#fic: wn?

[rosewaterandivy]

Teaser 🖊️

A series of vignettes following President Owen's senior personnel as they navigate just another day working in the White House.

“Of all the gin joints in all the world,” Steve Harrington croons softly before taking a sip from his now empty glass. The bartender nods to him as he readies the next round.

“Two old fashioneds, coming up.”

The sound of cocktail shakers and lulled conversation surrounds them as he traces an idle finger through the water rings on the bar top.

Clearing his throat, he begins, “I don’t think we’re gonna run the table, if that’s what you’re asking.”

His companion chuckles, “It’s deep background. I won’t even come close to using your name.”

He scoffs, "You’re not gonna come close to getting a quote, either." He nods his thanks to the bartender and grabs his drink.

“Then why are we sitting here?” His companion, the reporter, grouses. And yeah, that is the question, isn’t it?

Well, for one, this may be a Capitol Hill bar but damn if they don’t make a decent old fashioned. He wanted a drink, maybe didn’t think twice about the press crawling all over the Hill today, and well, here he is sat next to some reporter angling for a quote.

“You sat down!” He fires back indignantly, setting down the drink.

Christ, the gall of these guys.

“Is she on the way out?” He presses.

He rolls his eyes, “No.”

“Seriously?” The guys turns, trying to level with him, “Look Harrington, I know you’re colleagues… But did Caldwell say-”

“That’s a generous term.” He takes another sip, “You realize this conversation won’t end well for you, yeah?”

This guy will not let up, “Who do I gotta call, huh?”

“Well, you could call 1-800-BITE ME.”

“Harrington!”

Steve chuckles lowly, fingering the glass, “Look, she’s not going anywhere. It’s a non-story and you know that. Or you would, if you had any sense.”

The reporter admonishes him with a pointed finger, “Okay, you’re lying low, aren’t you? I get it.”

“Aw, that hurts. Why would I lie to the free press of all people?” He polishes off the drink, glancing over the guy’s shoulder.

Huh. Well, ain’t that something?

“Okay,” he allows, drumming his fingers on the bar top. “Then why do you keep looking over my shoulder?”

Steve raises a solitary brow. “Because Hillary Clinton just walked in with her emails.” Can this guy just fuck off already?

“Wait, what?” He turns to look. Steve places a hand on his shoulder to stop him before his cover is blown.

“There’s a woman over there. I think she’s lookin’ at me.”

“Really?”

“Gotten pretty good at sensing this kinda thing,” He reassures him with a smile.

And this reporter, the fuck, slowly and obviously turns to look, to corroborate Steve’s story before turning back. “Yeah, I think she was.”

Steve forcefully claps him on the shoulder, “I wanna thank you for the real casual way you did that just now. She probably didn’t notice that.” He shifts in his seat and drops his hand from the guy to get a better look at the woman in question. She smiles at him and raises her glass.

Hook, line, and sinker.

The soft cadence of the morning news plays dully in the background as Jim Hopper glances through the headlines. He pauses at the crossword section before offering, “17 across is wrong. Can you believe that?”

“What else is new?” Joyce replies, handing him a cup of coffee. “You should file a complaint.”

Jim, lost in plotting his revenge against the New York Times crossword editor, doesn’t hear the phone. “Y’know, I think I will.”

Joyce takes the call as Jim settles himself on the couch, papers still in hand. “Hop there’s a-”

“I’m in the shower!” he calls, nearly spilling his coffee to grab his paper.

“It’s POTUS.”

With an exasperated sigh, Jim drops the morning paper and motions for Joyce to patch the call through.

The New York Times can wait… for now.

The vacuum runs in the office as you fitfully attempt to sleep, arms crossed, hair mussed and face pulled in a grimace. Turns out, your desk isn’t as comfortable as you remembered. A lamp remains on, casting a soft glow on the surface; papers scattered, pens uncapped, and cell phone nearly dead.

Beep-beep-beep…beep-beep-beep…beep-beep-beep.

The alarm blearily wakes you; scrubbing a hand across your face and blinking wearily before swiping across the screen of your cell to unlock it. Quickly, you read the message and grab the phone on your desk, keying in a four-digit code.

“Hey,” you croak, voice laden with sleep, “Got the message. Now, what the fuck going on?”

“Sir,” The flight attendant urges, “Sir, I’m going to need you to put away your phone.”

The man in question continues the lazy perusal of emails, ignoring her.

She sighs, “Sir, please put your phone away. It interferes with our navigational systems.”

He smiles, “You know when you say that, it sounds pretty ridiculous, right?” He chuckles before continuing his task.

Another flight attendant comes down the aisle from the cockpit. She leans over the empty seat in front of him, “Mr. Munson? A message was just patched up to the cockpit for you. I’m not sure I’ve got it right.” She reads from the scrap of paper in her hand, “POTUS in a roller skating accident?”

He glances up at her, “You got it right sugar, thank you.” And drops his attention back to the phone, quickly typing out a message.

“Again, you cannot use your phone until we land, sir.”

He scoffs. “We’re flying in a Lockheed Eagle series L-1011. It came off the line 20 months ago. It carries a SIM-5 transponder tracking system. Are you telling me I can still flummox this thing with the latest IOS update?”

This poor woman.

She lets out an exasperated sigh, “You can call once we land, sir.” And takes her leave of him.

“Hey sugar,” he calls after her, “I never got my peanuts.”

“How ya doin’ Steve?” she calls snuffing a joint out on an ashtray.

“Let me tell ya somethin’ doll,” his voice echoes from the bathroom, “I am envious of this water pressure you have here.”

She giggles before settling back against the pillows, “I know.”

“Ya consider running hydraulics in there?” He moves from the hall back into the bedroom, scrubbing a towel through his hair, clothed in his boxer briefs. He makes a cursory search for his pants and shirt from last night until she perks up from the bed.

“Oh!” she moves to the nightstand to find their phones, “I’m sorry, your message--your phone went off when you were showering. I grabbed it, thinking it was mine. ‘POTUS in a roller skating accident. Come to the office.’ And I memorized it, just in case.”

Steve makes quick work of his clothes while she rattles on about… well, something or other.

“Hey, I’m sorry but I have to go.”

She stops rambling, “But it’s 5:30 in the morning.”

He sighs, “I know this doesn’t look good.”

“Not really, no,” she pouts.

He sits back on the bed, “But I really like you and if you give me your number, I can call you.”

She scrambles toward him across the duvet, “Why don’t you stay here yourself and save yourself the call.”

He huffs a laugh, “It’s not that I don’t see the logic in that, but-”

“POTUS was in a roller skating accident.”

He hums in agreement as she airdrops her contact to him. “Hmm..” she hums passing Steve his phone and drawing him toward her for a lazy goodbye kiss. “Tell your friend POTUS he’s got a funny name, and he needs to learn how to roller skate.”

Steve pulls back, securing a tie around his collar. “Well, I would, but he’s not my friend, he’s my boss. And it’s not his name, it’s his title.” He grabs the rest of his belongings and makes toward the door to leave.

“POTUS?”

He pauses at the door, “Yeah, President of the United States.” He opens the door and walks down the hallway, “I’ll call ya!”

Jim Hopper makes his way into the White House, tossing his belongings to the security officers and stepping through the metal detector. It goes off every time. Flashing his badge and keying in his code, he quickly walks across the corridor and into the bullpen. Greetings fly by as he maneuvers through the desks and filing cabinets.

“Hey Franz,” he offers, avoiding yet another file being handed to him. He turns against the corner of a desk and keeps walking.

“It’s Frank!” someone corrects from the filing cabinets.

“Whatever!” Hopper replies as he descends on Erica’s desk. “Morning, Sinclair. Is she in?”

Erica smiles and greets, “Morning Hop. She’s back in her office.” Then continues to type away on her computer.

Hopper rolls his eyes and clears his throat, waiting. He fiddles with some papers as the minutes trickle by. Erica continues with her work, seemingly oblivious. “Can you go get her?”

“Oh, sure.” She replies, “You alive back there?” she yells down the small hallway.

Hopper smiles, ears still ringing from her caterwaul, “Wonderful job, top-notch, really.”

Instead of returning to her work, Erica rests her chin upon her hand and glances up at Hopper, “I heard it’s broken.”

He scoffs, “You heard wrong, Shortstop. It’s not broken, it’s a mild sprain. He’ll be back later today.”

Erica processes the new information. “What caused the accident?”

