s just noise we’re both hearing.’

Shannon and Bea mirroring their movements with the bō, wordless competitions for who can spin it the longest without dropping it. Bea watching Mary and Shannon sit out on the grass, Shannon with her arms around Mary as Mary sits bracketed by her legs, pulling up blades of grass with a complicated expression.

Bea signs on the days she doesn’t want to speak. Lilith teases that she’s one of those silent nuns who only speak to god (but gently, gently) thumb tucked under Bea’s chin as she checks a graze on her cheekbone. Bea, transfixed by Lilith’s tight, concerned frown.

A dry, “Oh yes, how astonishing that someone might give a shit about you” from Lilith before she notes Beatrice’s stricken expression, squeezes her shoulder and makes an odd, abortive motion like she wants to brush her lips over Bea’s forehead, but thought the better of it.

Mary who won’t learn Spanish but picks this up, if not with ease then with determination, with renewed fervor when Shannon gets the halo. Looking to her ears for the telltale trickle of ruptured eardrums before dropping back to this, their shared voice.

And this, too, is how they learn to die.

Beatrice fixing the straps on Lilith’s vest, tugging them tight so the armor won’t collapse into a puncturing shape at the point of impact. Lilith letting her do it - the routine is like with a hazmat suit or a space suit. Check your own, check someone else, and let them check you.

“You look ridiculous in that hood, like a worm.”

“Thank you Lilith.” As Bea tightens the last strap, smooths it flat. Her hand lingers so Lilith takes it. Why not?

“Don’t die tonight, okay?” Lilith pauses. “I refuse to attend a vigil mass for a worm.”

Beatrice bites back on something. Lilith knows what it is, knows what she looks like, has wrestled Shannon over it and scowled at Mary - “Wow Lil, now you match your personality. A dickhead.”

All the stupid little nerd says is, “I’ll see you in the van.”

And she does, but it’s with Shannon’s blood on her hands, the divinium in her body casting little lights on the ceiling of the van, like glow-in-the-dark stars. Lilith’s eyes roaming in the rearview mirror, both hands busy on the wheel, as Shannon coughs on a mouthful of blood and switches to her hands.

They shake, fluttering out their meanings as street lights switchback in over the tense shape of Lilith’s shoulder.

“Hey,”

Beatrice wants to clutch her hands but she wants the words, too.

Her voice breaks around the response, so she mirrors, like they’re doing forms on the grass, like they’re home.

“Hey.”

#warrior nun #sister lilith #sister beatrice #shannon x mary #‘anon’#as ever. i was provoked #casper writes

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