#get superions ass

[they-hermes]

combiners support eachother

[electro-scorpion-moving]

biggest flaw of mine is that i don’t care for superion tbh 😔😔😔

[starfleetwitch]

[unicyclehippo]

Hmmm...how about a one word prompt of...Skin?

for @possibilistfanfiction i hope it makes u laugh

//

two

//

every week, superion talks to beatrice late tuesday night. at the end of every call, she asks to speak to you and you let her.

are you struggling with anything? she’ll ask, or what has your week been like? or, how are you, ava? she doesn’t ask that one often because it makes you hang up on her fast. like. what the fuck are you supposed to do? she says your name nicely, makes it sound like she wants to know about you, not the halo, and yeah. it’s a bit much to deal with.

‘we went to the thrift shop,’ you tell her week two, ‘and spent half the money you sent us on clothes. beatrice got new pyjamas.’ from the kitchen, beatrice sends you a betrayed look. you wave at her. you’re not going to tell superion that you picked out boxers for her—black, comfortable—and that you think you’re going to have a heart attack every night because beatrice has surprisingly buff legs, toned, and the first time she came out of the bathroom in boxers you had to put your hands under your head, pin them down with your heavy fucking skull so you didn’t touch her legs, her knees. how knees could be sweet, you have no fucking clue, but beatrice’s knees are sweet, soft in repose and then sharp and strong when she moves and. yeah. anyway.

‘i’ve never bought clothes before,’ you tell superion, and beatrice looks startled and a little sad and you laugh because it’s funny, actually, not sad. ‘i stole the hottest dress from this rich lady’s house—um, borrowed, i mean. they don’t really have high fashion here but i picked up some cute stuff. right, bea?’ beatrice ducks her head. ‘she says yes and also wants to know if spending this money means i’m your sugar baby now. or the pope’s. ow! okay, she didn’t say that but she did throw a pen at me. i’m your halobearer, that’s so rude!’

‘phase through it next time,’ beatrice suggests, and almost smiles when you flip her off.

//

‘hello, ava. is there anything you wish to talk about tonight?’

you have been thinking of things to say all week that’ll make superion hang up on you and so, when you pluck the phone out of beatrice’s hand, you’re grinning. she picks up on your energy and excuses herself to the bathroom.

‘so much. where to start? bea has been kicking my ass in training. i think she’s enjoying it. is that allowed? i thought nuns were supposed to not enjoy things.’

‘i’m sure any and all enjoyment pertains to the pleasure all instructors feel when their student shows improvement.’

‘no,’ you muse. beatrice is for sure eavesdropping so you raise your voice a little and say, ‘i think she’s a sadist.’

the bathroom door slides open half an inch, just enough for beatrice to shoot a forbidding look out at you. it’s undermined by the way some of her hair hangs free of her bun and the toothpaste smeared at the corner of her mouth and she’s brushing neatly and you want so badly to squash up next to her and clean your teeth there with her, in your stupidly small bathroom, so you forget all your nun jokes you’ve prepared and say,

‘all good here, supes. catch you next week,’ and hang up on her.

beatrice is in boxers that show off her knees. her sleep shirt is tucked into the waistband of her boxers, which is so endearing you think you might explode. you press your fingers to her hip and nudge her away from the sink so you can get in there and wet your brush. you do the same thing every night. she ought to know by now. she does know by now. you think she wants you to touch her, to lay your hand gently on her hip and make her space into your space. the toothpaste is minty and froths up as you brush enthusiastically. beatrice swishes her mouthwash. puts her hand on your wrist. you obediently shuffle away from the sink so she can spit neatly into it. 

‘short conversation with mother superion tonight.’

you shrug. ‘tired, i guess.’ it’s half true. you would have happily made a nuisance of yourself but tonight, you just want to brush your teeth next to beatrice and go to bed.

‘am i pushing you too hard?’

you consider the question. tuck your hair behind your ears so it doesn’t get in the way when you bend, spit into the sink too, like beatrice did. rinse. wash your brush, strick it into the polka dot toothbrush holder on the counter.

‘i want to learn. i’ll do whatever i have to do.’ beatrice eyes you like you’ve said something really interesting, which is worrisome because you don’t know what about that was interesting. ‘bedtime. wanna be little spoon tonight?’

beatrice goes pink at the offer and you can’t resist lifting a hand to her cheek, to touch it. she doesn’t pull away, but her eyes go wide.

‘sorry.’

‘no, sorry,’ you say almost immediately. ‘um. i’ll check the front door is locked.’ you run out of the bathroom, through to the kitchen and the front door. thunk your head hard against the wood and swear under your breath. blindly reach for the door handle. turn it gently. it hits the lock and you release it. you stand there for a few long minutes, hearing the sounds of the bedsheets and beatrice shuffling and the click of the lamp turning off and then the apartment is dark and still and there’s a longing right on the centre of your tongue, dry and empty like a wafer sucking the moisture from your mouth, and you want to pick up the phone and tell superion, i want to live. i don’t want beatrice to teach me how to fight, i don’t want you to know my name, i want this to be real. a home in the mountains and a girl who wants me to touch her. 

beatrice pretends to be asleep when you finally join her, crawling into bed and pulling the sheets up to your shoulders. you’re always careful about touching her, when and where you do it, and tonight is no exception.

‘bea?’ you whisper.

‘yes, ava?’

‘can i –‘ you reach over. hover your hand over her forearm.

beatrice shuffles in the bed. the lamps in the street outside are dim and they have covers that keep the light shining down to the street instead of filling the sky. it’s not enough to see beatrice by. you light the halo—the tiniest bit—and her expression goes awed and nervous all at once.

‘you shouldn’t.’

touch her? use the halo?

‘i want to. feels good.’ beatrice breaths out. she won’t say it, and won’t ask you, but when you move your hand to hover over her wrist, sidle close enough to hold her, she doesn’t stop you. ‘g’dnight, bea.’

‘goodnight, ava. sleep well.’

//

‘good evening, ava. i trust you are well?’

‘we got jobs!’

‘beatrice informed me.’

‘of course she did,’ you roll your eyes. catch sight of the brim of the pink cowboy hat still squashed onto your head you had been given tonight as a prize, the only thing you had wanted. it's a little small, maybe made for a kid, but whatever. ‘did she tell you it’s at a bar? she doesn’t drink but she’s killing it at the books. i don’t have the same hang ups – hans is teaching me everything about being a great bartender and it involves a lot of alcohol. i can – he’s german and i drunk him under the table. i think the halo helped. do you – can the halo heal being drunk, do you think? did i cheat? maybe i should give him this hat back.’

‘i will ask you not to test the limits of the halo in this manner.’

‘i know, i know, control the halo, don’t draw attention, blah blah blah—bea already gave me the speech. i’m being safe. it was just some fun, mother,’ you tease, feeling loose and good and happy. ‘the hat suits me, though. it’s pink.’

superion’s smile bleeds into her voice. you grin, imagining it. a smile on that stern face. that’s the best, that’s one of the things you love the most, making people smile, making people laugh, especially when you have to find the right way to come at it. this feels almost too easy? you’re just…telling her about your day and your job and the hat you won but you know that she’s smiling and you’re a little drunk so you decide not to think about whether she likes you or is showing some softer side of herself for your benefit and just enjoy it. 

‘you are entitled to some fun, ava.’

‘tell bea that. and her too. she can have fun too. she doesn’t have to drink, just relax a tiny bit. right?’

‘sister beatrice will attend her duty as she sees fit, you know that. and,’ she adds dryly, ‘i believe she is more likely to listen to you when it comes to relaxation.’

‘what you’re saying is i need to convince her. i need to tempt her.’

superion sighs. ‘drink some water, please, ava. look after yourself. and beatrice.’

‘yeah, always.’

//

there’s a girl who comes to your bar to flirt with you specifically. you know that because she told you, because she pressed her teeth to the pink of her lip and pressed against the hardwood bar, leaning over it to give you a good—really good—view of her chest and for a second you’d forgotten that there was anyone else in the bar when she looked at you so intently. and she told you.

‘you know i’ve been flirting with you, right?’

‘you? no way, this is a huge surprise,’ you’d teased, because she’s been super unsubtle.

the other night, she’d let the condensation from her beer bottle drip onto her chest and asked so sweetly for a napkin and laughed when you went tongue-tied and clumsy, dropping the cocktail shaker. which was fine because it was empty but it had clanged on the stone floor and hans had looked over with this stupidly knowing grin and only laughed when you flipped him off. 

‘sometimes girls don’t know,’ she’d shrugged. ‘and i don’t like to waste my time. you like girls?’

you spin the beer bottle in your hand, because it’s a fun trick and because it makes girls look at your hands. dani is no exception. you haven’t said it out loud before but you want to. should you wait for a special moment? or does the moment become special when you say it?

‘girls are incredible,’ is what you end up saying. it’s not that you’re scared, it’s just that beatrice isn’t here and some part of you kind of expected to say it to her first, the way she’d shared that with you. 

dani doesn’t take it as a cop out, thank god. she grins, big and bold, and tosses her hair back over her shoulder. ‘yeah. incredible. let me take you out, ava—dinner, dancing, drinks. what do you say?’

you should say no. for multiple reasons, but chief among them the fact that when dani used her water on her tits trick, you’d thought about beatrice and what her reaction would be if you tried it on her. probably, it’s a dick move to think about another girl when one is being so kind as to show you her tits. but. beatrice is a nun and dani is not. super not. she’s portuguese and taller than you—most people are, to be fair—and you like that the bar is lifted over where the customers sit so she has to look up at you, but you also like looking up at her and the way she crowds you a little, smirks down at you when you sit a little sluttily on the barstool next to her, hand on her knee. she wears, like, a dozen silver rings and her earrings dangle and glitter when she shakes her head, which she does when you make her laugh really hard, and when you think about kissing her it’s, yeah. good. it makes you a little tongue-tied and you stumble over your words and dani looks at you like she knows what you were thinking about which is. yeah. good. 

you say yes.

//

'—compromising our mission here, compromising the halo, compromising herself—'

'whoa! where does the halo come into this? i'm not whipping my top off for her, it's a date.'

beatrice glares at you. she's standing tall and straight—well, rigid—and with the dark clouds gathering outside the window you're a little worried god will mistake her for a lightning rod, but mostly you're worried that you've actually hurt her by agreeing to go on this date. but then she goes and says,

'this is a stupid risk, you can't just - just--'

and you hate being called stupid so instead of trying to calm her down, you rise up to meet her. 'just what? say yes when a girl asks me out?'

'yes!'

'why not?' beatrice glares over your head, unable to meet your eyes. 'give me the phone.'

'what? no!'

'yes, give me the phone.'

'i'm still debriefing mother s—'

'give me the phone or i'll debrief on my date,' you tell her, and you can feel the anger and spite spitting on your tongue and sparking in your eyes. now she does meet your eyes; hers are black with fury, her jaw tense, and you're doubly pissed because you'd said yes to the date because dani is hot and has this quick flirty humour and because she looked at you like she could eat you up and it's a hell of a feeling to be on the receiving end of a look like that, but beatrice... beatrice is pissed and you're nearly positive it isn't because of the mission, and god, whatever your rules are about thinking nuns are hot, she looks hot with her jaw clenched and the muscles of her neck and shoulders tense like she's thinking about keeping you from the door by whatever means necessary. but she is a nun and you're not an asshole, or entirely selfish, so you said yes to dani because if you can't kiss the girl you like, you should be able to kiss a girl you like. right? 

beatrice flicks a look over your outfit—high-waisted jeans, a shirt that shrunk in the one laundry load you did so now it shows off a decent strip of belly, and a blue sweater tied around your waist that you'd found over the back of the couch, in case it ends up raining—and she scowls.

'fine. fine.'

she grabs your wrist. your skin sears where she touches you—god, is this allowed? is this allowed? i'm gonna be thinking about this tonight in my alone time, is this allowed, dude?—and you open your hand, you'll take whatever she'll give you. you're so startled by her hand on you that you forget to be angry. if she weren't a nun, if she were a little more open, if she liked you the way you like her... 

she drops the phone into your hand. it’s heavy and you nearly drop it, focused on—god forgive you, or better yet, mind your own fucking business dude—her. ask me out. ask me on a date. look at me like you want to push me against the brick wall outside where we work together and kiss me. she must see some of that in your eyes because she drags in a shaky breath and all the anger leaves her. she doesn’t move away. you look at her lips. 

‘ava…’

your thumb flickers to mute the phone. ‘tell me not to go.’

beatrice huffs. ‘you want to.’