Hopper shoves the papers under his arm, “What are you, State Farm?” He crosses her desk admonishing, “Go, do a job, would ya?” He waits until clearing her desk completely before rapping his knuckles against the surface and mumbling, “He was swerving to avoid a pothole.”

Robin Buckley steps into Hop’s office first, balancing a binder precariously in the crook of her elbow trying to dodge the numerous people flitting in and out of the room. She spies Hopper rounding the corner of his desk and beelines for him.

“Is there anything other I can say than the President skated himself into a tree?” Her tone is resigned with the hint of a whine because only something this ridiculous would happen after she’s finally gotten the Press Corps to somewhat respect her.

“He hopes to never do it again,” Hop supplies, kicking his feet up on his desk and sending a stack of papers careening to the floor.

“Seriously Hop, they’re laughing pretty hard.”

“He skated into a tree Rob, whaddya want me— ‘The President while roller skating on his vacation in California came to a sudden arboreal stop.’ The fuck you want from me?”

Robin scoffs and jots down a few notes, “A little compassion would do a world of good Chief.”

Steve joins her soon after, prompting Hop’s attention as he scribbles furiously at his crossword.

“Harrington, what’s the word on the migrants?”

He shrugs nonchalantly, “The intel you got from the deputy is the same as mine. 1,200 migrants embarked from a fishing village in Cuba 30 miles south of Havana.”

One of the aides pipes up, “Where are they headed?”

Eddie settles into a worn club chair and tosses a dossier on the floor, “Vegas, duh.”

“Miami,” You correct kicking the door closed behind you. “Though the navigational equipment is severely lacking.” Typing out a message on your phone, you press send and pocket it. “Y’know if one of these guys could throw a split-fingered fastball—”

“Kid,” Hop warns.

“We’d send in the U.S.S. Eisenhower,” You continue, voice brokering no argument.

“Okay," Robin allows, "That’s not entirely true.”

“For fuck’s sake, forget about the journey,” Eddie grouses from his seat, “The voyage is not our problem.”

Robin turns, craning her neck to look back at him. “Then what’s our problem genius?”

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, and beleagueredly rubs at his eyes. “Our problem is what we do when the Nina, the Pinta, and the Get Me the Hell Outta Here hit the port of Miami.”

“Harrington,” Hop prompts, not glancing up from his paper.

The Communications Director straightens up. “Can’t send ‘em back. They’d go to jail at best and at worst—”

“We’ll get spanked in what?” Hop hypothesizes, “Three districts? Dade county—”

“Kiss those seats goodbye,” Eddie agrees. “Texas—”

“Eh, I wouldn’t worry about Texas right now," Robin advises.

“Not to mention that it’s wrong? Like, morally wrong?” You say to no one, since they’re all seemingly ignoring your very valid and correct talking points.

“Harrington, keep the Kid in the loop on this throughout the day.”

“And normally, I’d be happy to,” Steve attempts to needle his way out of it, “But my day’s a little tight and isn’t this more of a military area?”

Hop drops his pen and heaves a sigh. Eddie looks at him like he’s spouted two more heads. Robin barks a laugh and then coughs to cover it up.

“I’m sorry,” You begin, with one of those smiles that tells Steve you’re about to eviscerate him publically and ruin his day. “Do you think the United States is under attack from 1,200 migrants in row boats?”

“I’m not saying I don’t like our chances,” He hedges.

Eddie scoffs, “Mind boggling to me that we ever won an election.”

“Who’s getting trigger-happy— Conroy?”

“Yeah, wants to send in the National Guard.”

Which prompts a bit of cross-talking. First from you, who says, “He shouldn’t.” Then from Steve with a “He’s right.” And lastly from Robin: “It’d create a panic situation.”

Eddie chuckles to himself, “I agree with the Kid, Steve, and Robin. And you know how that makes me crazy Chief?”

“Yeah, yeah, I do.” Hop says shuffling some papers around on his desk.

“They’re running for their lives. You don’t fuckin’ start a game of red rover with Cuba, and you don’t send in the National Guard.” He eyes you, and can hear you thinking from across the room.

“Right.” You nod, “Because you send in food and doctors.”

Steve has inched his way closer to the door by this point, he’d much rather be dealing with the new aides in the Communications office than spend another minute being delegated responsibilities for the day.

“Harrington,” You call out, “See that I.N.S. works with the Red Cross and Centers for Disease Control.”

“Sure.” He sighs, “Lemme get my C.D.C. guy on the phone.”

“Jesus!” Hop drawls, “Go— talk to him!”

“Uh, yep.” He unearths his phone, “Calling him now.” Steps out of the office and makes his escape just as Hop sighs.

“Okay, now let’s talk about you and your dressing down of the Christian right on public prime-time television, Kid.”

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfiction #the west wing au #fic: wn?

[princington]

choose the devil I know (over the heaven I don’t) ch 15 by @sapphicstacks

#avatrice #avatrice fanart #wn #wn fic rec #my art #they’re so silly they’re such goobers #doodling while I wait for pictures

[caliphoria17]

SimonDavisBarry: Ok folks, here’s the infamous scene 18 that we never shot. Comes before the running over water scene.

#“Takes a moment” to yearn perhaps Bea? #Half asleep Ava mumbling GOD WOULD’VE LOVED TO SEE THAT #Also: the domesticity of it all with Bea naturally being the one making breakfast #“(grins knowingly) We'll see about that.” Does anyone get a little bit of a gay vibe.gif #This also shows how much AB & KTY’s acting choices add so much to their scenes (eye contact/touch/maybe added dialogue) #👩🏻‍🍳’s 💋 #Absolutely looking forward to fanfic writers and WN artists to reference this in their fics and art AHHH #Fanfic writers have been really accurate with their depictions though which is amazing #Warrior Nun #Avatrice #Warrior Nun edit #My edit

[smokestarrules]

this scene just makes me so insane, the way Michael is Right There and neither of them pay him any attention at all until he speaks up, the way they’re so attuned to each other. 

Beatrice having just gotten her back, holding onto her with both hands. 

#you know that trope in wn fics where ava's like? oh how incredible it is to have bea's Attention #thats what I think of whenever I see this scene. #holy SHIT #im fine this is fine #warrior nun #ava silva #sister beatrice #avatrice #smokey speaks #500 #1k

[willowedhepatica]

Got this amazing commission from @thistleation for a fic I've been working on. Thank you! They look fantastic. And can never get enough of Ava with wings.

If anyone wants to check it out, it's on AO3

#commission #warrior nun #avatrice #wn fic #avatrice fanart #ava silva #sister beatrice

[twistedappletree]

I know we love to headcanon that Lan Sizhui growing up as Wen Yuan would be a roguish badass (and he technically would when it comes to cultivation because he’d be learning from Wen Qing and Wen Ning) but aside of being an amazing cultivator, I really think he would just be the nerdiest nerd to ever nerd. Plant dork. Has entire notebooks filled with studies and properties of leaves and their decomposition. Cancels plans with friends to observe a spider weave a web and catch its prey. Can’t go on a simple walk without bringing home a sack full of cool rocks.

#mdzs #the untamed #mo dao zu shi #lan sizhui #wen yuan #a yuan #mdzs headcanons #he’d literally be the definition of ‘adorkable’ #just like his uncle ning #goddddd now I want a fic of him growing up & learning from WQ & WN & spending time with granny & just having his family again #🥺🥺🥺🥺 #im g onn a c r y #apple babble 🍎

[call-me-maggie13]

Beatrice doubts she’s ever been so nervous. Her head is spinning and she fidgets with the bundle in her hands, brown paper crinkling as she tugs softly on the tiny yellow bow wrapped around it.

She hesitates on the front step, considers tossing the bouquet into the bin closest to her and running the opposite direction. This is possibly the worst decision of her entire life. Completely unprompted. She should’ve consulted Shannon.

"Oh." Ava pauses in the doorway, one foot on the stone steps mere inches away from Beatrice. "Were you…"

Beatrice feels her face burn when Ava’s eyes settle on the red tulips in her arms. Eleven red and a single yellow tulip.

Red tulips. A declaration of love.

"Mama, move it!" Diana pushes through Ava’s legs, stumbling into the daylight like a newborn deer, squinting against the sun until her eyes adjust and she recognizes Beatrice, grinning and leaping into her. "Papa!"

Beatrice can’t look away from Ava, she’s analyzing every micro expression that passes over her face. Ava knows what it means. Perhaps Valentine’s Day isn’t the time for this. Beatrice should’ve waited.

