I'm attracted to women, and spend way too much on the internet. I have little to no drawing talent whatsoever, but I do like to write in my spare time, though I get writer's block extremely easy.
You'll find a mix of everything from video games, like Mass Effect and Final Fantasy XIII, to TV shows, like Xena, Lost Girl, and Firefly, and pretty much anything else that catches my eye or that I find funny or important.
Also kittens, lots and lots of kittens, and rats. I used to work as a Correctional Officer, and now work as a 911 Dispatcher. Geel free to asky any questions or even for funny work stories, I have a bunch.
Ava coming home from the bar at the end of an afternoon shift, the village unusually quiet around her. Streets empty, the houses hunkered down, squatting almost, as rain-promising clouds roll in from the north, bellies low, scraping the bottom of the valley.
A first drop of rain hits her shoulder. Cold, it sends chills down her spine. Ava is dressed for earlier heat. Tank top. Shorts. Second hand shoes that feel one step away from coming apart.
Hunching her shoulders, body curling around her prize. The croissants inside the paper bag are leftovers from the bakery - Ava got them half-price. The ones Beatrice loves, that she rarely allows them to get. They’re on a budget. They need to save what they earn.
Ava thinks in part it’s just excuses. Suspects that a big part of Bea, who is so efficient in taking care of her, doesn’t know how to be nice to herself.
The stairs leading up to the apartment. Old and creaky, but after weeks of Beatrice teaching Ava how to move she doesn’t make a sound. Ava sneaking in, pausing as Beatrice’s voice drifts to her from their shared bedroom.
“I don’t know how to protect her.” Bea’s tone is forcibly flat, tension crystallised, carefully trapped behind each word. “What I’m feeling for her-” Bea pausing. Ava unable breathe. “Yes Mother. I understand.”
Heavy silence settling in. The conversation clearly ended. Then, another muted sound and Ava’s stomach dropping at the understanding of what it is.
Beatrice is crying.
Ava wanting to be angry at Mother Superion for making Bea cry, angrier that she can’t. It’s because of her Beatrice is crying, and lashing out would mean letting her know that she heard. Letting her know that she, too, feels-
Stomping into the kitchen, she makes enough noise that Beatrice emerges from the bedroom in a hurry, a knife held in her hand. Her eyes, red and a touch puffy the only sign of her emotional distress.
“I brought snacks!” Ava reveals the croissants with a flourish. Puts on a smile she does not really feel. Beatrice opens her mouth, eyebrows drawn, and Ava hurries to add that she got the croissants on sale. They could have them for breakfast in the morning, or heat them up now. In the small toaster oven the last tenant left, the way Bea taught her to do so that the pastry doesn’t go all floppy and wet.
Bea has taught her so many things.
The can do whatever she likes.
“I think we could have them now.” Bea’s smile, a little strained but there. Like glimpses of sunlight through quilted clouds after the rain. “I’ll brew us some tea.”
Things clicking in a different way. How they move around inside their tiny kitchen without jostling. Ava grabbing the plates stored in the cupboards over Bea’s head. Beatrice reaching behind her for their stash of tea. There’s little left, Ava notes, her mind stumbling over the smallest of details so that she doesn’t have to think of what she heard.
Bea has feelings for her.
Bea likes her. Likes her back, likes her back, likes her back.
And later that night the bed being too small to contain their tired bodies and their shared secret. Ava making sense of the nightmares that wake Beatrice up. Of the nights when Bea doesn’t come to bed at all, nights in which she sits by the window, keeps watch until dawn.
Afraid to fall asleep and wake up tangled, warm back against her front. The stretch of space between them a chasm. An intractable ocean. Their bodies obeying other laws - like hydrogen and oxygen the two of them a whole that can’t be decomposed.
Beatrice stammering apologies in the light of morning. Ava waving them away. I know. She says by looks and touch alone. I feel it too.
companies underestimate how much locking their content behind needing an account will just make me go do something else. oh your website wants me to make an account to view this content? oh your website doesn’t show media to logged-out users? okay. i didn’t actually want to see it that bad. yeah. bye ✌️
Spirit: Stallion of The Cimarron & the Indian Boarding Schools/Residential Schools allegory
Holy shit!
Was this intentional?
Considering the rest of the film’s heavy anti-colonization messaging, the main antagonist being heavily modeled on & inspired by General Custer, the other main (human) protagonist being a Native man (& the fort is where Spirit meets Little Creek), yes, most likely
YES. It was 100% intentional. I highly recommend reading up on the making of this film. There was an incredible amount of care that went into the development.
They had Lakota consultants for the project, especially regarding the use of the Lakota language in the film (which is used sparsely, but when used is accurate).
It’s par for the course now to consult people belonging to a culture for projects representing it these days (i.e. Moana, Frozen 2, etc.) but it certainly wasn’t when Spirit came out in 2002.
Chapters:
1/1
Fandom:
Warrior Nun (TV)
Rating:
Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings:
No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships:
Sister Beatrice/Ava Silva, Sister Beatrice & Ava Silva, Hans & Ava Silva, Sister Beatrice & Hans (Warrior Nun)
Characters:
Sister Beatrice (Warrior Nun), Ava Silva, Hans (Warrior Nun), Shannon Masters (mentioned), Shotgun Mary (Warrior Nun) (mentioned)
Additional Tags:
Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Fireworks, Hurt Sister Beatrice (Warrior Nun), Sister Beatrice Needs a Hug (Warrior Nun), Sister Beatrice has PTSD, Soft Ava Silva, Hurt!bea agenda, fireworks sound like gunshots and bombs, that doesn’t bode well for bea’s trauma
Shannon doesn’t invite Beatrice to lie down on her bed, she doesn’t even acknowledge Beatrice’s presence in the room after everyone else had left for the night. She knows that Bea will seek out comfort when she is ready. The first few years at Cat’s Cradle Bea had made herself scarce. It was only after Shannon and Mary that Bea started to sit in the presence of other Sisters, even if she didn’t take up any space in the conversation. Shannon understood that Beatrice found comfort just in being in the same room. It was usually the unspoken words that made Bea feel safe. The silence was different from the silence of her parents’ house.