‘i’ll stay. i won’t go. if you ask.’

her hand goes to your hip. you want to know how much of her hand can fit there, on your skin where your top rides up. but she doesn’t touch you, even though you’re aching for it, even though she can see that you’re aching for it. it’s like there’s an invisible barrier that blocks her from moving those last few centimetres. 

‘i’m taking a shift tonight,’ she says. ‘hans is sick.’

‘oh.’

‘i won’t be home. after. i’ll be back tomorrow,’ she says hurriedly, before your heart can totally break. ‘but not tonight.’

‘i’m not bringing her home. you know that, right?’

‘it would be fine if you did,’ beatrice lies, and pushes past you into the kitchen to collect her things. 

you let her go. lift the phone to your ear. 

‘hey. what’s the company policy on halobearers going out with girls? also, like, your personal policy. not that it fucking matters, i’m gonna do it anyway, but i suppose i’m curious. lesbians…thoughts?’

beatrice slams the front door behind her. 

superion doesn't talk straight away—ha. you hear a chair dragging on stone and then a creak as she sits. 

'well,' she says, and you forget about beatrice as much as you can because superion doesn't sound angry or disgusted. only considering. and this question isn’t totally about beatrice, it’s about you too, and you don’t care what superion thinks of you, you don’t. but. 'there is nothing written to specifically bar halobearers from dating girls.' nuns, on the other hand, she doesn't say but you hear it loud and clear. 'as for my personal policies... they revolve around, and are cemented in, caring for and protecting my order and my girls.’

‘what kind of protection?’

‘physical and emotional strength is paramount, as you know. if you are being safe, and if it is something that will make you happy, then i have no reason to forbid it.’

you think on that for a minute. then, in a small voice you don’t recognise, you ask her, ‘are you excited for me? can you be excited for me?’ tears sting your eyes and the back of your throat prickles with heat like you’ve drunk hot sauce again, or whiskey, and before superion can say anything, you break in again with, ‘i’m going to be late,’ kind of brusquely. ‘bye.’

//

after dinner and dancing and drinks, all the things she had promised, dani offers to walk you home. 

you lean back against a lamppost and wind your fingers into the lapels of her lilac blazer and tug her forward, kiss her eagerly. the streetlight is almost the same warm gold as the halo, which is snug and silent between your shoulders. dani tastes like coffee, from her espresso martini. she kisses you, bold and unafraid. you’ve thought a couple times tonight about going home with her and you think about it again now, about letting her walk you home, about holding her hand as you let her into the apartment and pushing the same hand down the front of your jeans, into the underwear you bought new for precisely this reason, to where you’re slick between your legs and wanting but–

‘this was fun,’ you tell her, panting just a little. 

she groans. kisses your jaw, your neck. fuck. ‘why does it sound like you’re saying goodnight?’

‘i - well - you’re making it fucking hard -’ you say, and laugh, and your stomach twists a little because if you had said that to bea she would press her lips together and shake her head and the way her laugh escapes as a huff makes you feel like you could walk over oceans, shoot up into the fucking sky. you make that joke in front of dani and she laughs, sure, but then half a second later her teeth are on your skin over your pulse and neither of you are thinking about the joke. which is fair. but while you want dani to touch you, she doesn’t make you feel like you can take on the world. she kiss you again. puts her hands on your waist, thumbs sliding up to brush over your belly. hands sliding up until her thumbs are dipping beneath your shirt, fingers wrapping around your hips, and you feel fucking incredible, delicate and wanted and hot. but. 

‘dani, fuck -’

‘yeah, i know, saying goodnight.’ she sounds pretty wrecked too, which is a huge boost to your self-esteem because all you’re doing is clinging to her but apparently that’s fine. ‘you’re sure i can’t walk you to your door?’

‘if you walked me back, i’d take you upstairs,’ you tell her, and put a hand to her chest, push her gently away. ‘which - i had a lot of fun, but i can’t.’

dani nods. ‘text me when you get home though.’

‘of course, yeah.’

she takes a step back. out of the halo of the streetlight. you rake your eyes over her—she turned up in matching lilac blazer and slacks with this tiny white crop under the blazer and perfectly white sneakers, a few silver necklaces—and it reminds you a little of seeing doctor salvius for the first time, honestly, in her full pantsuit moment, and maybe you have a thing for women who look like they know what the fuck they want and how to get it. 

‘fuck.’

‘baby, i’m trying.’

you flip her off and push away from the lamppost. ‘thanks for tonight. i had a really good time.’

she smiles and watches you leave. you look back when you reach the end of the road and she’s still there, waves. 

by the time you get into the apartment, you’re considerably more drunk than you’d felt when you left the bar. you get the door unlocked, kick it closed behind you, and text dani as you struggle out of your jeans, kicking them vaguely in the direction of the wardrobe.

made it home thx for tonight

she doesn’t answer immediately. which is fair, she was drunk too and maybe she went back into the bar or whatever and you don’t really care but beatrice isn’t home and the apartment is quiet and cold and you’re standing pantless in the middle of the room and there’s a sinking feeling in your gut when you realise that you’re sad. it’s not fair. it’s not fair. 

the phone is hidden away under a loose floorboard, because of course it is. you hear the wood snap as you peel it up. you’re alive and super strong and drunk and it's fine, the phone shouldn't be hidden away anyway, you shouldn't be hidden away. you pull it out, call the only number programmed into this stupid, bulky phone. 

‘beatrice?’ 

‘no, it’s me.’

‘ah, ava. hello.’ 

you climb to your knees, push onto your feet. she sounds fine that you’ve called, totally unbothered. ‘i’m not struggling,’ you tell her. 

‘i’m glad to hear it.’

‘i’m fine.’ 

she’s quiet. you think about her towering over you. i know you killed yourself. you are a coward. you think about her standing in front of you, putting herself between you and harm. you are worthy. you are. 

‘i’m fine,’ you say again, anger hot on your tongue, hot down your spine. ‘i’ve been fine this whole fucking time but you keep asking so, so if you don’t believe me, let me tell you and maybe you’ll listen this time. i am fine. i’m not struggling. we’re hiding away from the fight and camila is in danger all the time and mary is gone and you - you talk to me but you don’t know me! you don’t know anything about me, and i know you don’t because you still think i’m going to run, or kill myself, but i never did, i never did and i won’t so stop asking me about my fucking life.’

‘ava,’ 

‘and stop saying my name! scolding me? poor crippled girl out on the streets—i have a job! i have friends! i’m really not fucking interested in what you think of me! fuck. you’re all the same. you nuns…you think b-because i’m not on my knees, crying and praying that i’m not grateful? i died! i’m alive! i’m grateful. you want me to thank you? you w-want me to learn how to be perfect from bea so that i’m worthy of the halo? so you don’t decide you’ve had enough of me? lighten the fucking burden of me? fuck perfection, fuck worthiness, fuck your god, and fuck your halo!’ you yell into the phone. anger stings your lungs; there’s not enough space around it for all the air you need. 

‘breathe, ava.’ superion’s voice is muffled by distance and the crackling of the phone line and the dizzy swirl of your head. ‘ava,’ she says more sharply. ‘breathe.’

you breathe in. 

‘good. again.’

you breathe in again, til your chest hurts with it. stumble over to the couch and curl into the arm of it, hand on your chest, feeling the trembling of your muscles, the desperation of your body to breathe, to live. 

superion can hear when you settle a little. ‘i am sorry. my questions have never been about doubt.’ you scoff. ‘if you had come to the OCS another way, i would have asked you these things. i would have taken the time to know you. it is not doubt, ava.’

‘then what the fuck is it?’

‘it is care.’

‘fuck you.’

‘ava,’ 

‘no! fuck you. you’re not my mother.’ you want to cry. you want your scars back. you want anything that tells you you’ve been wanted even once, even if it’s that—a sick, dreamy, drowning memory of a twisting road by the ocean, and scars where a parade of people worked to save your life. your skin is blemish free. ‘i had a mother.’ you pick yourself up from the couch. slam through the kitchen cupboards until you find the vodka hans gifted you. you pour a shot into a stripey mug, clear liquid sloshing onto the tabletop. ‘i had a mother and she died and you’re not her. and the nun who cared for me killed me twice, you know. so. fuck.’ you throw back the shot. it stings. ‘you’re not my mother and i hate your stupid god and you don’t get to care about me. i don’t care. i don’t care. it’s not fair. my mum would—i could’ve told her, i could’ve come home to her. hey mum, i went on a date with a girl tonight and it was really nice. but i can’t tell her because she’s dead and you’re a shitty substitute.’

you drink again. and then—because the anger doesn’t feel as good as you hoped it would and doesn’t do anything about the sadness unspooling in your stomach, glossy and tangled like the tape out of a cassette—you twist the cap back onto the vodka and set it back into the cupboard. 

superion says, ‘i’m not your mother. that’s true. but i am here to listen to you, and guide you. and i was unduly harsh on you but there is no doubt in my mind or my heart that you are worthy, not only of the halo but of the extraordinary life you will lead. and i am sorry that you cannot kiss someone and go home and call your mother.’

you’re standing, still pantless, in the kitchen and superion is being nice to you when you’ve just yelled at her more than you’ve yelled at anyone, ever. you sniffle. ‘a girl. kiss a girl and call my mother.’

‘yes. a girl.’

‘that’s important.’

‘i understand.’

‘it’s scary,’ you admit. ‘but it’s really awesome. and - and i don’t want to give any time to people and the church who think it’s a sin, i really don’t. because there are people who think - who have been made to think that it is a sin, that they’re bad and they’re not. they’re really wonderful, they’re beautiful and incredible and good. and i know you have faith in something, i don’t want - i don’t want to disrespect that - you love god and that’s cool or whatever. but if god has a plan for me, it’s shitty and it hurt and it’s not fair and i don’t want - i don’t believe in anything that cruel, i’m not going to and you can’t make me.’ you’re really tired all of a sudden. and very drunk. ‘i want my mum. do you have - you can talk to the pope, right? can he talk to god for me? can he make sure my mum is happy? i don’t believe but i think she did. can you - can you tell me if she’s happy? do you think she’d be proud of me?’

superion’s voice is thick with something you are too drunk to decipher. ‘yes, ava. she would.’ you feel turned inside out. like she’s touching raw, exposed nerves when she says, ‘thank you for talking to me.’

‘had to get drunk ‘n’ sad to do it. hooray.’ 

‘please drink some water and ensure the door is locked.’

‘’kay.’ you shuffle around to lock the door. pour a glass of water. it spills a little down your front but, whatever, it’s just water. ‘okay,’ you say again when you’re done. ‘sorry. for yelling.’

‘you are forgiven. and ava… you are fine. you are good. you do not believe, but i do, that God has made you in His image.’

‘wow. god’s really hot, huh? that’s cool.’ 

//

you sleep. beatrice is home when you wake up, sitting at the kitchen table with a book, a bowl of cut-up fruit, and a croissant. you don’t have a headache—thanks, halo—but your mouth is dry like you’ve eaten a mouthful of fucking sand and when you stumble out of bed to dunk your head in the kitchen sink, drinking straight from the table, she watches you, hawk-eyed. 

it’s only when you stand, wipe your chin with your wrist, and flop into the chair opposite beatrice, stealing a piece of her fruit, that you realise you are pantless. without pants. 

the tips of beatrice’s ears are red. her jaw is tight. ‘please put your pants away when you take them off,’ she says, and turns the page of her book even though you’re pretty sure she wasn’t done reading the last one. 

‘uh. yeah. i will.’

her finger taps against the spine of the book. ‘did you - was it fun?’

‘yeah.’ 

‘good. i’m glad.’ beatrice pushes the croissant over to you. ‘pain au chocolat,’ she says, and you realise that the croissant isn’t hers, it’s yours, she bought it for you because she never buys herself chocolate croissants. you think of her standing in the beautiful, warm bakery after a stupid long shift and buying you a pastry to eat after you went on a date with another woman and she watches your hands for a while as you split the croissant, which flakes between your fingers, smears buttery goodness everywhere. you break off a tiny bit and hold it out to her. ‘it’s  for you,’ she says, shakes her head. 

‘try it.’

she gives in. she gives in, beautiful when she does it. hungry. takes the little piece and pops it between her lips, which curl upwards, pastry melting, chocolate melting on her tongue. there’s a bit of pastry on her lip and the whole room is full of light. 