"Papa!" Diana yanks on Beatrice’s coattail, pointing to the brown paper bundle in her arms. "What’s it?"

Beatrice forces herself to thaw, heart pounding against her ribs as she swallows it from the back of her throat.

"It’s a gift. For you and… and your mama." Finally, Ava lifts her eyes, cheeks pink and lips parted. Beatrice fumbles over the flowers, trying to find the yellow tulip to tug free for Diana. But she doesn’t look away from Ava.

Beatrice had really hoped to catch them while Diana was still napping so she would have time to process before attending to the little girl. In fact, she probably had arrived while Diana was napping but she’d spent so long doubting herself that Diana had awoken.

Diana takes her flower from Beatrice, inspects it quietly before extending it for Ava to admire.

Beatrice hadn’t meant to declare her love for Ava in the snowy, winter air. She hadn’t meant for it to be a grand gesture. It was meant for Ava alone. For her and Ava.

She’d had a speech prepared for Ava’s tiny entryway, her stained linoleum tiles, her crayon colored walls.

I’m yours. She had wanted to say. For as long as you’ll have me.

Beatrice offers the remaining bouquet to Ava, extending them for Ava to either accept or deny. Waiting for Ava to either accept her or turn her away.

The next second moves impossibly slow. Ava steps toward the tulips, hand reaching to brush their petals before moving away. Beatrice’s heart falls, sinking deep into her stomach. Ava has been considering the best way to reject her. Beatrice has read too deep into their interactions. She’s misinterpreted and ruined everything and -

Oh.

Ava’s lips are soft and warm against hers, tender and tentative. Beatrice’s mind has barely processed what was happening before Ava is pulling away, apologies clouding the minuscule space between them until Beatrice surges forward and they crash together again.

They haven’t kissed since they returned from Christmas. Beatrice isn’t certain why, not a single moment has passed that she hasn’t thought about kissing Ava. The thought had overtaken her, pulsed deep in her veins until she’d had to pull away, little by little, creating a chasm between them. A chasm flowing with anxiety and worry.

She’s not certain what she’d ever fret over before because this might the only thing Beatrice had ever been certain of in her life.

They’re only pulled apart by a high whine from Diana, a cry of boredom and annoyance. Even then, they linger in each other, noses brushing and breath mixing.

Beatrice still hasn’t found the words she’d rehearsed previously, only four she hadn’t considered tumble past her lips into the shared air betwixt them.

"Will you be mine?" The uncertainty lingers only a moment before Ava pulls away to giggle, nodding rapidly and blushing deeply. She flings her arms around Beatrice’s neck and buries her nose there, effectively knocking the flowers from Beatrice’s hand. Beatrice doesn’t much mind.

"I thought I already was."

Find more here!

#warrior nun #ava silva #sister beatrice #avatrice #warrior nun s2 #bea and ava #warrior nun season 2 #wn s2 #save warrior nun #warrior nun netflix #babysitting au #babysitter au #fic: like the princess

[analogoose]

Ava & Beatrice, Warrior Nun S2E8 // Sarah Ruhl, from “Eurydice” // “Wait for Me,” Hadestown

#writing a fic on it now too bc i loooooove pain and torture #avatrice #sister beatrice #if i have to suffer thru this parallel then so does everyone #ava silva #warrior nun #warrior nun s2 #warrior nun spoilers #wn spoilers #web weaving #compilation #orpheus #eurydice #hadestown #parallels #goose speaks

[bazaarwords]

thank you @why-does-it-matterr​! i think i got a little carried away, but i hope you enjoy!

cw: descriptions of injuries

-

There was a place she used to go to after the Order had days like these. Bad days. Ones that left her numb.

Historically, the place is both tangible and not—a lonely tower at the Cat’s Cradle, and once there, a few long moments of contemplation. But her old home is a long way away, and so Beatrice finds the part of her mind that needs this kind of treatment and sends it elsewhere. As for her body, she deigns to get to work instead of separating herself. The OCS may not be her world anymore, but there are wounded. People she cares for.

In the wreckage of their makeshift hideout, Beatrice wonders if maybe it’s never been the events of the day that seep the feeling from her. Maybe it’s always been this—this thing she must do to herself in order to succeed. Months of wandering have not divested her of the need to perform. The months have, however, been a reminder of all she’s lost.

She sets her feelings aside. There are things to do.

The first order of business: Camila’s shoulder is out of socket, and for all their collective expertise, Beatrice remains the best candidate to set it. Years ago, before the Order had swept her away, she’d spent a long summer volunteering in a hospital. It’s not the medical training she’d received afterwards, but the exposure was, at the very least, an advantage.

“Ready?” She asks, although she knows that Camila is always ready.

Camila, in the kind way she does all things, just smiles as if Beatrice is the one that needs the reassurance. She nods. “Go for it.”

Camila doesn’t flinch. She lets out a long, measured breath and she says, “ow” and she laughs at herself. Beatrice would like to take the time to laugh with her, but her joy is locked up in that faraway place. She squeezes Camila’s other shoulder, helps her into a sling made of a torn shirt, and moves on to the next.

Sister Dora has twisted her wrist. It’s discolored and swollen, but her bones are, thankfully, intact.

“A tarask,” she explains, “I thought it’d… well, I thought it’d kill me but…”

But she came back, Beatrice thinks to herself, searching the wreckage for wood to make a splint. She saved you.

She blinks that away—she has to. Sister Dora must notice her reticence. She doesn’t complete her thought. So Beatrice secures Sister Dora’s arm, and she moves on.

Yasmine has taken a glancing blow to the head, and Mother Superion has opted to stay up with her in the wake of the fight to monitor the damage.

“I’m okay,” Yasmine says when Beatrice comes by, holding up a placating hand. “I mean—I remember my name, so. So that’s good, right?”

Superion offers the smallest of smirks. It’s fond, not hard-won. “Yes, Yasmine,” she says, and rises up on unsteady footing. It’s not the new, halo-resurrected Superion.

“What happened?” Beatrice asks, firmer than she’d meant to. Emotions are nebulous when she settles into this way.

Superion shakes her head. “Nothing that should concern you. A few bruises.” She gives Beatrice a meaningful look—one she’s not present enough to catalogue. “There’s a cot in the back. Rest. We’re fine here.”

It sounds like an order, and even though she’s put the church behind her, she still respects Mother Superion. She can still recognize that she’s done all she can for the group, within reason. So she makes her way to the back room, feeling nothing. She sits on the edge of the cot, feeling nothing. She shrugs off her outer layers, feeling nothing.

Her mind has been in that faraway place, however, and as she returns to herself, everything sinks in.

While information comes in in pieces, on thing is for certain—there’s pain, everywhere. It would make the most sense to take stock of the worst places, the ones that need her immediate attention, but when feeling rushes back into her, the only thing she can think is that she needs to get out of this room and to wherever she’s gone—

There’s a jolt, razor sharp in the already excruciating throb of her abdomen. It’s quite obviously from when she’d been launched across a courtyard. The intensity winds her halfway to standing and her hip smarts as soon as she’s fallen back to the cot. She tells herself several times that she needs to get herself back in that empty place, that world where she feels nothing. Above all things, she needs to be there because she needs to find Ava.

A week prior, there had been a desperate call for help, a train from the small Finnish town she’d wandered into the month before, and Beatrice had found herself right back in the fray. Seeing the faces of her friends again after all their time apart had been bittersweet. When the fight had come to them, she’d remembered the last words Lilith had said to her. A holy war.

Despite her best efforts, she’s in the middle of it.

“Fuck,” she says, because she curses now. Because she knows that her knee is going to give out if she tries to stand. Because she’s effectively trapped herself in this room.

Frustration wells up in her like a lit fuse.

Assess the damage, she thinks, because what the hell else can she do?

The buttons of her shirt are slow work, her hands are weak from gripping her machine gun, her knives, the side of a building as she hoisted herself and Yasmine back to safety.

God is lost to her now, but it is a miracle that none of her injuries have drawn blood. A massive swath of skin along her side is purple and yellow but unbroken—it is the very worst of things. It hurts to draw breath, and hurts even more to bend and pull her pant leg up past her knee, to find the skin there in much the same condition. Upon further inspection, her hip, too, is a wild mess of bruises.

She’s a wreck, and what do they have to show for it? A few inches of ground? A few battered nuns, scrounging up whatever tools they can find?

Ava.

They have Ava. She just… doesn’t know where.

Beatrice had seen it happen as if in a dream.