Shannon starts closing her eyes, she puts her arms behind her neck, and grabs the throw blanket, the one Beatrice found itchy and uncomfortable, and drapes it over her own body. Silently telling Beatrice that she was welcomed to stay the night.
The night falls fast and Bea is sitting in the corner, gear still on, body sore, and head pounding. She hears Shannon beginning to snore, she always did in that position. Feeling more at ease, she grabs her boots and struggles to untie the laces, she settles on kicking them off, scolding herself for damaging the ankle supports. She sheds off the tactical gear, huffing quietly at how difficult it was to steady her hands. The wardrobe had a little shelf for Beatrice, and that is where she found her favourite sweatpants. Shannon had initially brought a pair back from a trip up north one day and then bought 3 more pairs on her next trip when Beatrice started wearing them every night.
She shuffles to the bed, too tired to pick up her feet. She shifts under the blankets and bedsheets and lets her head fall onto the pillow. Sleep comes just as quickly.
The crew is a little bedraggled after their big night out and things start to go wrong in the tent.
Teaser:
All things considered, Ava hadn’t gotten that drunk last night. The shots definitely pushed her over the tipsy line, but she’d sobered up pretty quickly after… well, whatever had happened with Beatrice on the impromptu dance floor.
She also drank several glasses of water before going to bed, so she woke with only the smallest ache behind her eyes. It was nothing an aspirin wouldn’t take care of. She could not say the same for the rest of the crew…
Despite the overcast sky, there were a lot of sunglasses on set and many people clutched cups of coffee like their lives depended on them. The exception to the rule was Mary, who looked like she’d gotten nine hours of sleep and hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol, despite the late night she’d had. Lilith on the other hand… she looked like death warmed over when she joined the end of the queue for breakfast.
it's become commonplace for them, beatrice sitting astride ava's lap, arms draped over ava's shoulders, a book clutched loosely in her hands as she reads aloud. it's poetry, usually, slim volumes by oliver and vuong and siken and gibson and smith, the words slipping from her mouth with the pitter patter of summer rain, warm and all-encompassing.
ava always busies herself with her hands sliding beneath beatrice's shirt and her mouth on beatrice's neck, each touch shaped into oblation by the fervour of her devotion. there's restraint there, in the surety of hands that remain above the white-capped crests of beatrice's hip bones, below the blooming swell of her ribcage. it's an unspoken understanding, a silent promise. at our own pace. always, always at our own pace, now that we are free.
beatrice initiates the shift, having, in one of those moments she'd felt brave enough to venture into the queer bookshop across the city, stumbled across a particularly apposite poem. she recites it into ava's ear, chest clenched with that all-too-familiar melange of laughter and tears, emotion now too frequently spiralling beyond her ability to control it. whatever happens with us your body will haunt mine and your touch on me, firm, protective, searchingme out and your strong tongue and slender fingersreaching where I had been waiting years for you.
and ava acts the words out, fumbles beatrice's belt open, slides her hand between her legs. her other hand climbs the uneven ladder of beatrice's ribs, presses delicately against the scar tissue that marks where beatrice's breath had been gifted back into her body, and ava captures beatrice's exhalation in the hollow of her mouth as she slides a finger into her cunt
Language, to Beatrice, has always felt like a poorly-healed bone; a series of fracture points waiting for the right pressure to come apart again. She feels like an imposter inside it, trying to untangle her hands, her mouth, her hips from their signifiers - words like daughter, like duty. Words in restless orbit trying to stick to her skin.
She can’t think of what she’s thinking of when Ava’s finger glides through her wetness. Maybe she’s wondering at words, maybe she’s speechless in the face of these soft, mouth-made things and their ability to consume her. Why does it frighten her so much, to think of that motion? Fingers gathering the slick evidence of her desire, using it, and she’s already imagining what will happen to it after, where it might go.
She wants to flinch from the thought, but she can’t, because Ava’s hand is shifting down between her legs and god, she’s in every direction.
If Ava had a nickel for every time she’s woken up in a random bed after being knocked unconscious, she’d only have about five nickels - but that’s still five too fucking many.
She can move, which is a big improvement from the last thing she remembers. Ava can see flashes of the Tarask and feel the sensation of how her arm was literally melting off the bone.
Raising said arm, she sees that it is red, the skin is mending - but she still has it.She’s healing, which means…
“Bea?” Ava tries to sit up, but the room spins and she feels a tug on her other arm and looks to see that she’s hooked up to an IV. “Fuck,” She grabs at it, ready to rip it out, when the door opens.“
Can you just chill the fuck out for two seconds?” Mary says with a tired sigh as she moves into the room - a bandage on her forehead and one on her hand as well.
Ava lets the IV go, “where’s Bea?”
“In another room downstairs,” Mary drags a chair over and sits down with a groan. “She’s fine, a little banged up but she’s awake and waiting for you to heal up all the way.
”She takes another look at her still mending arm. Then she looks around the room and realizes they are no, in fact, in London anymore. “Arq-Tech?”
Mary nods. “It’s not like we were going to take the two of you to a real hospital. Took Lily three teleports to get us all here but we made it.” Mary sits forward, grabbing her wrist just below the bandage and rubbing it.
“Are we safe here?”
“Are we safe anywhere? We got ambushed by Tarasks in high society London.”