[goldeaglefire1]

excuse me for one moment. I need to expose all the non-Transformers fans to the name overlap between Beast Wars and G1 because some of these examples are so fucking funny

"what are you talking about" glad you asked! you see, all the way back in the 90s, Transformers was actually dangerously close to getting canned entirely because after Generation 1 - that being the original toyline and cartoon - Hasbro attempted to continue the success with what they called Generation 2, and it sold like ass. Beast Wars was the solution to that issue, and it worked! the toys sold exceptionally well, the cartoon was well-received, everyone lived happily-ever after

except. because Beast Wars was an effort to revive the franchise it was effectively treated as a soft reboot. it was not a reboot (keep that in mind for later) but the people naming the characters weren't afraid to use names that were already used for G1 characters. this makes things exceptionally funny in hindsight considering how wildly different these characters can be from the original Transformer with their name

now. come along with me. let's journey through these name overlaps together.

going in no particular order (well maybe SOME order because I'm saving the funniest bit for last), let's start off with Scorponok

now, Scorponok is a name that kinda got passed around like a blunt later on in the Transformers series, but we're just focusing on the Beast Wars and G1 versions since that's the important comparison here. so! In Beast Wars, Scorponok is more or less your basic evil goon. guy who goes "you got it boss!" and then fucks it up immediately in comedic fashion. classic. so what did the original Scorponok do exactly?

well, you see, G1 Scorponok was the rival to Fortress goddamn Maximus. If you don't know who that is - which, honestly, is probably most of you - that is the Transformer who, and I cannot emphasize this enough, turns into an entire city. There are several of those fuckers but Fort Max is like. the OG guy who turns into a city. and G1 Scorponok was meant to be his rival.

so, I have to say, dear god can you imagine the amount of pressure that's on BW Scorponok. imagine sharing a name with the guy who regularly fistfought an actual fucking city. insane.

moving on, Silverbolt!

In Beast Wars, Silverbolt is a guy who turns into a wolf-eagle hybrid ("what-" toyline gimmick don't worry about it) who acts like a chivalrous knight with very clear cut black and white views - which, considering his teammates include Rattrap, the guy who gleefully uses every dirty trick in the book to pull ahead of the stronger, tougher Predacons, and [[REDACTED]], who defected from the Predacons but is still perfectly willing to use their methods from time to time, makes for. interesting conversations! anyway, G1 Silverbolt is the guy in charge of the Aerialbots, those guys being a combiner team who forms Superion, who is. The first big Autobot combiner I'm fairly sure? I don't actually know anything about G1 Silverbolt besides that I apologize to all the Aerialbot fans

speaking of guys who were named after combiner components! Rampage!

hooooooo BOY does Beast Wars Rampage make a fucking impression. result of a Maximal experiment gone horribly, horribly wrong, before the entire plot of the show happened he was given to out main cast of do-gooders with the explicit instructions of "please just dump him on a rock in space somewhere where he can't kill people or eat people or BOTH because we can't fucking kill him and we want him very far away from us." unfortunately, the plot happens, and Rampage breaks loose, causing everyone involved to have a very bad day, only punctuated when Megatron manages to get him nominally on the side of the Predacons by cutting his heart in half and putting said half in a cage he could squeeze as a sort of "leash."

this is the basics, by the way. I haven't even gotten into the whole ass guy who comes to prehistoric Earth specifically to kill Rampage. like. my god. there really isn't anything G1 Rampage can do to compare to whatever the fuck BW Rampage has going on aside from being part of Predaking. or possibly some IDW thing I'm not aware of

moving on from all that, Inferno!

now you might have noticed that up until now that, while the designs and personalities between the Beast Wars characters and the G1 characters can be drastically different, the Beast Wars characters tend to be on the equivalent of whatever faction the G1 character was on - i.e. Maximals for Autobots, Predacons for Decepticons. and then with Inferno, the G1 guy is a fire truck, clearly heroic, while the Beast Wars guy is...some sort of horrific ant man. so, what's going on there?

well, you see, in Beast Wars, Inferno is a Predacon who, due to a glitch in his programming, actually thinks he's an ant, and sees the Predacons as his colony (this also results in him she/her-ing Megatron on a regular basis by referring to him as "my Queen." this isn't relevant to anything I just thought you should know). this means he tends to charge in with zero regard for his safety because. y'know. ant mentality. meanwhile, G1 Inferno...well I know nothing about him, but, according to the wiki page, he apparently also does this, not because of the ant thing, but because he's just like that. Honestly, good for him

now, before we get to the funniest example, I would like to make an honorable mention to Megatron, the only guy with an actual reason for the name overlap

see, remember what I said about Beast Wars still taking place in the G1 continuity? Beast Wars Megatron is the first time that really comes into play because what I haven't mentioned before now is that for most of these guys, the names being the same as a G1 character is purely a coincidence because they were Protoforms at the start of the series - those being effectively blank slates/baby equivalents for Transformers - and started their lives on Earth, meaning the references to previous Transformers are purely coincidental. even homicidal crab man cannibal Rampage only got a proper name on Earth, being called "Protoform X" before then. sole exception to this rule is Scorponok, who was part of the Predacons from the start...and Megatron

"so is he the same guy as G1 Megatron? you said it's the same continuity as G1 so he's the same right" that's the fun part! he isn't! he very much is not G1 Megatron, he just looked at the OG and went "you know what. I want to do what you did. godspeed" and then he named himself after that guy. coincidentally, Megatron is also the name of a figure in the Convenant of Primus, AKA the Transformers equivalent of the Bible, which was completely made up for the Beast Wars cartoon and I'm convinced was introduced solely so they could say "hey our villain named himself after his religion's equivalent of the antichrist. and also may or may not be that antichrist due to time travel shenanigans" ("when did time travel get involved-" don't worry about it)

now, onto the funniest name overlap of all

mr. [[REDACTED]] himself

Dinobot

now, to be clear, Dinobot is one of the most popular characters to come out of the Beast Wars franchise. He's well known for his gradual change from "technically a good guy mostly because he hates Megatron's ass, he has a code of honor, and nothing else" to "honorable hero with one of the most heartbreaking death scenes in all of Transformers" over the course of his screentime, and is in fact so popular that he was the third Beast Wars character to get a Masterpiece figure - Masterpiece figures being incredibly complex Transformers figures that boast show accuracy in both forms and typically have the price range of a small kidney - with the first two being Cheetor and Optimus Primal. If you didn't get the implications of that, that means Dinobot managed to beat out Beast Wars Megatron for getting a Masterpiece toy first. MEGATRON. Again, might be a different guy from G1, but he is a Megatron! Still the main villain of the damn show! Says a lot that Dinobot was popular enough to get a toy first. I could go on, but I need to get back to the point - what's so funny about the name overlap here?

well. if you're even tangentially familiar with transformers, you might actually be able to guess this one!

no, seriously! this isn't a "geologists overestimating how much their audience knows about geology" moment, because if nothing else, the leader of these guys ("these guys?" shhhhhhh) is one of the most popular Transformers out there. if I may be so bold, I'd argue that after Optimus Prime, Bumblebee, Megatron, and Starscream, the leader's name is like. one of the first Transformers characters who comes to mind. if nothing else I imagine you've seen a picture of this guy at some point

...

alright, ready to see if you were right?

3, 2, 1...

eeeeeeyup, the name overlap is with an entire subgroup of Autobots, and not only that, but one of the most popular subgroups of Autobots, led by one of the most popular Transformers of all time: Grimlock

and like. the Dinobots don't really have the whole "gradual redemption" "tragic hero" thing going on but they do have the ability to tickle the five year old within everyone's brain because their characters can be summarized as "caveman robots who turn into robot dinosaurs" and if that didn't cause said five year old in your brain to go "holy shit" you are actively lying to yourself. so it's very understandable why they're popular.

the funny part is that because Dinobot shares a name with the Dinobots, the latter of whom are more popular and will get priotity, every Transformers writer since Beast Wars has effectively been locked out of making their own version of Dinobot, and I imagine there has been at least one guy cursing out whoever decided to give the bot who would be Dinobot a name that overlaps so heavily with other popular characters. the most he's shown up outside of the original cartoon is in the War for Cybertron cartoon (which. I'll be honest I've heard very little about and haven't watched myself but what I have heard is "it's bad" so that hasn't been encouraging) and the IDW comics. and that's it. while any sane person would count those as their own continuities, by Hasbro's logic they're the same universe as G1, so like. if we go by Habsro logic he hasn't even shown up anywhere beyond G1. which is insane given how popular he is - again, see "third Beast Wars character to get a Masterpiece, beating the local Megatron," and did I mention that one time he won the Transformers Hall of Fame in Botcon 2010 purely by fan vote. because he did do that. I guarantee you that the only reason Dinobot has not shown up more is because of that name overlap. The group of Dinobots may be more popular but I have to imagine there's at least one guy at Hasbro fuming over not being able to make money off of Dinobot (the character) toys outside of shit like the Legacy toyline

and like, while I do wish Dinobot would show up more, the thought of that is extremely funny

[weanonme]

17 year old Ava Silva is used to not being wanted. The last 10 years of her life have consisted of moving from family to family and house to house and never finding a home. 6 months before her 18th birthday she gets moved to a new family in a small town after a particularly nasty incident caused Ava to be removed from her last family. Ava, who believes that no family will ever want her, has decided that she is going to do her best to keep her head down and just try to survive the last six months she has until she ages out of the system and eventually gets put on the street. Her plan to make no connections with anyone is quickly ruined when the people of this small town she’s been placed in, make her feel more at home than she’s ever felt since her mom died when she was seven.

A poorly written fanfic summary of an Avatrice found family fanfic I would write if I could actually write. If anyone would like to actually write it please go for it! The ideas I had for the story I’ll write below. You obviously don’t have to listen to them and can totally make the story your own but I figured I’d share what I thought of that made me make this post

Jillian and mother superion would be married and the foster parents of Ava. They would already have Michael. I toyed around with the idea of them also having adopted Lilith as a way to make a really nice sisterly bond between her and Ava that would start rocky and then become iron tight. And also as a reason why she would see Beatrice a lot.

Meets the gang at the highschool and gets seated with Beatrice in one of their classes

Really cute like small town vibes. Like everyone knows everyone but it’s only mildly annoying bc most everyone really cares about each other

Bea’s parents still suck tho like a lot so she stays at Lilith’s a lot. They don’t kick her out for being gay though they just are occasionally mean to her and ignore her existence for the most part and have some insane expectations for her

Mary and Shannon dating ofc

Lilith and Camila have some serious crushes on each other.

Beatrice being the one to crack through Ava’s walls first

They have like almost immediate crushes on each other but they’re both extremely guarded so there would be SOOOOOOO MUCH PINING

SLOW BURN

The reason I thought this much about this is because I had this idea of this super intense scene of Ava having this big ass breakdown bc her birthday is nearing and she’s fallen in love with this town and family she’s been put in and she’s had this big realization that she doesn’t want to leave and she gets scared and started pushing everyone away and I had this vision of Suzanne and Jillian and Ava in a living room and Ava was soaking wet bc it was storming and she was coming home way after curfew and they started arguing about her behavior lately and how they love her and they hate seeing her close herself off like she was when she first got there and she breaks down and screams WHY WONT YOU ADOPT ME THEN and immediately the room went quiet and Suzanne walks out of the room and came back with adoption papers and says to her that they did want to adopt her and they were going to ask her the week of her birthday and Jillian said the only reason that hadn’t asked already was they wanted to be sure that it was what Ava wanted too. And then Michael and Lilith appeared bc they were eavesdropping and it became this super sweet moment.

I thought that maybe Jillian could be the town doctor and that maybe Suzanne could work at the school or something

I’m personally kind of a fan of father Vincent and think it would be sick if he had some kind of role

I didn’t have a set Michael age in mind for this really just that Jillian had him before she married Suzanne and that he loves his stepmom so much

Oh Yasmine should definitely be part of the friend group !

That’s all I really had thought of. If someone writes this or just a version of this I think it would be really cool. I seriously wish I had the ability to do it really. If not that is fine too I just hope you guys like the idea!

[possibilistfanfiction]

conservationist au already!? you write so fast dang (what are your secrets) (also it's okay if you want to keep them secret) (mostly i am excite for frog)

here she is! frog au! lol [ao3]

//

to see us blossom (while the green spreads like wings)

//

only our feet have been here, that i'm aware of. it's wild and remote and beautiful as can be. i just want to be quiet and love it. let it sink in. i'll be leaving the planet, sometime. and i'll miss it.

— dr. bruce means

//

'dr. silva,' diego bursts into your office, his hair fluffed and messy, 'i found someone for the expedition!'

'did you... run here?'