The blinding light from above, the shockwave that had sent the tarasks flying in all directions, but hadn’t so much as nudged the sisters. When she’d looked, it was Ava’s form in the center of the light—Beatrice would know it anywhere, in any world—flickering in and out. She remembers shouting, desperate, stumbling through the wreckage. The details from there are hard to recollect. It’s when she’d been grabbed and thrown, it’s when the fight had resumed and she’d lost sight of Ava.

But she had seen her. That she’s certain of.

She closes her eyes, wincing as she tilts her head to the ceiling. The breath she tries to take is shallow and does nothing to steady herself.

“Beatrice?”

The pain of movement is forgotten, the voice like a ribbon of gold around her heart.

There’s Ava. There’s Ava.

The breath is gone in a rush, and Beatrice forgets the rest of the pain and she tries desperately to stand, to run, to move. Her leg gives out and Ava’s on her in a second, easing her back down.

“Ava,” she says, voice breaking, throat tight, “Ava.”

Ava kneels in front of her and she takes Ava’s face in her hands and she can’t look away. Suddenly, that place she goes—the one that is empty and lonely is filled with life. Filled with Ava. And she’s here, she’s real and alive and breathtaking in all the ways that Beatrice has loved. Loves. She feels nothing but it, looking at Ava.

“Bea,” Ava says, fingers wrapped around Beatrice’s wrists like they’ve been fused there. “Bea, you—you’re hurt.”

“You’re here,” Beatrice responds—nothing else matters. “Ava, you’re—“ She doesn’t have other words.

It should hurt to speak. It should hurt to lean forward, but then her lips are on Ava’s and nothing hurts, everything aches. Ava makes a small noise that lets loose something in Beatrice’s chest, and she wants to draw Ava closer, but her body betrays her, her whole side lighting up as if on fire. As if to remind her that respite is fleeting. But she doesn’t care, nothing else matters—

Ava notices her wince and pulls away. It hurts to try to pull her back, but still Beatrice tries. “Fuck,” Ava says, voice shaky, “Bea—hold on. You need—“

“I need you to not leave. I’m fine, I promise.”

“I’m not—you’re not fine, your—oh, God, Bea your side—“

Another Beatrice might have taken modesty into consideration. Her shirt is wide open, her trousers undone, and Ava is knelt before her, a hand on her bare knee. She just—she just wants so keenly that the constant, painful reminders of her body’s journey through battle feel like they’re killing her. She wants to pull Ava up and on to her lap, she wants Ava’s mouth on hers again, she wants, she wants, she wants. And maybe it’s her pilgrimage and her seperation from the church that’s allowing her this clear revelation, or maybe it’s just the relief to be in the same room as the girl she loves. Maybe that’s all it’s ever been.

“Let me… shit, I don’t know how good I am at this yet.” Ava focuses down on Beatrice’s splotchy, wounded knee, and the dark room is slowly illuminated by the glow of the Halo.

It feels… itchy, at first. It’s not a scab, but the injury takes on the properties of one—Beatrice tamps down the overwhelming need to scratch or pat at it, but then—as soon as it began—it’s gone. Ava pulls her hand away and the skin is as normal as it’s ever been. An oblong scar where bone is closest to skin from one too many skinned knees, but other than that? Nothing.

“How did you…” Beatrice trails off, swinging her leg back and forth easily.

“I’d… you know, I’d really like to explain it, but, uh. I have no fucking idea.”

Beatrice can’t help it, she laughs, a little hysterical. And then she wants to throw up.

“Don’t—no laughing. Stop it,” Ava says with a worried smile. She sets the tips of her fingers at the massive bruise on Beatrice’s side, and Beatrice can’t tamp down the shiver that rockets through her at the feeling. “Sorry. Sorry, I just need to...” Ava says, her voice thick, “just let me…”

The Halo does its work again, scrubbing her pain from her, raw and red until it’s not anymore. Beatrice takes a breath, and there is no pain.

“Good?” Ava asks.

“Good,” Beatrice responds. She wants that to be the end of it, but when she tries to move in again—“I think there’s another…”

Herein lies the problem. Her hip.

Ava looks down, and they’re in the middle of a war, but Beatrice wonders if she closes her eyes for just a moment, maybe they’ll be back in the Alps. Maybe there, this touch is necessary for another reason. Maybe Ava is looking up at her like this and maybe nothing has ever been wrong.

But they’re in the blown-out remains of a church, and there are demons everywhere, and in her darkest moments she’d worried that this—her and Ava—was lost for good.

Ava hovers over her bruise, and Beatrice nods. Ava is delicate, fingers light over her hipbone. This is not the time to wish for another life, but still she does. And for the first time in months, the wish has legs. It climbs out of that place she goes and it smiles at her, and Ava smiles at her too, proud of her work.

Beatrice draws her in, and the war rages on, but there are no more lonely places.

She has Ava. It’s enough.

#warrior nun #warrior nun fic #warrior nun fanfic #warrior nun fanfiction #ava silva #sister beatrice #avatrice #avatrice fanfiction #avatrice fic #fanfiction #fanfic #fics #sister camila #sister yasmine #mother superion #wn #save warrior nun #my fics #my writing

[possibilistfanfiction]

anything surgeons au, especially butch!bea omg

[an accidental 2.7k words of baby tai for the culture]

//

you don’t ask for beatrice to consult on the case just because the baby really does look like her in a tangible way: brown eyes that shine in the sun; gold skin; soft dark hair; a happy smile. tai — an orphan, which you also don’t prioritize when you ask her, but whatever — is small for her three months and quite sick, a bad valve in her tiny heart doing more damage than good. 

it’s a difficult surgery, complicated and intricate and, even though you’re the best in your field, a hardcore rockstar, you’re not a cardio surgeon. you ask beatrice to consult on the case because, even if you’d never admit it aloud in front of her, she is the best in the world.

‘dr. villaumbrosia,’ beatrice says, meeting you outside the picu. she’s not operating today, you’re fairly certain, or at least hasn’t yet, based on her neat navy slacks and oatmeal-colored sweater under her white coat, chelsea boots certainly not what she would wear in the OR, her buzzed hair not hidden under one of her surgical caps, her wedding band still on her finger rather than tucked away, pinned to the inside of her scrubs. you’ve known her for years and years, have watched her fail and succeed and succeed and succeed, have watched her fall in love and get married, have watched her build a home, a life — which includes you, in all the ways that matter, in the ways you will very rarely thank each other for and feel anyway. 

but still, ‘dr. choi,’ you say, ‘thanks for coming.’

she nods. ‘it sounded like an interesting case from your summary.’ she takes the ipad you offer her and looks at the scans of tai’s heart, then her vitals, then the scans again, a little closer and with something like wonder filling her eyes, just at the corners but enough for you to feel a spark of hope in your chest. she looks up at you. ‘we can do this, i think.’

‘yeah?’

‘it’ll be —‘ she pauses, nods to reassure both of you, sets her shoulders, and you know that’s it — ‘it’ll be difficult, but it’s not impossible.’

‘agreed.’

‘can i meet her, then? the patient? i’d like to get an idea of how small this heart actually is.’ 

‘of course.’ you open the door and it’s just like any other consult; beatrice is always brave enough to partner up on any peds cases, even the most heartbreaking, the most hopeless. 

tai smiles at beatrice, who is always good with children the same way you are: you talk to them like human beings, and you listen, and you take things seriously — their pain and their fear and their recovery. tai is too little to tell you anything, but beatrice still leans toward her gently and smiles at her babbling, runs a gentle hand over her soft hair, makes sure to warm the head of her stethoscope up on her thigh before pressing it to tai’s chest. 

there’s no way for you to realize it at the time, but you will swear for years that you knew, even before beatrice and certainly before ava, that tai was special; beatrice closes her eyes and listens to tai’s failing heart carefully. ‘i’ll need an updated echo,’ she tells you and your intern, standing uselessly behind you. ‘and then, if you’re free afterward, dr. villambrosia, let’s meet in the skills lab? i’d like to run through the procedure.’

‘that works for me.’

she nods once, seriously. ‘no parents?’

you shake your head. ‘she’s here through my org, from chengdu.’

beatrice considers this briefly but soldiers on, like she and ava haven’t had quiet, sad fights about children and adoption and a family and a home. ‘if you feel comfortable, i can hand off my follow-ups this afternoon to dr. amunet and we can get this taken care of. it’ll be a long recovery, so i’d rather it not degrade any further if we wait.’

