#like mary and shannon

[saintedbyher]

I still have 3 episodes left of Warrior Nun, I know I’m late to the game. However, I need to address Camila saying to Bea, “it’s easy to fall in love with a warrior nun.” The way she talked about “they’re never yours”, “they never last” sounded PERSONAL. Camila and mystery warrior nun… canon?

[lesbianjamies]

It’s easy to fall in love with a Warrior Nun. It’s loving the Warrior Nun that’s the hard part. They’re never yours. They never last.

[holocene-sims]

next // previous

may 10, 2013 6:20 p.m. actual hell

[birgittesilverbae]

Maybe it's a curse. Bad things happen to everyone I care about.

TOYA TURNER as SHOTGUN MARY

WARRIOR NUN (2020-?)

[bazaarwords]

@inlovewithfairies​ — thank you for the prompt!

“They’re doing it again.”

Mary doesn’t look up from her gun. “I’m not looking,” she says, rubbing oil along the barrel. It glints in the sunlight, but still. Not clean enough.

“It’s almost like…” Mary doesn’t have to look to know that Shannon is gesturing, creating a picture with her hands. “A dog looking at its reflection.”

Mary scoffs, keeps cleaning her gun. “Yeah?”

“No matter what you do, the dog will never understand what it’s seeing,” Shannon explains, “because it doesn’t have the capacity for logical thought.”

“Elaborate.”

“Beatrice has been trying to teach her the same basic move—one I know for a fact that Ava knows—for an hour, and—you know, some of this feels too intimate to describe.”

“Exactly why I’m not looking.”

Shannon hums. “Should I avert my eyes?”

“You should be cataloguing every single moment of this. For blackmail.”

“For blackmail,” Shannon says, her words overlapping Mary’s. “Of course.”

The gun is clean enough. Mary looks up at a much more pleasant picture than whatever is happening in the courtyard—Shannon. “You remember when we were like that?”

Shannon looks at her, raises an eyebrow. “Oh? You mean when I used to walk into your room after training with my shirt off and you would sit in the corner and stare out the window—“

“No. No, that is… that’s—you’re lying. That’s not what happened.” It’s exactly what happened, but Mary would rather hop off the roof they’re sitting on and break both her legs than admit it. “It was different.”

“Mm. Completely different,” Shannon says with that smirk. “I was the one that got fed up and dragged you into that closet—”

“Asshole.”

“Language.”

Finally, Mary looks across the courtyard. They’re working with quarterstaffs, up close and personal. Beatrice demonstrates quite literally the first move new recruits learn with the weapons, patient as ever. The move puts them inches from each other, and Ava fucks it up in a way that almost has them knocking their heads together.

If Mary looks any longer she’s going to throw up.

“It’s just…” Shannon begins, “An extraordinary amount of time for them to reset.”

“Are you going to watch them eye-fuck all day, or…?”

“There’s a lot more involved than just eyes—“

Mary stands up, holstering her shotguns. “I have had enough. No. I’ve had way too much.”

A turn of events. Ava catches wind of her audience before Beatrice does.

“Hey!” Ava calls, waving, oblivious. “We’re training!”

Beatrice goes rigid, like they can only see her if she’s moving.

“I’ll bet twenty they do this for another week,” Shannon says through a smile, waving right back.

“I’ll take that.”

Mary knows the voice anywhere.

“Only twenty, Suzanne?” Shannon goads, “You can do better than that.”

“Fifty,” Suzanne offers, sidling up on Mary’s other side. “A month or more.”

“Deal,” Shannon says, “I don’t think they’ll last that long.” She nudges Mary’s leg. “We didn’t.”

“You two have more sense,” Suzanne says, and she’s right. “Though not by much.”

“You know you’re on the edge of a roof, right?” Mary warns.

Suzanne smirks, looking out as Beatrice packs their things up in a hurry, hustling Ava along.

“The point remains.” She turns to leave. “I’ll be back for my money. With interest.”

~

Suzanne wins one hundred euros, three months later.

She tells Shannon that she’d found them in a storage closet, and Shannon laughs until she cries as she empties her wallet.

Mary thinks that maybe they aren’t so different. It’s a thought she’ll take to the grave.

[call-me-maggie13]

Bea taking care of Shannon on her 21 birthday

Absolutely lmao

Bea is bored af and she’s just like “ugh again Shannon? Really?” And she’s texting Mary (who’s taking the picture) “are you sure you want this one? There have to be better options for you.”

^this is Shannon on the car ride home

“Bea, don’t go so fast.”

“Shannon, the car’s not even on yet.”

“Dear god, I’m going to die.”

[wimbledon2008]

i don't even know how to act right now

[appleciders]

Warrior Nun Season 1 + “trust”

[godsweakestsoldier]

Chapters: 1/3 Fandom: Warrior Nun (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: Shotgun Mary/Shannon Masters Characters: Shotgun Mary (Warrior Nun), Shannon Masters, Sister Beatrice (Warrior Nun), Sister Lilith (Warrior Nun) Additional Tags: aka the one in which we watch a car crash in slow motion, it's precanon yall, it made me cry a little, i cant tag for shit, major character death doesn't happen for a while, they're a little cute y'all Summary:

Devotion has always held a price. Mary knows and understands this. It's the knowledge of losing the thing worthy of devotion that tears through her.

She wonders if St. Peter had felt this way. - aka Mary and Shannon get comfortable with each other.