'yeah, from the lab.' he gulps a breath. 'i got excited.'

it's fucking awesome that diego, your favorite grad student, is coming on this expedition, but it's becoming a huge pain in the ass to plan — you try your hardest not to feel guilty about why, but it is mostly because of you — and is starting to feel more and more impossible by the day. you don't want to get your hopes up: you don't have that much funding, and it's starting to seem a little bit impossible logistically, even with dr. superion's help. but you'll humor him: 'so who are we taking with us?'

he waits a breath, practically bursting at the seams. 'beatrice zhang.'

'the photographer?'

'she's an experienced climber! you follow her on instagram, right?'

you have gratuitously followed beatrice zhang on instagram for the last four years — for her photography, because it is some of the most beautiful and thoughtful you've ever seen, regardless of the subject matter, but also for the occasional photo of herself, surfing or climbing or behind the camera, particularly delightful if it features her arms in a tank — but diego doesn't need to know that part. 'yes, her work is wonderful for lots of conservationist efforts.' diplomatic, you think, mentally patting yourself on the back.

'and she's hot.'

'i didn't say that.'

diego rolls his eyes.

'anyway, how would we even get her to come with us?'

diego grins. 'i emailed her.'

'what?'

he takes out his phone and shows you her instagram, which, indeed, does have an ‘email’ button, which, obviously, you've never paid attention to before. 'she hasn't responded yet, or her team or whatever, i guess, but i only sent it ten minutes ago. and it went to a legit address and hasn't bounced back, so, i just figured, why not?'

even though, last year, you had had a successful time in guyana, finding and recording a few new species, there are a lot of why not's, really: your GA probably shouldn’t be making these choices without consulting you first, but you don’t really care about that so much as your mobility is more limited than ever lately. the weather probably won't hold so who the fuck knows if it'll even be possible to reach to spot at all. and, plus, it's for a frog. one tiny frog, that may or may not exist — (you're sure it does) — in the middle of a jungle on the top of a tepui that's never been climbed. it's... a little crazy, when you think through it now, way crazier than it had seemed when you wrote the grant for funding last year. most people, even world renowned war-turned-wildlife photographers with insane biceps — especially them, probably — aren't interested in a project like this.

'well, the least that will happen is she doesn't respond,' you figure; you don't believe in any religion and life had dealt you quite the shitty hand for a long time, so if there's any balancing it out, maybe this will be a strike in the good column for you. so, 'yeah, you're right. why not?'

/

it's two days later when your phone vibrates about seven times; you roll over in... some girl's bed? okay, solid night, then, and when you look over at her, she's beautiful and fast asleep. you remember your fifth shot of tequila and vaguely how great riding her dick had been; you find your phone graciously plugged into a charger on the nightstand on your side of the bed, and when you go to the bathroom you see condoms in the small trash can — so, all in all, a success. your back is sore but not terrible and you groan when you see it's only six am, but there's texts from diego and you have a policy not to ignore those, no matter how stupid they occasionally can be.

these are unequivocally not stupid, though, because they start with dr. silva! and then ava!!!!! ava! and devolve into some emojis and then omg oh my god and finally check your email, which is really the only helpful part of that — but they're not stupid because when you do check your email, you see a forwarded message from diego first. it's a cordial reply to the email he had sent to beatrice zhang, from her, it seems, asking politely to be put in touch with the lead biologist on the expedition if possible. which, you remember with the tiniest bit of a happy jolt, is you. you open the newest email, which is, in fact, connecting you and beatrice. she’s already responded, and it’s kind of wild because, from the three short sentences asking if you could set up a video chat to talk more about the expedition or, if she happened to be close to where you were in the world, even meet near your office or lab for coffee, she sounds, well, at least interested. you don't think someone like her — someone who has photographed war, and famine, and wildfires, and, miraculously last year, a snow leopard and her cub — would even respond to something she didn't care at all about.

holy shit, you text diego. you need a cup of coffee, or, like, maybe three cups of coffee, and a breakfast sandwich before you can respond to that email, so you decide to get a move on. plus, it feels unhinged to respond to it from your phone, so you need to go home anyway. you should also maybe definitely shower, you think, as you look at yourself in the mirror: your makeup is a little smudged and your hair is an unrepentant mess. still hot though, you think when you quietly find your clothes and put your bra on, a deep teal that makes your boobs look awesome. thankfully, you were just in high-waisted, loose jeans and a cropped sweater last night, so after you wash your face and get dressed, it's not really giving walk of shame — walk of pride, thank you very much.

you google maps where you are and, thankfully, it's a nice enough morning and a short enough distance that you can walk to your favorite cafe and then to your apartment without having to call an uber. you grab your cane from where you'd left it propped up by the wall near the bed, and then, because you're definitely not an asshole, gently shake your, well, one night stand's shoulder. her eyes are green, and you do remember that much.

'i gotta go do some work, sorry.'

she nods. 'right. doctor.'

well, maybe you're a little bit of an asshole, but it's not your fault that people think you're a very important neurosurgeon or something. you are very important in cataloguing biodiversity, so you just roll with it. 'thanks for a great time.'

she nods with a soft smile, and it's nice to kiss her, gently, goodbye.

/

'wait, you're meeting with her? here?'

'yes,' you say, mostly annoyed at camila's vaguely unhinged energy. 'she's close by train, so it's better to meet in person.'

'oh my god,' camila says. she's one of your best friends and probably the smartest, most tech-savvy person you know. when you figured out how helpful it would be to have someone operate drones for you on this expedition, you hadn't even bothered to ask anyone else.

'don't you know her?'

'well, sure,' camila confirms. 'i did some drone work for her a few months ago in the bahamas when she was photographing sharks. but, like, she's amazing, ava.'

'well, hopefully she'll say yes.'

'you'll have to charm her.'

'i'm very good at charming hot women.'

camila rolls her eyes.

'i'm also very good at charming people to go find frogs with me.'

she waits for a beat and then relents. 'well, i suppose that's true.'

'come on,' you say, 'help me make a slide deck. i feel like she'd think that's sexy or something.'

'you're ridiculous.'

'it'll work, i'm telling you.'

/

beatrice zhang in soft wool pants and closed-toed birkenstocks and a crewneck sweater sitting ramrod straight at the decent cafe just off campus near your office is, quite honestly, not a sight you'd ever expected to see, but it is kind of a miracle. or, at least that's what it had felt like, when she had emailed that she was, actually, a few hours away by train and wouldn't mind a day trip to meet in person. you're glad that you wore your best professor outfit today, flared navy slacks that make your ass look divine, and a crisp white button up that you tucked in tight and rolled up at the sleeves, a camel peacoat and expensive loafers that dr. salvius had gotten you when you passed your dissertation two years ago. you usually wear... well, not this — you reserve this for conferences and presentations — but, if looking professional helps beatrice sign onto this project, so be it.

and, well, maybe it's not strictly professional to undo another button as you had walked to the cafe, and, like, you don't actually know if beatrice is gay or not, but you spot her and smile and wave and her eyes get big for a moment, and you’re afraid you’ve got it all wrong: you’re small and young and pretty and, sometimes, people think that disqualifies you from being smart. but then her eyes rake over you and linger, for just a moment, on your chest, so you're probably right. if this helps too, so be it.

you wave and she stands very formally; she clearly recognizes you, which makes you feel a small thrill of satisfaction. 'hey, glad you found it okay.'

'i've had much more difficult locations to navigate before, although the freshman can be a bit scary.'

it's deadpan, so it takes you a split second, but then you laugh and offer your hand. 'i'm dr. silva.' you want to roll your eyes at your title, which you normally feel quite proud of, all of a sudden. 'ava, any pronouns.'

'dr. silva,' she says anyway, and shakes your hand firmly. 'it's a pleasure. i'm beatrice, she/her.'

only after do you sit, a little sprawled, and prop your cane up on the table, does she sit too, and then looks down at the menu. 'do you recommend anything? i haven't had lunch yet.'

'well, if you're like, uh... —' falling prey to diet culture, you think, but you don't know beatrice at all, so — 'wanting a vegetable forward option, their salads and quinoa bowls are okay.'

she wrinkles her nose. you hide a smile in the collar of your coat.

'but their kimchi fried chicken sandwich is my favorite.'

'and the slaw?'

'well, i'm a fries girl.'

she smiles over the top of her menu, just slightly.

'but my friend likes the slaw, and i trust her.'

she nods and sets her menu down, her wrists resting on the edge of the table, her hands clasped. a practical smart watch, no wedding band. her full attention is on you and it makes you feel a little breathless.

you're saved from saying something incredibly dumb — you're very, very smart, and you're actually very good at flirting, but beatrice zhang is hot as hell and a certified badass and you also really want her to be, like, your colleague — when your server comes to your table. you both order, and you get the fried chicken sandwich too, even though you already ate lunch an hour ago — diego's always happy to eat your leftovers out of the fridge in the lab anyway.

you're not saved from saying something marginally dumb, though, because beatrice kindly thanks your server and hands over her menu and then looks at you again, fully focused.

'i like your hair,’ you say, instead of, well, anything else. you want to groan and slam your head down into the table, or something, because beatrice's brows knit together and she brings one hand to run through her floppy middle part, short in the back and on the sides, pushing it out of her eyes.

'oh,' she says, softly and definitely confused. 'thank you.'

you're sure you're blushing. 'sorry, i just, like, the last time you posted — you had long hair.'

it's mortifying, the moment you say it, because you can mentally calculate the last time beatrice posted a picture of herself on her instagram, and it was definitely over a year ago.

she also seems to realize this, because her confusion turns to a smug little smile that could probably eat you alive. you'd definitely let it.

'i read about the last species of frog you discovered, when the article came out.'

that was also over a year ago, and you laugh, tension releasing from your shoulders. 'so that’s how you knew what i looked like.’

‘sure.’

to be fair, the article did include a picture of you, muddy and sweaty and overjoyed, holding a tiny frog in the palm of your hand, but, ‘did you google me?’

‘i only take on projects, at this point, that i find interesting.’

‘so you think i’m interesting.’

she raises a brow, a scar that also wasn’t there over a year ago running an inch above it and then straight through, cleanly healed but not faded yet, stopping right on the top of her cheek — thankfully your brain didn't comment on that, even though it's kind of hot too. ‘i think that fact that you've already identified six new species of frog two years into an assistant professorship is interesting.’

'so that's a yes.' you grin. ‘want me to tell you about the project, then?'

she thanks your server when he brings her water and your lemonade of the day, and a coffee, and then leans forward in her seat. ‘yes,' she says. 'i do.’

you tell her about it as coherently as you can: you're sure there's a brand new species of frog — maybe more than one, if you're lucky — on the top of a land mass deep in the forest in guyana. you've secured enough funding to make it happen; bare bones, but still. you have diego and yasmine, your grad students, and michael, another assistant professor in your apartment who's helped you on expeditions before, mostly by carrying a bunch of shit. you've gotten camila — who beatrice is also very excited to work with again — to sign on to do tech work for you. dr. superion and dr. salvius are helping from here.

'so, anyway, i need you to climb the tepui.'

beatrice sits back when you're done, flicks through a few slides on your laptop that you'd handed to her with pictures of the jungle, the cliff face, the budget outlines and logistics and equipment you anticipate you'll need.

'do you know a lot about climbing?'

it's kind — to not assume that you don't; to not expect you to either. you shake your head no.

'i'm an alpinist, for the most part,' she says, 'which means that i climb, well —' she pauses.

'no need to be modest for me.'

she offers a small smile. 'i've climbed eight of the ten tallest mountains in the world.'

hot, you think, but you take a deep breath instead and say, 'that's impressive.' nailed it.

'yes, well.' she blushes. 'thank you. but this kind of climbing is traditional climbing — big wall climbing.'

'oh.' you frown. 'so, you can't do it?'

'i can,' she says, 'and i'd like to. i think i know enough of biology to be marginally helpful, and i can certainly photograph the expedition.'

your heart soars, warming your whole body, and you take a bite of your lukewarm sandwich to hide your smile.

'but i'll need a team. i'm confident that i'll be able to get up the wall, but i'm not experienced enough at this kind of climbing to lead on all of these passes.'

'we might not have the funds to pay much, if you bring on more people.'

she shakes her head. 'i have access to plenty of discretionary funds, so that shouldn't be a problem.'

'that's hot.' well, you tried.

she laughs, thank god. 'i just wanted to make sure that you and your team are okay with me bringing other people on.'

'as long as they aren't, like, shitty, you know. racist, homophobic, ableist. all that stuff.'

she nods, very seriously. 'i can assure you that, while one of my climbing partners is inclined to be an asshole, it's always done with respect toward important identities. she's more annoying than anything. and my other partner is the best person i know.'