‘as long as the run-through feels good,’ you say, ‘i think it’s the best course of treatment.’

beatrice nods, smiles once down at tai and rubs her little chest while tai squirms and babbles happily. for such a sick kid — on oxygen and a feeding tube, two ivs because her veins are so small — she’s generally happy, bright in a way that peds usually isn’t. she’s not guaranteed to survive so, like all of your patients, you don’t get too attached. beatrice hasn’t had that problem before, either, caring but not too much, unlike ava, who feels each loss as if it’s his own. but the way that beatrice lingers and lets tai hold onto her fingers while she tells your intern exactly what she wants from the ekg and bloodwork — you think this might be different. 

/

it’s touch and go for a while: you and beatrice are brilliant surgeons but, even with all of the tests and scans and practice, tai’s surgery is longer and more difficult than you could’ve prepared for: her heart is weak and so, so small; even beatrice struggles to place the careful, clever sutures you’ve watched her throw with ease, most surgeries, and for years. it takes longer than you would’ve liked to get her off bypass, much longer than you would’ve liked for her heart to start beating again in beatrice’s hands. 

but: it does beat. weak and small, yes, but sure, and steady, and even, all the valves and ventricles ready to heal as they should be. tai’s cheeks, once she’s settled in the picu again, are rosy, her skin warm, her oxygen sats already up comfortably from before. you’d wired her sternum shut and the incision running down her tiny chest will leave a scar, and she’ll probably need another procedure or two as she gets older — but she will get older, as far as you can tell. 

beatrice goes through — a little unexpected for the aftermath of a successful surgery, and far beyond the end of her relatively easy scheduled shift — all of the potential complications tai could face, how she was without a flow of properly oxygenated blood to her brain for an amount of time that frustrated her — maybe even frightened her. for as long as you’ve known beatrice — dr. choi — through undergrad and medical school, then residency and fellowships, into your first few years as attendings, she’s as unflappable as they come, unless it’s someone she loves who might be hurt, who might not get well. you’ve seen it with ava and her back, and shannon and mary after a car accident that looked much worse than it actually was, and even one time camila got the flu. 

it surprises you in the moment when beatrice, carefully taking off her scrub cap — patterned with little otters and rainbows, a ridiculous gift from ava that beatrice horrifically wears with not a single ounce of hesitation or embarrassment — slips into her hospital-issued fleece quarterzip and sits down in the chair by tai’s bassinet once you and the nurses get all of her machines situated. 

‘i’ll stay with her, dr. villaumbrosia,’ beatrice says, soft and formal.

‘there’s plenty of nurses, and dr. amunet, if you want to go home.’

beatrice shakes her head and leans over tai’s sleeping form, heavily sedated for the next few days so she’s not in pain, and runs a gentle finger along her cheek. ‘she — she doesn’t have anyone,’ she says, as much explanation as you need. ‘plus, dr. silva is on call tonight anyway.’

you resist the urge to say something mean about ava; he’s actually very talented and smart and he makes your best friend, your sister, very happy, and very full — even if he is the most annoying person you know. tai is alone, and all beatrice has to go home to, right now, is a beautiful house that’s empty of all of the life ava brings anywhere, leftovers in the fridge, a house that you know has an empty bedroom just down the hall from the primary, holding a lot of ava’s patient, quiet hope in the space.

‘okay,’ you say, not bothering her, just this once: tai is very small and still very sick; you’ve read enough studies to know that comfort, especially with babies who haven’t known as much of it as they should, can be extremely monumental in their ability to heal. ‘i’m sure you can handle if anything pops up, but i’d like to know anyway. text me.’

beatrice looks up from tai to nod, a grim smile on her face mellowed, seemingly, by tai’s steady breaths against beatrice’s palm. ‘will do.’

you nod and don’t bother to ask for anything else from her, taking your leave while she takes her glasses off and rubs her eyes, then slumps a little in the chair but keeps her hand on tai’s stomach, soothing and warm and present. tai has been alone her entire life, even if it’s only been very short; you believe that her body will know that she’s not anymore, at least for now.

/

it’s not often that you choose to come to work early, not often that you allow yourself to have much attachment to patients and their outcomes beyond whether or not you practiced the best medicine possible — no one would be able to do peds and neonatal surgery if they did — but you park far before the sun comes up and force yourself to grab three cups of coffee from the cafe before you head to the picu.

it doesn’t surprise you when you see both beatrice and ava by tai’s bassinet now, beatrice fast asleep, slumped over fully on ava’s shoulder, and ava scrolling through an ipad, probably taking care of charting here rather than in her office. ava smiles up at you, never deterred by your grumbling or eye rolls, and, just this once, you smile back.

‘dr. silva,’ you greet. ‘how’s she doing?’ you ask, handing him the coffee.

‘totally steady all night,’ ava says quietly, sounding far too proud of a baby that isn’t even really beatrice’s patient, let alone theirs. ‘she’s really strong, even if she’s small.’

you look over tai’s vitals from the past night quickly and it’s true, she is getting better even faster than you could’ve hoped. ‘she is.’

ava smiles, then looks over at a fast asleep beatrice, a little aching. ’bea said she’s an orphan?’

you sit down next to them both and nod; you assume beatrice gave ava enough of the details. ‘we’ll work to place her with a good family once she’s recovered well.’ the warning is unspoken: don’t get too attached.

ava looks over at beatrice, who has spent the entire night asleep in the picu over a baby whose heart she massaged until it beat again in her hands. he nods. ‘yeah,’ he says, hopeful despite it all. ‘yeah.’

/

‘i — i can do it.’

‘dr. choi.’

‘no,’ beatrice says, ‘it’s fine. i’m on call tonight, and it’s good for her.’

it is, you both know it, but tai is healing and, if all goes according to plan, will be released in a week or two, hopefully to a family who’s equipped to care for her, to raise her gently and generously and well. beatrice — and ava, whenever they make up a very flimsy excuse — have been in tai’s room often, and you know they’ve grown attached even though you warned them not to. but beatrice taking her scrub top off and picking tai up gently, careful of her leads and her still-tender chest, and then holding her close and settling into a rocking chair. 

‘beatrice,’ you say, sitting down across from her. 

‘have you — has there been a family chosen?’

you’re not the one in charge of any of that, your contributions to the organization being both your sixth-generation-surgeon money and your sixth-generation-surgeon talent, but you know there hasn’t been a decision made yet. you shake your head. 

she nods. ‘we…’ she swallows, readjusts so tai is held even closer, her left ear close to beatrice’s heart. ‘i spoke with ava. a lot, actually. and, well, you obviously know i’m chinese; i can teach her how to speak mandarin and make mapo doufu and she won’t — she won’t miss that part. and ava knows about not having a family of origin, and he’s, like, the best. and,’ she continues, ‘we’re both surgeons. you know she’s going to need care now, but also her whole life, and i — i fixed her heart.’ she can’t even look at you, just looks at tai’s peaceful little face as her voice gets wobbly and she sniffles. 

beatrice, above all, means what she says. she’s maybe one of the least impulsive people you’ve ever met, agonizing for as long as you’ve known her over haircuts and new hiking gear and dinner reservations, as methodical as it comes when she practices medicine. 

‘i —‘ she looks at tai once more and then takes a deep breath and meets your eyes. ‘i love her.’

you know, more than anything, ava has made beatrice want to be brave. you let it sink in, let it hit you like a tidal wave of easy warmth, then really let yourself look at your oldest friend and every careful thing about her, lean muscles and long-healed scars, the most careful thing held against her chest — the same skin, bathed in the light of an easy sunrise. ‘well okay then.’

beatrice seems surprised, for a moment, as if you would say no, or doubt her, or discourage or argue. ‘really?’

you nod, brusque mostly so you don’t cry. ‘i’ll connect you with aja; she’ll be able to help you with all the paperwork. i’ll put in my recommendation, of course.’

beatrice adjusts tai so she can free a hand to wipe a few tears. ‘thank you, lilith.’

‘let’s just hope she takes after you, not ava.’

beatrice laughs, and it makes tai smile.

/

‘no.’

‘she’s —‘

‘your daughter,’ you say. ‘you’re not tai’s doctor any longer, haven’t been in months.’

beatrice frowns, arms crossed. ava smiles far too serenely for your liking next to her.

‘she’ll be fine, babe,’ she says. ‘it’s just a post-op, super normal.’ she turns toward tai, happily squealing at a nurse playing peak-a-boo with her while they get her situated on the exam table. 

beatrice glowers but concedes, softening immediately when ava squeezes her bicep. they’re both definitely exhausted but happier than you could’ve really imagined; the empty bedroom now filled with a plethora of toys and clothes, colorful animals on the walls, a safe crib with a space mobile you’d personally given them. it makes sense to you, easily, that they’re good parents — kind and attentive and funny — even if, right now, they’re driving you insane. they’re both in comfortable clothes, not bothering with anything more on their shared day off. 

you have to physically shoo beatrice away as you’re listening to tai’s heart, which is ridiculous because you’re sure beatrice does it at home, probably every night. you’re more relieved than you would ever let on that her heartbeat is normal and steady — perfect, as far as you’re concerned. you go through the rest of her check-up and she’s as healthy as can be, gaining weight well, rolling over, holding her head up, starting to eat baby food — yes to bananas; no to green beans so far — not sleep regressing as much as they’d feared. 

‘she’s doing great,’ you reassure. 

‘fuck yeah she is,’ ava says, then sighs. ‘before either of you start, first of all, language is all relative.’

‘ava, we can’t have her first word being f—‘

‘— secondly,’ ava interrupts, then looks at beatrice putting tai back into her dinosaur onesie, slipping a warm cap onto her head, ‘she’s the best baby of all time.’

‘she is wonderful,’ beatrice says, still a little reverent.

ava elbows you as beatrice carefully pulls socks onto tai’s feet. ‘one of the better ones i’ve met,’ you concede, because you really do love tai, and, all things considered, she’s an easy, happy baby. ‘certainly better than i thought would be possible with either of you.’

ava rolls her eyes. ‘i read your recommendation.’ horrifyingly, she starts reciting it, so you move as quickly as you can.

‘i have a tight schedule today,’ you interrupt, beatrice laughing quietly, smiling at both of you with far too much amusement.

‘bye lil,’ she says. ‘thanks for everything.’

‘yeah, yeah,’ you say, but there’s no bite to it. ‘see you at dinner.’

#wn fic #avatrice fic #avatrice #surgeons au #i don’t often imagine them as moms but oh boy when i DO #tai … i love her. lilith also loves her #butch bea 🥺🫡 #a mom!!!! #if u rmb how zola was adopted in grey’s anatomy no u don’t but also objectively better w queer ppl 💁 #also sorry if u know things about medicine. in the spirit of grey’s anatomy #it is merely a plot vehicle here lol #also yes lilith does peds bc she is HARDCORE

[gohandinhand]

turning sun into sugar, spinning straw into gold (1/2)

Fandom: Warrior Nun

Pairing: Ava/Beatrice

Rating: T

Word count: ~9k

Read it on AO3

Canon divergent from the end of 2x02; what if they didn’t get called back to the fight, but had to find a new place to hide away, train, and fall in love? AKA a thinly veiled excuse to write a love letter to the pnw

They’re different here, again, off-duty and alone together through the rapidly shortening afternoons. In Switzerland they’d had this only for stolen moments, cradled in the refuge of a dark bedroom. Here, nestled in the safety of the trees and a sky shuttered with clouds, the intimacy of the night bleeds forward into the day.

#decided to split it into two chapters after all so here is part 1! #part 2 is so so close to being done (it's already 9k) #just polishing the ending so it won't be long until it's up #hope you enjoy my pnw propaganda :) #wn fic #myfic #pnw au #pnw ava

[quietblueriver]

if you were still doin prompt? Beatrice as a zoo keeper/presenter and Ava in zoo/being involved?? Thanks if you still doin it x

Still here and delighted by prompts! Just dealing with life stuff, so I'm unfortunately unable to spend as much time writing as I'd like. Thanks for this, and thanks to everyone who has sent something.

Here's a little ornithologist!Bea fluff.

-

A toddler is already screaming, tiny hands opening and closing as they reach up toward their guardian, who is frantically searching through a small backpack, shaped like a lion’s head, for something. A slightly older child, ostensibly a sibling if the matching khaki shorts and purple otter shirts are any indicator, winces at the book in their lap. Beatrice sympathizes and makes a mental note to watch for their hand during the volunteer portion of the show. 

She’s distracted by a middle-aged man with a sunburn and a deep frown stepping boldly past the thick, bright yellow line and the corresponding, “Staff Only Beyond This Point” sign at the front of the stage to wave aggressively in Beatrice’s face. 

“Sir.” 

It’s tight and angry. Excellent. Beatrice forces a smile. 

“I have to ask you to step back behind the line, please.” 

His eyebrows raise at the pitch of her voice, and the familiar carousel of expressions of gender confusion passes over his face. He lands on disdain and, instead of stepping behind the line, runs his eyes up and down Beatrice’s body, squinting. “Ma’am. I guess. Sorry.” 

“It’s fine. I do have to ask again that you step behind the line, please.” 

He looks down and scoffs, takes a half-step back, his brown leather sandals still well in front of the barrier, and she forces eye contact, looks pointedly at the line again until he backs up further. When he crosses into the guest area, she asks, as pleasantly as she can, “How can I help you?” 

Another child screams somewhere in the bleachers, this one old enough to express specific displeasure. “I don’t want to see the monkeys! I want to see the bears!”

“When is the show going to start? We’ve been waiting for twenty minutes.” 

She lets her eyes wander to the sign posted on the stage beside her, a match to the one posted outside the doors of the little stadium as well as the one at the entrance to the Wings of the World section of the park. She doesn’t need to look at it; two years into her partnership with the zoo, she’s well aware of every presentation time, but she’s exhausted and he’s been quite rude already, so she takes a moment to herself, pretending to read carefully. 

“We’ll begin at 2pm, so,” she looks down at her watch and continues, as lightly as she can, “about fifteen minutes from now.”

He turns on his heel and is gone, Beatrice left alone on the stage to focus again on the small table in front of her, treats and toys laid out neatly, small laminated note cards underneath a photo of each of the day’s avian guests, in case she should forget any of her points. It has happened–rarely, and always, frankly, the fault of distracting behavior on the part of her co-host–and she likes to be prepared for all eventualities.

She’s straightening the notes under Sam, their beautiful bald eagle, when she notices a pair of green and yellow sneakers stop just behind the yellow demarcation, carefully avoiding it.

“Hello,” Beatrice offers. 

Wide brown eyes blink up at her and one small hand releases its grip on a well-worn stuffed manatee to wave at her. 

“Hi.” 

A man’s hand reaches to rest gently on the child’s shoulder and he smiles at Beatrice. 

“We’re sorry to interrupt. Marnie is very excited about the show and wanted to come take a closer look at the stage before we sat down.” 

Beatrice walks to the edge of the stage and smiles back at him, nothing forced about this interaction, and then turns her attention to Marnie. 

“Not interrupting at all. Hi, Marnie. I’m Beatrice. I’m an ornithologist. Do you know what that is?” 

“Birds!” 

She’s exuberant, jumping, and Beatrice laughs. 

“Exactly. Birds! And actually,” she looks at her watch again, “I have to go back and get ready to bring out our first guest.” 

Marnie’s eyes get somehow wider, the manatee crushed to her chest. 

“Dad.” 

It’s nearly reverent. The man’s hand squeezes her shoulder again, and he says, “I know, love. So exciting. Let’s go find a seat.” 

Beatrice waves to them both and then ducks back through the door behind the rock wall, breathes deep and releases the tension in her shoulders as she leaves the waiting crowd behind. 

It’s not like she has to do these presentations. She is a professor with a tenure-track position at the university. She has been published several times in leading journals, and her last article garnered enough positive attention that she received approval and financing for her next project with relative ease. She is Dr. Beatrice Liu. She has worked hard for that. 

She is also very fond of Camila Aguilar, the zoo’s curator, and Yasmine Amunet, a colleague with a longstanding and incredibly popular show on the mammals of the Pacific Northwest. She hadn’t been able to resist their poking and prodding to be a guest speaker during their inaugural Wings of the World presentation two years ago. She had started and never stopped, expanding the university’s relationship with the zoo to allow her graduate students to engage in some hands-on research and forcing herself to step out of her comfort zone for something that she loves. 

She does love the birds, and she also loves the opportunity to foster a love for them in the audience, complicated feelings about zoo patronage and resources aside. She has been told by multiple colleagues and acquaintances that she is “surprisingly good with children.” One of her favorite backhanded compliments. She likes them, generally. Likes less the feeling of being overwhelmed by sound and social interaction, but the balance is worth it, she finds. 