'well, other than me, now.'

you can tell beatrice is torn between smiling and rolling her eyes; she does a bit of both. 'and, as far as logistics go, i could easily provide a helicopter to get us in as far as possible. less of a hike.'

it's impossible that beatrice didn't see your cane. 'i have adaptive equipment for myself. i can do the hike.'

but her brows knit together. 'yes, i assumed so: you're leading the expedition. i just meant, for my team at least, the fewer miles we have to bring photography and climbing gear in a jungle, the better. it's heavy, and then we have to do a major climb.'

'oh.' you bite your bottom lip. 'that makes sense. sorry, people suck sometimes.'

'i imagine so.' she looks at you very sincerely. 'i'm sorry.'

you wave her off. 'thanks. it is what it is, though.'

beatrice doesn't try to argue, although you can tell that maybe she wants to. 'anyway, whatever you think will help your team, and whatever will help mine, that falls outside of your grant funds, i can cover.'

'that's — are you sure?'

she nods. 'quite.'

'where did you get these discretionary funds?' you can't help asking.

'a bad man,' she says, leaning forward and whispering dramatically. it makes you laugh.

'ooh, did you kill him? warlord?'

'alas, no. my father, and he's already dead.'

'ah.' you snap your fingers. 'well, if another opportunity comes up, you just let me know. i have tons of lethal neurotoxins in my lab. i'm always down to... you know — murder —' you whisper — 'a billionaire. long haul ethics, you know?'

she nods very solemnly, fighting a smile. 'i'll keep that under advisement.'

you fight the urge to ask her for a drink, and you definitely stare at her mouth a little too long, but then you get it together and offer your hand. 'well, partners?'

she shakes it, hers strong and rough with callouses. the thought sends a little shiver up your spine, but you valiantly ignore it. 'partners.'

/

beatrice invites you, after a few days of emailing back and forth to create an updated budget and logistics plan, to meet at a climbing gym. it's to meet her other two team members first. before you all get together with your main crew for dinner afterward. she'd given you their names, headshots, and very formal bios, which you had kind of loved: lilith, who, according to beatrice's bio, will be the lead climber. when you google her, you find out that she's, like, a world champion big wall climber, so that bodes well. and then mary, another photographer and world class marksman — I know this isn't particularly relevant, beatrice had included as a footnote, but it is quite impressive — and avid climber too.

you're hopeful about it all, and you're hopeful that tonight maybe she just wants to see you alone, and to have you watch her climb. there's, like, a two percent chance you'll physically be able to climb, really, but that's fine. she'd texted you about it, far less formal than her perfectly punctuated emails, so that's a good sign. and she'd posted a recent picture someone took of her — a candid, petting the trunk of an elephant peacefully — on her instagram too. maybe that was scheduled — beatrice seems like the kind of person who would schedule instagram posts — but a girl can hope, you know? you liked it one hour and fourteen minutes after she posted, from the lab's social media account and not your personal one, so you figure you've handled this all perfectly. you're great, beatrice is a colleague, and you've got this.

you're stressed about what to wear to a climbing gym and then to get dinner afterward, although there's probably a locker room or something, but it's fine. you're hot in anything. (or nothing. not that the night is going to go there.) you settle on tight leggings you wear to the gym and a sports bra, a cropped jacket on over. it's, like, cute and femme, but also practical. you brush on some mascara and put part of your hair into a little bun so it won't fall into your eyes, and you pack a spare change of clothes in a canvas tote — slacks and a nice bra and a t-shirt that hugs your body perfectly along with a pair of platform converse and an army-green overshirt — in case everyone else changes before going to dinner.

you grab your cane and head out the door.

/

if you fall to your death, it's definitely not going to be because of your back or legs. it's going to be because beatrice is in loose pants that seem comfortable for climbing and a tight racerback tank, and when you walk in, she's hanging by one arm on a short wall, just chilling out there, before she seems to decide what she wants to do. she brings her legs up to find footholds and then she's almost upside down, holding onto the wall with both hands calmly and moving so fluidly — a leg stretching out, her chalked fingers grasping onto a tiny hold. there's a delicate tattoo along her right forearm, all linework, and there are scars all over her left shoulder, running down to her elbow from what you can see: some are jagged and some are clean, neat, like surgical incisions. they don't seem to be limiting her progress at all, because she moves over the outhanging ledge easily and then to the top before just letting go and calmly rolling to her feet after she lands without a sound.

the — very hot — woman, lilith, you know from the headshot, sitting on the floor next to the wall, legs outstretched, leaning back on her palms set flat on the ground behind, and looking impossibly graceful while doing it, groans.

'getting stuck that long on a soft V8? come on, beatrice.'

beatrice, to her credit, just shrugs.

'shoulder?' the other woman asks.

'it's fine,' beatrice says. 'just getting back into the groove of your tiny walls.'

'oh, ha ha.'

'8091 meters will really change your perspective. you should try it sometime.'

'no thanks, i'll stick to my world records, thank you very much.'

they seem like they might physically fight, but then they both start laughing. weird, but you fuck with it.

beatrice turns, her hands on her hips, and, like, whew, god fucking bless, and then waves with a smile when she sees you. she walks over. 'hello ava.'

'hey,' you say, suddenly feeling a little awkward: you have not a single idea what you're doing. 'that was pretty impressive.'

'it was not,' the lilith says.

beatrice heads toward her anyway, and you follow. 'you can ignore her most of the time,' she says. 'dr. silva, this is lilith. lilith, dr. silva.'

'just ava.' you look at beatrice with a raised brow. 'please.'

lilith lazily salutes. 'ava, then. our illustrious leader, i hear. beatrice is making me lead a 1000 foot first ascent for a frog?'

'i'm not making you do anything,' beatrice says, and lilith grumbles like a teenager. it's funny, and you decide that you like her then and there, even if she scares you a little. she scares you a little more when she gracefully gets to her feet. she's tall and imposing, with a sharp face and long hair braided back, more wiry than beatrice's bigger muscles, but — you're sure — just as strong.

she offers her hand, which you shake. 'in my defense,' you say, 'it is a very cool frog. we can even name it after you, if you want.'

this seems to amuse her, because there's a hint of a smile on her face.  'i do like first ascents anyway.'

'see,' you say, 'that's the spirit.'

'ava,' beatrice says, 'no pressure, but i thought you might find it fun to try climbing. only if you'd like.'

'i'm, uh —' you gesture a little clumsily with your cane, the tips of your ears turning red. 'not sure that i can?'

'mary is an adaptive climbing instructor,' beatrice says, gesturing over to the taller wall with ropes connected through pulleys at the top, where a strong Black woman with perfectly neat braids and a dark outfit on is sorting through a few harnesses on the ground. 'but if you'd rather not climb, lilith and i are just finishing up. we can show you a few things we've been practicing in anticipation for the route, and then change and go to dinner.'

beatrice doesn't say either choice with any more or less merit, or worth, or importance: they're choices, and they're yours, and they won't affect how much she trusts you or believes in the expedition. lilith is checking her phone, uninterested at this point, and you decide, as you always have, to try.

'yeah, sure. i have no idea what adaptive climbing is, though.'

beatrice smiles and lilith stays on her phone, texting. 'that's fine. i have no idea about ninety percent of what you study.'

'i find that hard to believe. you're a wildlife photographer.'

she hums, softly touching your elbow and then walking toward mary. 'conservationist photography, sure. but i'm not a biologist.'

you make a note that beatrice doesn't really like wildlife photographer as a job title, although she was polite enough to not outright tell you so. 'well, i'm not a climber, so, quid pro quo?'

'ah, but you will be after tonight,' mary says, standing with a smile and offering her hand. 'dr. silva, right?'

'just ava,' you tell her, endeared by the fact that beatrice had probably been very formally saying dr. silva to her team this entire time. you shake mary's hand as firmly as you can and feel immediately a little more relaxed with the confident, easy way she holds her shoulders, her kind smile, her bright eyes.

'beatrice and i go way back,' she says. 'this project of yours sounds amazing. i was excited when she asked if i wanted in.'

'of course i'd ask,' beatrice says, bumping mary in the shoulder, who rolls her eyes fondly.

'well, beatrice said you were promised an adaptive climbing lesson.'

'if you're still in,' beatrice says, 'mary can show you the ropes.' she laughs at herself. 'literally.'

mary groans, but you're delighted. 'well, don't leave me hanging.'

'no. not another bad pun aficionado. please.'

beatrice grins and you sling an arm over her slightly sweaty and delightfully strong shoulders. she stiffens a little, and mary looks to her for a moment, and you're worried you've overstepped, and fast. but then beatrice relaxes.

you step back and gesture between the two of you happily. 'is this our thing now?'

'if trading terrible puns is wrong, then i don't want to be right.'

mary groans. 'not sure why i agreed to this trip after all.'

'we can name a frog after you, if you want,' you offer.

mary perks up. 'really?'

'yeah,' you say, 'sure. i've already named one after myself and given five others the dumbest, gayest names i could think of.'

'i'm back in, then.'

you laugh. 'well, let's rock and try not to roll.'

mary sighs, but beatrice's muffled laugh into your shoulder is way worth it.

/

Hi Ava, I'll be in town today to get some equipment squared away. I was wondering if maybe you'd like to have dinner if you're free. No shop talk, unless you want

you read and reread the text. you'd gone over shitty — expected, but still shitty — test results from an mri at your neurologist's earlier today, and, even though your team seemed to gel the other night, and all of your logistics are much less daunting now that beatrice has covered some of them financially, you had planned to stay home in your favorite boxers and most comfortable hoodie and wallow with a mediocre bottle of wine and good pizza and great reality tv.

but — hey, that sounds sweet. any places in mind?

beatrice texts back almost immediately. I don't know the area too well. You can pick, if you'd like

like, you're colleagues. you're about to be in one of the most remote parts of the world together in five days, with just a handful of other people, for weeks, maybe longer. you're the leader of the expedition but beatrice is, in important ways, a leader too. she's smart and beautiful and handsome and focused. if it's a date, incredible; if it's not, you still want to know her, you still want to spend time in her gentle warmth.

any food allergies/hatred?

she responds, No, I'm pretty adventurous

still, no clarity, but you set a place and time — one of your favorite tapas restaurants with a great little bar and, if it gets late enough, a good dance floor — and then set about getting ready. you eat a banana and take ibuprofen, which hopefully will help you be able to dance without much pain, and then get as pretty as you deem not desperate for a normal dinner with a colleague to be. which, it's you, so you're still very, very pretty, including one of your very best cleavage tanks. you finish your eyeliner perfectly and blow yourself a little kiss in the mirror. for good luck, or whatever. it's science.

/

'i got tired of it,' beatrice says. 'war photography is...' she pauses, and shakes her head, like she doesn't quite know what to tell you. you're totally sure she's not telling the truth, not really, but you know not to push, to spook her away. 'i could leave,' she settles on. 'as much as i hate the west, as much as i hate american and european, especially british, foreign policy, and its destruction of the world — i got to take pictures, and leave. at first, i thought it was something important i could do, to record the truth. political inherently, anti-imperialist, without being in politics. but, i was in occupied palestine, and, then, after —' she clears her throat, brings her fingers up to ghost over the scar through her brow — 'after. i couldn't do it. they're wars because of my history — our collective history — but they weren't my wars. they aren’t my wars. i can’t photograph them, at least right now. because i got to leave.'

you're horrified that she might start to cry — which isn't horrifying, not at all, you cry all the time, but you're supposed to be having a nice meal with your colleague and you had asked what you thought was an innocuous question about how she got into her more recent conservationist work, but clearly, not innocuous. you're starting to think, with a kind of clarity you very rarely have about anyone, that nothing about beatrice herself is innocuous. even her collarless button down and loose pants cuffed at the ankles — and the way all of her clothes, ever practical, drape with a tailored casualness on her small, strong frame — her easy hair that’s always actually perfectly trimmed and styled, the pattern of callouses on her hands: everything about her is intentioned. she means what she says. she means what she does. she means who she is.

'i started studying frogs with my mom,' you offer. it's true, and you mean who you are too.

she takes a sip of her water and nods in what you can tell is a quiet relief.

'my family is from manaus. my mom wasn't a scientist or anything, she was a bank teller, but when i was little, we'd go out often. she loved the rainforest, so, you know, i loved the rainforest.'

beatrice smiles gently. 'that sounds beautiful.'

you stare down at a croqueta and tear a small piece of it off, let the old ache fill your chest. 'she died, when i was seven.'

'oh,' beatrice says, 'i —'

'— it was a long time ago,' you say.

'sometimes that doesn't make it hurt any less.'

it's permission, to feel how you need to. most people accept when you tell them that and move on in relief, unwilling or unable to give you the space. but beatrice sits steadily. 'i broke my back, during the car accident we were in; we were visiting spain and, well. i had to relearn to walk. it took a really long time, and the orphanage i grew up in wasn't big on good physical therapy or really any care, so i taught myself what i could outside of school, got into university, got good medical care for the first time, like, ever. and i started studying biology. i went back to the rainforest as soon as i could, as a research assistant, and guyana was ... it's mind-blowing, bea.'

she weighs it all in contemplative silence for a moment, trying to decide what you need; what relief she can give. ‘i can't wait to see. i've always wanted to go.'

it is relief, what you feel, to be so immediately seen and understood. 'well, it's not just anyone i'd want to bring to the rainforest. my mom's favorites were always frogs, so —' you shrug, suddenly a little at a loss.

'so here we are, about to go find another.'

you pop the croqueta into your mouth, feel the dull pain in your chest dissipate when you realize you're close enough to beatrice's face to see her freckles. 'i have spinal stenosis, from the accident. it's progressing pretty fast, even with the best medical team, tech, surgeries, all that.'

she nods, like she understands what you mean without making you have to say it. it's a gift, bigger than she probably knows.

'i really want to find that fucking frog.'

'well,' she says, and lifts her glass, 'to finding our frog.'

'you know, it's bad luck to toast with water.'

she frowns. 'i don't usually drink.'

'you're very... controlled.'

she waits a beat and then grins. 'okay, one beer.'

'fuck yeah!'

'one, ava.'

'mhm. whatever you say, bea.'

/

'i have to take the train back,' beatrice argues — or, at least, tries to argue, because her eyes drift down to your boobs when you take your sweater off. success.

'you can just stay at my place. i have a mediocre ikea couch.'

'i can't let you sleep on your own couch.'

you laugh. 'oh, you definitely get the couch. i need all the good mattress support i can get before i sleep in a tent for a month.'

she smiles, gently and a little sad, but then the moment passes, a kind of grace. 'fine.'

'really?'

the set of her shoulders is looser but still sure, still so, so certain. 'yes.'

'hell yeah!' she laughs. 'shots?'

beatrice pulls a face but you order lemon drops anyway, mostly because vodka seems neutral and they're a good shot for people who don't drink often, sweet and tangy and fun. beatrice sniffs hers first — bold move, big mistake most of the time — but then nods in approval.

'to our frog,' you say, and she clinks her glass with yours. you touch it to the bartop and she follows suit, and then take it as smoothly as you can. it's an easy drink, so you don't have any problems, and she swallows without too much of a grimace. 'okay?'

'it's not bad,' she says, and your whole body hums, probably because of the two margaritas you had with dinner and this shot now, but also because there are freckles stretching across her cheeks and gold flecks in her brown eyes and if you let yourself look closely a tiny split on her lip, probably from the dry, cool air recently.

you shake yourself out of... whatever that was, and you order two more shots; she takes hers without hesitation this time, laughing when you spill a little down your cheek. she reaches a hand and wipes with her strong hand, tender, over the corner of your mouth, down to your jaw, and then clears her throat, takes her hand back quickly, although you want to ask for her to stay. but instead, 'come on, bea,' you say, 'let's dance!'

she only groans in a show of protest for posterity, you're sure, because she's very strong and you're very small and when you tug on her wrists she follows you easily.

you love to dance; you have always loved to dance: what little you remember of your mom is full of green, the rainforest and the wall of your living room. she would push back all the furniture to the edges, just the two of you in a small apartment, where you slept in the same bed and ate fruit from the trees outside. she would put on britney spears and jump around with you; she would put on stevie nicks and hold you in her arms, swaying around. she was full of light, from what you remember, always ready to read to you, in portugese and in english; to help you with your math and your handwriting. she cut your food for you and bought you new shoes when yours wore through the soles. she had been a good mom in the way good moms are: happy to hold your hand, to rub her nose against yours, to let you eat the batter off the spoon. you don't remember much, not before the accident, but it had been easy, and beautiful — the mist and orchids and green, all around.

beatrice is a little stiff until you start jumping around, fully out of time with the music, just to make her laugh. and she does, a smile lighting up her whole face. her body is graceful like this too, like it's always somehow known exactly how to move. you wonder, fleetingly between songs, what she was like as a child, if she was as sure and smart and kind as she is now. someone crowds into her space from behind and then you're not thinking of anything other than the tickle of her hair against your cheek as she presses into you, the lilt of her laugh into your ear, the hard muscles of her shoulders and the soft, small swell of her hips when you bring your palms to rest there. you're drunk and she's beautiful, and you've kissed lots of beautiful people when you've been drunk. but she closes her eyes and sways to the beat and it's like the rest of the world falls away. it's like there's only you and beatrice and the cloud forest, above anything else that has harmed and will harm again. there's her gold skin and scars and tattoos hidden under her shirt, the healed slices down your spine, the air between your bodies: sweaty, sticky with spilled drinks, thumping bass, everyone else in this bar. there's only the two of you, and it's a little like you've been punched in the gut: you're falling in love with her. it's easy, right now, to put a name to it all, when you can look at her jaw without reproach.

she opens her eyes and looks at you, a smile on her face, and leans in your direction. it's easy, to bring your hand to touch where you had been staring, to say, 'bea,' as she laughs into your neck, says, 'this is so fun, thank you.' it's hard to not kiss her, but she's ... extraordinary, and you don't want your first kiss to be in the middle of a mid-at-best dance floor after a few shots. you want it to be somewhere beautiful. somewhere you already know; somewhere you're certain she'll love.

'let's go home,' you say, because you had done another round somewhere between songs and she's slightly unsteady on her feet. she nods into your neck and you take her hand.

/

you walk back to your apartment with her, one arm looped through hers — 'very gallant,' you'd said when she'd offered, and even in the dim light from the moon and streetlamps you had seen her blush — and your other hand using your cane. she had found it for you, tucked behind where you had been sitting at the bar; she hadn't asked anything about why you didn't use it when you were dancing, or why you need it now. you know so many good people and you organize a lot with some of your other friends who work with the disability center at the university, but there is some kind of a revelation about being seen so wholly.

but maybe you're also just a little drunk, because she sways a bit as you walk and her accent is lilting, tender, her hair messy in her eyes. it's probably as soft as it looks; you had lost your hair tie somewhere between shots two and three and you tuck yours behind your ear. you have so many questions you want to ask her but you hold them in because she looks up at the moon and the stars and it's enough, to be here with her. to know her laugh, now, and the way she has hurt too.

it's enough to just walk.

/

it hadn't actually taken too much convincing — after you unlocked the door and gave her some choices in pajamas, soft sleep shorts and a big cotton crew her eventual choices, and gotten her a glass of water and a few cheddar crackers — to get her to agree to sleep in your bed with you. perhaps it had been because your couch is ... an unknown number of years old — 'listen, bea, phd students make, like, no money, and it was twenty bucks on craigslist three years go' — or maybe, maybe, it's because she just wants to.

you settle in first, listen to her brush her teeth with a spare toothbrush you'd given her, and wash her face with your facewash — that she had frowned at, accidentally rude but pretty funny and, like, fair, you got it from the drug store on the corner and you're sure she has a whole understated fancy little routine when she's not out in the field — and then wash her hands after going to the bathroom. you love sex, so you sleep with people often. you've had a boyfriend before, that you cared about deeply, so there's some parts of intimacy that are familiar to you, of course. but this, beatrice carefully climbing into bed next to you, with her freckles and her eyelashes and the pink of her lips, is different: you're not going to kiss her, not right now. you're not going to reach out and put your palm on her jaw like you want to, or feel the warm skin of her ribs, the goosebumps that would inevitably rise there if you raked your nails across the ridges. you're not going to because, you know, somewhere elemental in you, that you want to know her, and love her, for a long time. you want to take her to the rainforest.

'where's your favorite place in the world?' you ask instead, whisper it into the dark, the soft outline of her face.

she's turned toward you, her hands tucked carefully under her chin; it makes her look younger. 'tibet. the himalayas.'

'makes sense. you and your big mountains.'

'what's the last mountain you... summited?'

'annapurna. it's the tenth tallest in the world.' she pauses, considering. 'are we playing twenty questions?'

her eyelids are drooping. 'i don't think you're going to be awake for twenty questions.'

she laughs softly. 'i want to ask you one, though.'

'hmm. sure. two to four questions, then.'

'do you... uh, well, okay. do you like women?'

it's so awkward, so out of place for someone so sure, that you have to fight the urge to burst out in laughter. but it's also soft, and nervous, her eyes wide. it makes you feel sixteen again, full of possibility. 'yeah, bea. i'm bi. i love women.'

she nods, tucks her hands even tighter under her chin, lets a big relieved breath out. 'cool.'

'yeah?'

'mhm. i'm a lesbian, if you didn't know.'

you want to say you're the gayest looking person i've ever met but you refrain. for the romance of it all. 'good to know.'

she tries hard to wink and fails miserably. you let yourself, just once, just for a moment, reach out and run your hand through her hair. she leans into your touch, relaxes under it, before you fold yourself back onto your side of the bed. 'you have one more question.'

'so do you.'

'okay. hmm. favorite ice cream flavor?'

she laughs. 'that's what you want to know.'

you nod. 'it's very important information.'

'okay.' she thinks hard about it, genuinely. 'mint chocolate chip?'

'that's so boring, jeez.'

'oh, i'm sorry. simple combinations of dynamic tastes is probably too sophisticated for you to understand.'

'okay, ratatouille.'

she tries, a valiant effort, to not crack a smile, but she eventually does. 'okay, my turn. favorite color?'

you let your eyes fall closed and imagine it all, the sharp thorns and the torrential rain and the chirp of the neon blue frog you'd found last time. you think about taking her there. 'green, of course,' you tell her, a promise, a future in the clouds. 'green.'

[sisterdivinium]

My issue with the Giovanni is just how tight-knit the clan is and how that might clash with the whole teamwork thing our hypothetical vampiric OCS should have going on... I think there might be something of use in Toreador!Cam, though, after all there isn't really a restriction on what, exactly, the clan can find beautiful. Why not be passionate about comms? Maybe not to the point of being stunned by them as per the clan's weakness, but...

And yeah, I thought Lasombra antitribu could fit Lilith well. Besides, if we attribute the whole demon transformation to a particularly unhappy encounter with a very Sabbat-loyal Tzimisce (ah, the redundancy), well, that antitribu status might just be the thing that triggers it... Add the church stuff to the mix and it seems like something quite fun to play with :)

@ghostofcatscradle I hope you know I have spent these past few days holding myself back from reaching for my Guide to the Camarilla but at the same time I can't stop listening to Twin Tribes and Haunt Me so I think I won't be able to resist. A WN x VtM prompt... This is your fault!!!!

[noteveryoneis]

Grocery shopping with three kids is like balancing a goldfish’s bowl on your head — impossible and always ending in disaster.

Especially when one of them is a little girl with ADHD and who is going through her teenage rebellion at eight years old. Ava has already lost sight of Nina five times in the span of thirty minutes, no matter how many times she has asked her to stay with them and not get lost. Every time she finds her, the little girl just rolls her eyes and mutters ‘ugh’ like Ava is just the most annoying bitch on Earth — at least she hasn’t said it yet, she still has some respect left for her mother.

‘Dad would have let me have it,’ Ava hears after she tells her to put back the Laffy Taffy she tried to add to the cart.

Ava clenches her teeth, doesn’t say anything (of course her dad would have let her have it, as he doesn’t care about her, about her sisters, about what they eat and who they are and if they are loved), but she sees the way Neves looks up at her quietly, as if her five year old brain can sense that her mother has just been hit in the chest by an invisible arrow, and Nova’s grip on the shopping cart tightens, like she is doing everything in her power not to smack her little sister with one of the pool noodles on display.

Still, Ava makes the most of it. She makes whooshing noises as she turns the cart, drops kisses on Neves’ nose from time to time where she is sitting in the child seat, helps Nova choose the best pens and even lets Nina get the Barbie notebook she really wanted. 

She’s mentally doing the math of how much they’ll need and if she can add a bottle of her pain meds to the list when she hears the voice behind her.

“My my my, as I live and breathe, if that isn’t Ava Silva.”