Marnie’s big eyes flash in her mind, and she smiles to herself as she enters the key code on the door to the temporary housing unit. Marnie is going to love seeing Sam spread his wings. She remembers vividly the first time she saw an owl up close, a nighttime zoo exhibit during a school field trip, remembers the swoop in her stomach and the way her chest expanded with the bird’s wings. Awe, pure and deep and lasting enough to push her through her doctorate. 

It’s the reason why she does this. 

Well. 

One reason why she does this. 

The other reason is already in the room, humming to herself as she stands on tiptoes to look into the window of the small room where they’re keeping an injured barn owl. She startles at the beep of the door as Beatrice steps inside, smiles bright and peeks her head over Beatrice’s shoulder before stepping directly into her space and wrapping arms around her neck, pressing a quick kiss to her lips. 

“Hey, Bea.” 

Beatrice kisses her again, because she can, and feels Ava’s smile against her lips. 

“Hello.” 

Ava pulls back and runs her hands down Beatrice’s sleeves, squeezing her hands before nodding back at the window. 

“They say Barney should be good to go in a week.” 

Beatrice sighs at the name, as always, and Ava smirks, as always, delighted at her displeasure. 

“I’m glad. Do you think she should get a new name, in honor of her release?” 

Ava tsks and reaches for the tablet on the metal cart in the center of the room, swipes quickly before holding it out to Beatrice, a worryingly triumphant look on her face. She finds a photograph of one of the wooden name plates common to certain sections of the bird exhibit, a barn owl etched into it. There, inscribed next to its common and latin names, is Barney. 

A bigger sigh. “Well then. I suppose that’s it.” 

Beatrice’s watch vibrates and she hands Ava the tablet with another kiss, reaches for her leather gloves and says, approaching Sam’s container, “Here we go.” 

-

They met two years ago, during Beatrice’s first presentation. Camila introduced them with a little too much joy, unsubtle from the start, and Beatrice had been a bit overwhelmed by her at first–so incredibly beautiful and unapologetic and loud. 

She was also, Beatrice discovered quickly, incredibly passionate and excellent at her job. The zoo’s memberships skyrocketed as Ava took over their marketing and outreach, working hard to increase attendance, but also to build relationships with local universities and community organizations, finding funding to subsidize school field trips and community days and young patron science programs. 

Beatrice was one of her projects, and considered herself lucky to be on the receiving end of Ava’s focus. Ava’s emails were persistent but not pushy, her responses were prompt and professional, and each lunch, each conversation, was easy and interesting and fun. It was Beatrice, in the end, who nervously asked her if she might like to go to dinner sometime, the plans for a summer day camp and pellet dissection unromantically laid out between them. 

Ava grinned, eyed the pellet diagram and said with a raise of her eyebrows, “Way to set the mood, Bea.” She had eased the sting of that with a yes. And a kiss. 

Now, as Beatrice settles Sam on her arm, she hears Ava’s enthusiastic introduction and rolls her eyes fondly. 

“Believe me when I say, it’s going to be un-bird-lieveable. And now, friends, please do not put your hands together for Dr. Beatrice Liu and Sam the Bald Eagle.” 

Beatrice emerges to a crowd of people twisting their wrists to wave their hands in silent applause, and she takes a deep breath as Ava walks by with a wink, settling on the stool closer to the end of the stage. 

-

The show goes well. They balance each other, Ava’s energy and anecdotes and charm against Beatrice’s more staid approach, and the hushed gasps at Sam’s wingspan are as gratifying as ever. She catches Marnie gaping several times, makes a point to allow her and the reader she noticed before the show answer two of the pop quiz questions so that they can get a special bird stamp after the show. 

Ava stamps purple otter, Molly, and her little sister, Abigail, while Beatrice tidies, but when she sees Marnie approach, she sets the notecards down and moves to stand next to Ava, who gives her the little wooden stamp with a knowing smile. 

“Hi, Marnie. Did you like the show?” 

“It was awesome.” 

Beatrice smiles and crouches down, holding the stamp in Marnie’s direction, and she offers her hand eagerly, bouncing as she says, “The hawk was my favorite, but I liked all of them. How do you get them to listen to you? How do you know so much about all of them? It’s so cool.” 

Before Beatrice can answer, Ava’s down next to her, nodding seriously. “I know, right? Dr. Bea is the coolest.” 

Despite herself, Beatrice flushes, and says, quickly, “I went to school to study birds because I love them so much. And now I get to meet great people like you and talk about them.” 

Ava’s standing again, offers to Marnie’s father, practiced without sounding like a sales pitch, “We have some options for programming if that’s of interest.” She turns to the table behind them and then hands him a magnet, a monkey hanging around one of the zoo’s youth program QR codes. 

They leave shortly after, Marnie tugging on her father’s hand, eager to see the giraffes, and Beatrice returns to the table to finish cleaning. Ava’s hand runs across her shoulders as she comes to stand beside her, bumping their hips together. 

When they make their way back inside, she presses Beatrice against the door firmly, kissing her with purpose until they both need to breathe. 

“I really love listening to you, like, inspire young minds with your bird talk. Very hot. With your latin and your fun facts.” 

“My bird talk?”

“I said what I said. Dr. Bea, crowd favorite.” 

Beatrice shakes her head, kisses her again. 

“I don’t know, love. They seem to find your puns pretty emu-sing.” 

Ava groans in delight, slips her hands into Beatrice’s back pockets and says against her lips, “Holy shit, I love you.” 

#warrior nun #avatrice #sister beatrice #ava silva #warrior nun fic #wn prompt fic

[princington]

Another gifted commission for AlmsForOblivion's Bridgerton AU, the bane of my existence

#avatrice #ava silva #beatrice #wn fanart #prince comms #my art #fic rec #q

[daisychainsandbowties]

THE STAR WARS AU [4/10]

word count: 30k

rating: m

summary: Ava is a fugitive Jedi. Beatrice is an Inquisitor. Things go about as well as you’d expect.

excerpt

//

She felt Lilith approach. Her steps were firm, audible even on the carpet, not like Crimson’s prowling softness, her sneaking-up-on-you gait. She half-expected Lilith to reach out and hit her, but the Third Sister only stopped.

When Beatrice opened her eyes very slightly she could see where the scuffed knees of Lilith’s pants almost touched the bare and slightly-wasted curve of Beatrice’s own knee. Lilith reached out, her fingers slipping softly under Bea’s chin – the barest touch – and then she pressed her lips down to where the scalp was ruined.

And the pain of it disappeared.

Later, Beatrice only remembered the way Lilith took the filthy handful of hair and blood and skin out of her hand and dropped it almost reverently into the recycler, which ate the lot in a gasp of escaping air.

She took her into the bathroom, first pulling her up off the bed and not flinching whatsoever when Beatrice simply collapsed against her. Slumped, loose-limbed but for her elbow, which she kept tucked into her ribs. Beatrice’s head fell against her chest, which was not covered with the chest plate of her armour. They were on the station. They were safe. It was soft.

Lilith’s hands distracted her, their lacework of scars and how it loaned an odd terrain to her touch. The contact might have made Beatrice shiver. She wondered where those scars came from, who they came from, but she found herself soothed by them, unexpectedly.

More than scars, they felt to her like the writing you read in the dark, or if you cannot see; bumps with meaning inside. Beatrice found herself trying to read them as Lilith lowered her onto the little stood in the bathroom, as she slipped one hand down behind her ears to gather up all the hair.

But it wasn’t any language - just touch.

She took the razor out of Beatrice’s hands and stood behind her, running it over the scabs on her scalp, brushing the hair away when it feel onto her shoulders. Lilith’s fingers were warm, tacky with spots of blood, but wherever she found a wound she would trace it with her thumb, and then with her lips.

It was strange, unwelcome, necessary – her warm breath when she leaned in to blow the tiny, prickly hairs off the back of Beatrice’s neck. Her movements stilted as she put both her hands down on Beatrice’s shoulders, thumbs pressing into the little nub of bone that marked where the acromion and the clavicle meet. Her voice, mercifully invisible in the dim bathroom light, the hair shifting beneath their feet like discarded feathers as she said, “There. You’re free.”

And Beatrice – stupid stupid – said into the relapse of their silence, “No, I’m not.”

It was as if a thin sheet of glass stood between them, and every touch, every word, all the halfway-honest looks, all of their tenterhook movements, put tiny cracks into the surface. They bloomed out from the scars on Lilith’s hands, and when Beatrice turned her back the glass grew mimicries of the scarring on her back. When she reached out, it took the reflection of her arms.