Her first reflex is to grip the cart like it’s going to float away, muscles locked up. She's been hearing that so much lately, the snarls and mocking chuckles from everyone who knew her from before — and from now, Ava Silva who left her shiny little city after being kicked out like a dog by the father of her kids and came back with her tail in between her legs to her hometown (when in reality Ava is working her ass off so that her girls can go to school and live in a real house where they each have their own rooms and where they can go to the beach every weekend and she loves it).

But then she recognizes the hoarseness of the voice and the way it sounds like a warm smile — or like coming home. And so Ava whirls around, only to be met by the sight of none other than Mary freaking Masters, grinning down at her.

People have had a lot of different reactions at Ava’s return. Camila blew up her phone at the first text Ava sent announcing her move, Lilith tried to stare her down, Mrs. Salvius smiled at her and wished her a warm welcome back, Duretti almost kicked her out of the school and Superion announced loudly that she was praying Nova wasn’t anything like her mother — fondly and teasingly too, Superion was a softie even though she claimed the opposite.

But being picked up and hugged tightly? A first.

Mary’s laugh echoes in her ear as Ava hugs her back, grinning like an idiot.

“Jesus, kid, I heard you were back and town and I didn’t believe it, but you’re actually here!”

Mary sets her back down on the ground, smiling at her (the only thing stopping her from ruffling Ava’s hair is probably the fact that she’s a grown woman of twenty-eight-years old).

“Yeah, I am, moved back three weeks ago. Glad to know news still travel fast around here.”

“You know it,” Mary laughs, like she just knows how much the residents of their hometown love talking back behind each other’s backs.

All three of the girls are still staring at the two of them in silence from the cart, big eyes open as if wondering who the fuck this woman is.

“Right, sorry,” Ava laughs, taking a step back and putting a hand on Nina’s shoulder, the other setting on Neves’ back, leaving it to Nova to decide whether or not she wants to hide behind her mother — she doesn’t, looking curiously at Mary as if trying to remember her. “Girls, this is Mary, Nova’s godmother. Mary, well, you already know them.”

They all greet her in a concert of little ‘hi’s as Mary smiles back at them. 

“You guys have grown,” she whistles, raising an impressed eyebrow — right, she hasn’t seen them since Neves’ birth. “Especially you,” she tells Nova, “Jesus Christ, you’re tall, kid.”

“Everyone keeps saying that,” Nova frowns.

“Most people here haven’t seen you since you were a baby,” Ava reminds her.

“Yes, but what else am I supposed to be but taller? Of course I am, I’ve grown!” Nova says, raising her hands to the sky. “And what if I have had dwarfism? What would you guys have said?”

“No’, you don’t have dwarfism,” Ava says.

“But I could have!”

Ava throws in the towel at that one, turning back towards Mary who is raising an eyebrow with a shit-eating grin.

“Cute kid.”

“Thanks,” Nina grins because of course she does, flipping her hair back to make her sisters laugh (and it works).

“Oh, I just know which one of you has the Silva genes,” Mary says, pointing a finger at her, clearly amused.

“Alright, that’s enough,” Ava stops her. “The tale of mama’s adventures will have to wait,” she says, redirecting Nina towards the cart and ushering Nova back to her sisters.

Mary smiles back at her, really smiles, not just one of those uptight fake smiles that Ava has been receiving since her move back here — except for Teacher-Hot-Neighbor Beatrice whose smiles always look timid and hesitant, like she’s not sure she’s allowed to do that, and Camila who is just genuinely a ray of sunshine.

“Shannon has been talking about you,” she says, softly and a little more seriously. “She’s been wondering where you and the girls were at, she’s going to be happy to know you’re all so close.”

She doesn’t ask about JC, like she already knows, or maybe she had seen it coming, like they all did. Ava smiles back, not knowing what to say.

“You know I have to invite you all to our house for dinner now, right? The wife wouldn’t let me live if I didn’t.”

“You have a wife?” Nina asks, her head poking out from behind Ava’s hip, tiny fingers hooking into the loop of her shorts.

“She’s Neves’ godmother, come on, you guys know that,” Ava explains, frowning.

They’ve met them five years ago — okay, Nina was three and probably doesn’t remember it, and Nova was six and already didn’t like talking to people (which annoyed JC greatly and made her miserable). All things considered, she doesn’t blame them for not remembering Shannon and Mary.

“Yup, I have a wife,” Mary says instead, not missing a beat as she shows her wedding ring. “She’ll want to meet you guys as soon as I tell her about you.”

“Are you gay?”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Ava intervenes immediately, shoving the shopping list into Nova’s hand. “Take your sister around, don’t get lost and, Antonina, please stop asking questions about people’s sexualities.”

Mary is laughing her ass off as the two little girls scamper away, Neves kicking her little legs from her child seat, smiling slightly to herself. Ava sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose, trying to stop herself from laughing too. Now she understands everyone’s suffering from when she was younger, karma is a bitch. 

“I’m serious,” Mary says after a few seconds of laughing like a madman. “We’re throwing a cookout next sunday, you have to come. And bring your comedian kid with you, I like her,” she says, like Nina is a shiny new toy (Ava can already feel the headache coming just thinking about how much chaos the two will bring together).

“I’m… I’ll see what I can do.”

“Nah, you know I don’t take no for an answer. Seriously, Ava, come. Shannon will be thrilled to see you. We’ve missed you, kid.”

Neves tugs on her shirt, Ava picks her up and sets her on her hip, putting a kiss on her hair and letting the anxiety melt away as the girl wraps her arms around her shoulders.

“Okay,” she says. “We’ll come.”

Mary smiles again, Ava feels a bit warmer already.

[shy-forceghost]

Madrid in between scenes

Once they retrieve their backpacks from the hotel room, they settle down on two cots in the corner of the refuge. Beatrice has insisted on going with her, even if she’s still walking on zigzag and squinting at the lights.

“Are you alright?” Ava asks, once they are back at the refuge.

“Yes. A little dizzy, that’s all” Bea answers while starting to unpack. Ava lets out a small laugh.

“What?” Beatrice asks.

“Nothing. I’m just surprised, you know?” Ava admits with a grin, “that a single tranquilliser dart did more than seven lemon drops”. Beatrice’s scandalised face after hearing that is completely worth it.

“Ava!” she shushes her, while looking around to see if anyone heard her, “You can’t say that here”.

“Ok, ok. Not a single word from me ever again, I promise.” They share a shy laugh, and Ava is silently relieved that Beatrice doesn’t show any regret about what happened at the bar.

“They were not seven” she clarifies after ten long seconds “I may not remember a lot from that night, but I’m sure I still knew how to count.”

“Oh, they were, Bea” Ava says “in fact, I lost count at seven …”

Beatrice throws the sweater she was folding at her.

“Shut up” she says, and she’s laughing. Ava notices that this is the first time she has heard her laugh after that night. “Stop defaming me.”

“Me? I wasn’t going to say anything else. You are the one overthinking it!”

She is about to throw the sweater back at her when the effort of stretching pains her on the lower stomach, right where Vincent punched her. Beatrice is at her side in two seconds, concerned.

“I’m fine” the younger girl reassures “just a little sore. For a priest, he can really throw a punch”.

Beatrice doesn’t laugh, and that catches Ava’s attention. She looks at her, inquiring.

“It’s just that … I wasn’t there, I couldn’t help”, she admits, guilt in her voice “Why didn’t you want to tell us it was Vincent?”

Ava ponders her answer. She had hidden that fact while telling the story to Mother Superion, that's right, brushing it out under the argument that "it could've been anyone else, Vincent or FBC, they are all the same".

But Ava knows that's not the truth.

Because I’ve seen the way you get when anyone mentions him. I’ve seen that you are angry at him, but under all of it, you are scared.

“I knew you would overreact” she chooses to say, and regrets it immediately.

“Overreact?! Ava, you were there by yourself. He could have hurt you, taken you to Adriel … out of all people, he’s the one who wouldn’t hesitate on killing you!” Bea yells, and behind the anger, Ava is unable to see the panic.

“You don’t believe I can fight him” she blasts, outraged.

“That’s not what I said” Beatrice says “It’s just that – he overpowered us all, back at the Vatican. We trusted him too much and look at where it brought us. We no longer know what he’s capable of, what else he could do to you!”

“Beatrice, stop. I beat him. I practically kicked his ass and the only reason you should regret that you weren’t there to see it is because it was fucking awesome” Ava is angry, so angry at Beatrice for being so blind “He had a gun. Have you thought of what could’ve happened if it had been a bullet, instead of the dart? Have you?!” she’s yelling now, because she has been thinking about it nonstop since she saw the gun, back at the alley “You are not the only one who worries.”

Beatrice lowers her gaze and puts her hands on her pockets, something she always do when she’s being yelled at. Ava takes a deep breath before continuing, feeling the guilt hovering over her.

“Come on, I was trained by the best sister warrior ever …” she says, in a calmer tone, as she puts both of her hands on Beatrice’s shoulders. “I’m going to be fine. I just ask you for a little faith.”

“I do have faith in you, Ava” Bea says, her gaze softening. “You know that. And just for clarification, you weren’t trained by the best sister warrior. But I was.” She smiles, lightly, and nods to Ava.

They are going to be fine.

[words-put-together]

Again - Avatrice training AU

[part 2 of this]

###

“Again.”

Ava wasn’t sure if she preferred this —a series of easy kicks and punches— or the sticks from the day before. At this point, she didn’t care. I’d been almost 2 hours after dismissal, just like the day before, and Ava really considered phasing into the ground and letting it swallow her whole, if she had the energy to phase at all.

But she kept going, and even spared Beatrice of her pleading and whining, wanting to get it over with as fast as she could. For her own sanity, she also told Beatrice to cut it with the “again” after every single round.

However, after she noticed Beatrice shifting her weight far too often, and all but limping back from the bench where her water bottle resided, Ava decided she’d enough.

“Again.” Beatrice repeated, still waiting for Ava to strike.

“You’re hurt.” Ava stated matter of factly, though it was impossible to miss the worry in her voice.

“I’m fine.” Beatrice lied, readjusted her position. “Again.” Ava sighted, taking tentative steps towards her.

“Beatrice.” Unlike the day before, there was no anger in her voice. Maybe, it was the most emotionless voice Beatrice had ever heard of Ava; and it scared her. “If you- if you and Superion want me to train until I can no longer stand, I’ll do it.”

Ava took another step towards Beatrice, who had long forgotten her fighting stance. Though she wanted to, she couldn’t bring herself to look away from Ava’s soft eyes that seemed to see right through her.

“I don’t know what you mean to get from it,” she continued with clear annoyance, taking a deep breath. “But I’ll do my best.” Beatrice gave her a firm nod, unsure of what to say. “But you are in pain.”

“I’m not!” Beatrice argued back far too quickly, getting a challenging brow raise from Ava.

“You are.” Ava insisted, slightly poking Beatrice’s leg with her feet where she knew she likely had a massive bruise.

Ava was proven right when the older girl moved back instinctively, wincing at the touch.

“You just want training to be over.” Beatrice argued weakly, light blush creeping up her cheeks.

Ava seemed almost offended by her words, as if Beatrice believing Ava didn’t actually care about her was deeply insulting.

“You can get someone else train with me.” Ava stated firmly. “Camila, Mary; I’ll even take Lilith!” Beatrice couldn’t help a small smile, looking away from Ava in a poor attempt to hide it.

Beatrice opened her mouth to speak again, but was interrupted by Ava’s soft, firm hands on her arms, making the space between them impossibly smaller.

“And you can lie all you want and say you’re fine,” Ava’s voice was soft, almost like a whisper, as if they were sharing a secret in a room full off people. “But I know there probably a big, dark bruise down there to prove you wrong. So no, we are not going again.” Ava finalized and, deep down, Beatrice knew there was no point in fighting her on this one.

If she were to be honest, Beatrice was exhausted. Not only had acting as Ava’s training dummy left her with more bruises and marks than she’d ever admit, but it had cut down her hours of sleep to almost half and left her with odd eating schedules. However, before Beatrice could even consider confessing it all to Ava, the door to the training room creaked open, making them both jump back and away from each other.

“Beatrice,” Mother Superions called, “come with me.”

When she turned around to close the door, Beatrice swore she saw a look of worry in Ava’s eyes mixed with a hint of guilt, before the girl turned around to kick a training dummy square in the chest.

###

[ok so there’s actually more idk if I should post it this is turning into a whole ass fic with no context] also i take ideas prompts and suggestions here or on my inbox, you can also welcomed and encouraged to criticize my writing style too :D]

[brandwhorestarscream]

Secret Amazons

Devastator: *taking Superion by the shoulders* Fight!