Then there were moments when a word or a gesture would suddenly and violently bring the whole superstructure of glass down around their feet. That time, Beatrice got to witness it in the bathroom mirror.

Lilith with the razor in her hand, one palm pressed flush into Beatrice’s scalp, angling to take in the artful mess she’d made. It would have been enough for Beatrice if Lilith had simply run the razor through and through and through on the highest setting, shearing everything down to the scalp, but instead she’d attacked each section with a delicacy that came out of her and felt, to Beatrice, like a shock of cold water.

Tilting her chin back to trim her hairline, mussing to upset the little errant hairs away when the razor clipped them. A too-soft murmur of “Close your eyes” as Lilith dusted her scalp with an open hand, very carefully placing both palms to either side of Beatrice’s head to tilt it, just so, or to coax it straight again.

Then the glass broke, and Beatrice watched Lilith freeze, fist curling white around the electronic razor. Dressed down to the blank pants and shirt she wore under her armour, tight around the shoulders but untucked at the waist. A shadow crossed her face and then decided it wanted to stay, settled down underneath her eyes, slipped black tendrils inside until her gaze shone, wetly.

She walked out of the room without saying a word, leaving the razor on top of the bedspread, scattering a few flecks of black around it.

Beatrice had, by dint of vomiting onto the bed in the middle of the night, contrived to switch out the velvet black bedspread for something the colour of cream. There were better dreams in that fabric, but even after she dusted the hair away and put the razor back into its drawer, the bed held onto the image of Lilith tossing the razor down as she swept past.

That night Beatrice dreamed she was back in the chair again, with one arm unlatched and the other tucked tight to her chest. She hit Lilith again and again and again, until her face turned into a smear of blood.

continue on ao3

#fic: luminous beings #warrior nun #avatrice #ava x beatrice #beatrice x lilith #wn star wars au #casper writes #wn fic #somehow palpatine returned etc etc. #can't believe this just reached 100k what is wrong with me

[willowedhepatica]

"Do you love her?" Camila asks and it makes Beatrice grip the mug tighter. She works her jaw, staring into the leafy tea water that had already run cold. She would drink it anyway.

"I've only known her for six months."

"She's very charming."

"She is." Damn it, she is. "Even Lilith has gone soft. She let Ava go on a long monologue about whales and their mating cycle yesterday, it was quite amusing to watch."

"Beatrice."

Beatrice straightens automatically, her eyes shifting forward.

Camila's eyes are soft when they finally land on her. "It's okay."

"What?"

"To love her."

"I don't–"

"Oh, but you do."

Beatrice frowns. She doesn't know if it is because it scares her or irritates her. "How can you be so certain?"

Camila laughs, light and knowing like she just asked something ridiculous. Beatrice turns away. It was a serious question.

"You know a couple of days ago when we were at that party?"

Beatrice nods.

"Ava dragged you out on the dancefloor with all those people and loud music and sticky floors and you had only eyes for her. Even when someone bumped into you it didn't seem like you cared."

It had been a great night. She could remember how much Ava was laughing, her smile growing even bigger when Beatrice accepted her request to dance. She couldn't say no to that.

"She's very persuasive..."

Camila nods. "She is."

"I didn't want to disappoint her."

"You know you wouldn't do that. Even if you said no."

Beatrice humms. "What's your point?"

Camila takes a sip from her drink, sets it down. "You let Ava take you out of your comfort zone. I've never seen you smile more than these last few months and..." she gestures forward, "you're kind of glowing, even for how clishé that might sound, it's true. You can't deny it."

"I–" Beatrice clamps her mouth shut, leans back in the chair. "It isn't like that, it's... I don't know if that's true..."

"Why?"

"She makes me ache." She mumbles, almost without thought before she whips her head up as the panic wash over her. "It's not, I don't–"

"Bea, it's okay." Camila reaches forward and places a hand on hers but Beatrice draws away. She smiles anyway, a little sad this time. "Tell me. Tell me how she makes you feel."

It's a lot. Too much almost. Beatrice clench her hands into fists before unclenching them again. Takes a deep shuddering breath before speaking. "It hurts." Her lips twitch down, she shakes her head. "She makes me feel full." Of what? Everything, too much, not enough. Beatrice absent mindedly strokes her hand over her chest, puts pressure. "It feels like I'm going to burst. And yet..."

"And yet?"

"It feels like I could bear the pain. Over and over, every second I'm with her I could bear it. Every second I'm with her, it hurts less."

"That sounds an awful lot like love." Camila says. "Are you scared?"

"She makes me feel brave."

#wn fic #warrior nun #avatrice #sister beatrice #ava silva #my writing

[birgittesilverbae]

could we have perhaps. a cozy night in for ava lilith bea and libby? perhaps with a board game, or a movie?

"You've really never seen Lilo and Stitch?" Ava squints at them, not entirely sure they're not fucking with her. That's their usual go-to, after all, the deadpan comments and blank stares when they try to pull one over on her, but these seem to be legitimate. "Okay, scratch all plans, we're watching it tonight."

"Our only plan was a movie night," Lilith remarks, "and you'd like us to scratch that plan in favour of… a movie night. Makes sense."

"Shut up, it does."

"Ava, you said we're not s'posed to tell people to shut up," Libby pipes up.

"Yeah, Ava," Lilith says, flat as anything, "we're not supposed to tell people to shut up."

"I'm sorry, Libby."

"No apology for me?" 

Ava leans in close, her lips brushing the shell of Lilith's ear. "I'll make it up to you later."

Beatrice leans in on Lilith's other side. "Can you two get it together for a second? Ava, Libby will want help getting the living room set up for movie night."

"How long does it take to set up–"

"She's very particular," Bea says, just as Lilith's nails pinch the skin at Ava's waist. 

Ava jumps. "Oh! Right, yes, of course. You got it, boss." She stands and reaches out a hand to Libby. "Let's go figure out where to stream it, hey Libs?"

//

"You could just as easily have made her do the dishes," Lilith grumbles. She deposits the last few mugs beside the sink and kisses Beatrice's cheek. As Beatrice sways towards her, Lilith's hand sneaks up the front of her shirt. Her hand is frigid against the warmth of Beatrice's belly, her pinky hooked in the waist of her pants, her other fingers fanned out across the span of her abs. The ring feels so cold it almost burns where it touches her skin.

"Lilith Williams," she cautions, still with that thrill of excitement at getting to apply the surname again – she's not sure it's going to dissipate this time around – "I asked you to help me, not accost me at the kitchen sink."

"Hardly accosting if you enjoy it, Beatrice." Lilith's lips trace the line of Beatrice's jaw. "And Ava's got Libby distracted. Lemme make out with my wife a bit, please."

"Fine." She spins on her heel, hooks a soapy hand in the neck of Lilith's henley and pulls her in close.

"Beatrice," Lilith groans against her mouth, "please don't stretch the neck out." 

Beatrice nips at her bottom lip before pulling away and patting the wrinkles from the front of Lilith's shirt. "Go get changed, otherwise Libby's going to ask why you're all wet and I highly doubt Ava will be able to resist the easy follow-up."

//

"Are you crying?" Ava leans around Libby to ask the question, one hand gripping Beatrice's shoulder to keep from falling.

"Shh!" Libby poke her in the thigh. "We don't talk during movies!"

"Yeah, Ava, we don't talk during movies," Lilith deadpans. She turns her face away, but still fails at being discreet in wiping tears from her eyes with the heels of her hands.

"Let her be," Beatrice cautions, tugging Ava back into her side and readjusting the blanket draped over their laps. There's a roughness to her voice, and Ava cups her chin, turns her face towards her. 

The tear tracks are faint but present, and Ava thumbs her cheeks dry. "You okay?"

Beatrice nods bravely, sniffs back a new round of tears. "I'm fine." She stretches the arm that has been circling Ava's shoulders across the back of the couch, and Ava glances back to find she's intertwined her fingers with Lilith's. "Little, and broken, but still good."

"Still good," Lilith echoes her, not even attempting to quell her tears now. She ruffles Libby's hair with her free hand. "Still good."

Libby bats her hand away and crosses her arms. "What's the point of having a 'no talking' rule if I'm the only one who follows it," she gripes. 

"Sorry, Libby," they chorus, and settle back into the couch cushions.

#thank you for the prompt! #ask #anon #fic: dads #myfic #my wn #ava x beatrice x lilith #warrior nun