Superion:*Having an awakening*

Devestator roars in Superion's face demanding a real fight, bellowing at him to, "FIGHT ME LIKE A MECH! LIKE YOU USED TO!" because Devestator will not tolerate one of her greatest rivals suddenly pulling his punches just because he assumed the wrong pronouns. Truthfully she nor her components care all that much about how they're adressed, but they're not going to accept a half-assed fight

Superion, meanwhile, is getting kicked around and is having so many realizations 😂 first and foremost: he's into being beaten up by hot women. Whoops

[birgittesilverbae]

Hey, just wondering, at some point in the tmtl-verse could we get the backstory of how/why exactly Mary shot Lilith with a pellet gun?

Mary, assigned to teach this lanky new rookie with the world's biggest chip on her shoulder and a legacy to match how to shoot.

Lilith, knowing full well the life expectancy of Sister Warriors, wanting to give herself every opportunity to succeed in field missions, asking Mary what it feels like to get shot

Mary: I haven't been stupid enough to get myself shot

Lilith: but if you were to get shot, how quickly do you think you'd be able to regroup and continue with the mission?

Mary: hell if I fucking know

Lilith: ... can we test it?

Mary, flatly: are you asking if you can shoot me.

Lilith: I'm asking you to shoot me. what other reason is there for us to have pellet guns?

Mary: Superion likes taking pot shots at mice. and I'm not gonna shoot you (what the fuck is wrong with you)

Lilith: because you're too much of a coward

Mary: because it's moronic

Lilith: because you're a coward

Mary: because it's idiotic

Lilith: because you're a coward

Mary: because it's asinine

Lilith: coward

Mary: go get a pellet gun and some body armour

Mary sets Lilith up and then makes her turn around and shoots her in the ass because "there's slightly more padding that way"

Lilith can't sit comfortably for about a week and a half and Shannon gives Mary her "I'm not mad I'm just disappointed" look often enough that Mary finally caves and apologises to Lilith for letting herself get baited into it

[the-darkness-does-not-bargain]

Prompt: Shannon & Lilith -> protection

I think you kicked a hornet's nest, bestie 👀.

This takes place sometime after Shannon gets the Halo but before she learns about the conspiracy. Enjoy the angst ❤

//////

“What the fucking shit were you thinking?!”  Mary’s face is in front of yours, twisted in an angry snarl.  Her furious question echoes off the warehouse walls, but its effect rolls off of you as easily as the beads of sweat pouring down your face.

“Language, Mary.”  Your eyes dart over to Beatrice, whose voice just barely shakes as she holds an abdominal pad over your gushing stomach wound, keeping pressure on it as best she can.  She doesn’t look up at you.  Like always, she focuses all of her attention on the task at hand, which in this case is keeping you alive.  You feel a blazing surge of emotion for her in this moment, a kind of affection that is hard to distinguish from pain.

“Language, my goddamn ass,” Mary retorts loudly.  “This idiot tries to get herself killed and you’re scolding me over saying fuck?”

“I’m saying that it’s not helping the situation—”

“Enough, both of you!”  For all that she doesn’t shout, it is a steely command, one that makes you all look up in unison.  

Shannon stands some ten feet away, her braid untidy, her face dirty, and her armor speckled with blood.  The Divinium sword rests loosely in her right hand, its azure glow casting her face in a strange, holy light.  She is radiant like this, as close to an Angel of God as any human could hope to be.

She’s also upset with you.  You can see in the hard set of her shoulders, her rigid posture.  Shannon isn’t a rigid person.  She’s dutiful, and steadfast, but she’s also the person who once stole a single shoe from every sister in the convent, just for the sight of them walking funny as they try to search for them.  

Seeing her like this now, you know you’ve really messed up.

She marches toward the three of you, urges Mary aside with a soothing hand, and kneels next to you opposite Beatrice.  She looks you over, her gaze gentle but probing.  “Lilith.”  You flinch.  You can’t help it.  She and Mother Superion have a way of saying your name that instantly harpoons any toughness or bravado you mustered to face them.  They were masters of stripping down your defenses, leaving you bare for whatever purpose they intended, be it comfort or punishment.

Your mind is too hazy from blood loss to tell which course of action is on Shannon’s mind.  You know what you hope she will choose, if only because it will be easier for you to deal with later.  Shannon must sense something of that too, because she sighs heavily, sets the sword down on the concrete floor, and gently pulls Beatrice’s hands away from your wound to replace them with her own.

“Bea, go with Mary and sweep the building.  Make sure we didn’t miss any possessed, and check on the status of our extraction.”  Beatrice looks shocked, her mouth pressing into a thin line, and she seems like she desperately wants to protest, but Shannon quells her with a look.  She also waits until the two of them are out of sight before finally laying into you.

“Why did you jump in front of me, Lilith?”  She asks, slowly and clearly.

You huff, and wince when the action pulls at your weeping wound.  “I think the answer should be obvious.”

“Let’s pretend it isn’t.  Humor me,” Shannon responds.

You roll your eyes as best you can.  “He had the Divinium knife, Shannon.  He could’ve killed you.  He was going to kill you.”

“He was going to try,” she concedes, her lips twitching upward in a play at cockiness.  “Getting stabbed with Divinium wouldn’t be enough to down me, Lil.  You know that.  As soon as the piece got pulled out, I would have healed.”

You do know that, but that’s beside the point, and you tell her so.  She shakes her head, looking at you with fondness.  Who else has ever looked at you like that?  Who else could you ever say was fond of you?

“Lilith, why did you jump in front of me?”  She repeats, insistent.  You look away, unable to bear the sincere concern in her eyes.

“You’re our leader,” you say, and if you had enough blood in your body, you would flush at how embarrassing you sound.  Your mother had always scolded you about mumbling, demanding that you speak loudly and clearly at all times, but you had been a furtive child, and mumbling was a habit you never quite shook.  “The Warrior Nun.  It’s my duty to protect you.”

“Okay,” Shannon says, considering this.  “But that doesn’t really answer my question.  Even if he had gotten a hit on me, I would have been fine.”

“You don’t know that!” You whimper pathetically when your attempt at back-talk sends searing pain shooting down every nerve in your body.  You shut your eyes tight against the sting of tears, only opening them when you feel careful fingers pushing back your damp hair.  “You don’t know that, Shannon,” you repeat, pleading with her.  “Anything could happen.  Anything does happen.  Our history is littered with Warrior Nuns who fell in battles that should have been easy!  You can’t… You can’t just assume that nothing will ever happen to you, Shannon, you can’t…”

“Alright,” she murmurs calmingly, petting your hair with slow, tender strokes.  “You’re right, Lil.  I can’t assume anything.  Maybe he would have gotten lucky and landed a fatal blow on me.  Maybe I would��ve died.  I’m not thrilled by the idea, but I’ll admit to it.”  She pauses momentarily to check if your bleeding is slowing down, and then she continues.  “But even if that did happen, Lil, I wouldn’t have been scared.  I wouldn’t have worried, because I know you’d be there to accept the Halo in my place, that you’d be ready for it.”

You shake your head wildly.  “But I’m not ready!  I’m not…” God forgive you, but you can’t stop the tears anymore.  They leak down your face freely, baring your weakness to the world.  “Just because I’m the next in line doesn’t mean I want you to die, Shannon!”

“I know that,” Shannon soothes, cupping your cheek to brush the sweat and tear tracks away.  How she can be so kind to you right now is a mystery you’ll never solve, but you shamelessly grab at her hand to keep it in place.  You’ll ask God for forgiveness in your next confession.  Right now, you’ve reached your limit, and you have no resolve left to muster.

“I don’t want you to die,” you repeat, the words coming out as a sob.  “Shannon, I don’t…”

“Oh, Lil…”  She wraps her around your shoulder and carefully pulls you against her, maneuvering her body to cradle you against her side.  “I know that,” she says, pressing your head down onto her shoulder.  “I know that.”  She keeps you there for an unknown amount of time, letting you weep like a child against her.  She says nothing.  She merely hums and shushes you tenderly as you break down, waiting with the patience of a saint until you have enough wherewithal to get ahold of yourself again.

“The others,” you say, tremulously.  “They think I’m a vulture.  That I’m just waiting around for the moment I can take the Halo from you.”

“They don’t know you like I do, Lilith,” she responds easily.

You shake your head again, because she isn’t getting it.  “You don’t understand.  I… I do want the Halo,” you admit, casting your gaze away.  “It’s everything I’ve been training for, everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“I know that, too.”

“I want it,” you repeat.  “But I don’t want to take it from you, Shannon.  I don’t want you gone…”

“I’m not gone, Lil.  I’m not going anywhere anytime soon,” she insists.  She sounds so sure, so confident, as if everything you’ve just said has gone completely over her head.  It makes you want to weep again.  “But I don’t want you to go anywhere either,” she continues.  “I don’t want you to die, even if it’s to protect me.  I might die one day, on some future mission, in a way none of us can see coming, but that’s okay.  I promise, Lil, it’s okay.  That’s the Warrior Nun’s job.  And if I do, I know you’ll be ready to take my place.  And I’ll be watching over you from Heaven with every sister who came before us.  I promise, Lily, it’s going to be okay.”

You want to tell her no, to rage and scream at her, but you don’t have the strength to anymore.  What’s more, Beatrice’s voice sounds through your walkie talkie at that moment.  “The building is secured, Shannon.  Extraction has arrived.  Status?”

Shannon fishes out hers out and speaks into it while keeping a steady eye on you.  “Ready for extraction.  Tell the team to get the stitch kit ready and call Cat’s Cradle to arrange a blood transfusion.”

“Copy.”

“Can you stand?”  She asks you.  You nod, and she helps you clamber painfully to your feet.  She has to leave the sword behind for the extraction team, and it takes her enhanced strength to keep you upright, but she guides you successfully out of the building and into the van that will take you home.  

The rest of your team is already there, waiting anxiously for you.  Beatrice takes over for Shannon as they get you settled on one of the seats.  With the stitch kit already open, she starts cleaning your wound with efficient strokes, hiding the trembling in her hands by working as quickly as possible.  Mary watches from the opposite seat.  She’s still angry with you, but her concern has won out, and she keeps one eye trained on you even as she fills Shannon in on their sweep of the building.

The ride back is quiet.  Not peaceful, just quiet.  You’re exhausted, so much so that you barely wince as Beatrice stitches you up.  Shannon watches you the entire ride back, and insists on being the one to carry you in when you finally arrive back at Cat’s Cradle.  She takes you straight to the infirmary for a hastily-prepared transfusion, and doesn’t leave your side until Mother Superion calls her away for a mission debrief.

“It’s going to be okay, Lilith,” she tells you again, brushing a hand over your arm.  “I’ll be back as soon as I’m done.  I’m not going anywhere.”

She leaves, and the medics descend on you in a swarm.  You let them, only because you’re too tired to cause a fuss.  As they put an IV in your arm and hook you up to the transfusion, you close your eyes and try to shut everything out.  You want to shut your mind off too, but it continues to spin itself in circles, repeating all the things Shannon told you over and over again like a mantra you were being forced to repeat.  Mantras are supposed to be comforting.  They are supposed to help focus one’s thoughts.  

And maybe this one would comfort you, if you believed anything she said.

[aggressivelyaverage21]

art by the talented: @princington

Chapter 15: Matthew 5:1-12a

When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him. Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying: ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. ‘Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth. ‘Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled. ‘Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy. ‘Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God. ‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. ‘Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. ‘Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.

Bea gets some time alone, though, not for long. Lilith gets put on her ass. Shannon wrecks some donuts. Bea takes a nap in the sun. Shannon shares what brought her to the order and plays some football. Mother Superion gets a gift.

[epccjl]

Even though it was really short. The script gave us quite a lot.  It’s confirmed that yes they indeed slept together in one bed.

That Bea is an early bird who watches Ava while she sleeps waiting for her to wake up instead of getting out of bed. 

Ava is a messy sleeper tangled in the sheets and arms and legs everywhere so probably all over Beatrice as well. It was a small bed.

Beatrice makes them breakfast. 

Ava mentions that the church could have given them a bigger place so it was definitely either Duretti or Mother Superion who organised their tiny one bed apartment (lol let that sink in if it was Duretti 😂) 

We could have heard Beatrice say ass and crap-hole lol 

The little bit of teasing/flirting at the very end. 

We all knew this scene wasn’t going to be big or give us much that’s why it was probably cut to begin with, but it gives us a little bit more of an insight to what their lives were like in the Alps and I’m more than happy with that.