[daisychainsandbowties]

me: this is a five-part oneshot

me: it’s different from a multi-chapter fic because i am in denial

[theghostofalittlevictorianchild]

Ok but Mary was definitely in love with Shannon, right?

[immortalspacelesbian]

writing and i came to a realisation

jillian lost michael and will never be able to bury her son because there’s no body

the ocs lost mary and will never be able to bury her because there’s no body

[shy-forceghost]

I just had this image of Shannon trying to get rookie Bea to open about her sexuality crisis, and having this elaborate plan to make her trust her and everything. They do it on Mary's apartment, of course, because there's no way she's going to open up within the walls of Cat's Cradle. But as soon as they come in, Mary turns on her music system and blasts Mujer contra Mujer at full volume, as it was the most casual thing in the world.

And Shannon is just "MARY! I said discreet!!" while Bea is on the corner having a full on gay crisis again.

[birgittesilverbae]

“You look like hell." "I feel like it." meathshieldshotgun mayhaps 👀

spideytorch-but-not-this-spideytorch au again

//

Spider-Man's apartment is a piece of shit. It's a single main room, barely larger than the hospital room Ava finally got to call her own the year she turned thirteen, when Jillian's staff had moved Diego to the newly-emptied room next to Michael's. No, she can't get caught up on that now, on them, on the lab, on the burst of blue light that had– Spider-Man's apartment is a piece of shit, a sheet tacked up to separate what Ava assumes is a bed from the rest of the area, where a battered couch and coffee table and cloth-shrouded easel vie for space in the scant few feet between front door and fire escape.

Spider-Man watches her with a knowing glint in her eye. "It's not much," she agrees to Ava's unstated opinion, "but it's home. You have one of those to go back to, kid?"

Ava shrugs, tugging her knees up to her chest as she settles against the scratched-up couch arm. She wraps her arms about her legs, hugs them close, and it feels almost alien, the press of legs against arms and arms against legs and the pressure of the rough couch cover against her flesh. It makes her skin crawl, but she tamps herself down against the shudder that tries to break free, finds herself unable to speak.

"If you don't wanna tell me, that's fair enough. You have a name, at least?"

"Ava," she replies softly, rubbing her thumb against the weathered span of denim stretched across her knee. "I'm Ava."

"Nice to meet you, Ava. I'm–" Spider-Man pauses, eyes darting to the side, then shrugs. "In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess. My name's Shannon, and I'll be your waitress tonight." She produces a sheaf of glossy pamphlets from behind her back like a magic trick and leans down to fan them out across the coffee table, heedless of the open textbooks she disturbs with the motion. "Anything you want, just give me a head's up so I can call in the order."

"Anything I–" Ava sways forward, gaze caught by the bright shine of the pamphlets. She reaches out her hand, uses her palm to drag one of them halfway off the edge of the coffee table so she can pinch it between thumb and forefinger. 

"Oh, Ollie's is great, they always give me an extra serving of rice. Do you like Sichuan?"

"I don't know," she says quietly, stroking the smooth page with her thumb, awed by how easily her skin slides across the sheet.

"You don't know as in you have no preference, or you don't know as in–"

"As in I haven't eaten solid food in a decade," she admits, and her voice is almost steady. 

Shannon's grin is easy, as so much about her seems to be. "Let's remedy that, then," she says, and Ava could kiss her for not pushing the topic. "Anything there that looks interesting? Or I could get a selection of things, maybe help you figure out what you like?"

Ava looks from the takeout menu in her hand down toward the mess on the coffee table and back again, the options almost overwhelming in their vastness. "Whatever you want to do," she manages, tossing the pamphlet in the direction of the table and pulling her arm back around her knee.

The pamphlet skids across the table, off the far edge, plunges over towards the floor. A thwip, and it's in Shannon's hand, translucent strands connecting it to her wrist. 

She stares. She hadn't been able to make out the mechanism by which Shannon had pulled them from building to building in those long, floating arcs, but she's listened to enough of Diego's excited recountings of news stories to know the consensus was that the webbing came from a gauntlet, perhaps, or a canister. Ava suspects there must be an aspect of costume design built specifically to fuel those rumours, because a puncture in Shannon's skin itself extrudes the strands of web.

She doesn't mean to, but her eyes stay glued to Shannon's forearm long enough that she's caught in the act. Shannon watches Ava watching her and heat floods into Ava's cheeks. She knows better, should know better, can remember how every too long stare had made her feel small, inconsequential, other. "I'm sorry," she starts, but the cloud has already shifted from Shannon's eyes, leaving them bright and clear again.

"It's alright, it's just been a while since anyone new has seen that. I'd forgotten how it must look from the outside." 

"No," Ava repeats, because it's important, because she's waved off lingering eyes in just the same way for so long, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't stare."

"It's okay," and there's a hint of a laugh to it now. She gestures towards the second door, the one Ava figures hides a bathroom, with the takeout menu. "I'm gonna go call in the order and then we can talk about it, if you want?"

"Okay. Thank you." 

She watches Shannon until the door shuts behind her, then turns her attention back to the apartment. She knows she shouldn't pry, especially not here, not now, not with the kindness and grace Shannon has already shown her in rescuing her from– Don't, she chastises herself. Don't think about Jillian thrusting her arm into the device, don't think about the electric blue energy emanating throughout the room, don't–

A sweet, smoky scent drifts up into her nostrils and she snaps her gaze down to her hand, flat on the couch arm. What had been her hand. A mass of roiling flame attached to her arm, eating at the cuff of her sleeve, crisping the fabric of the couch. "What the fuck," she mutters reflexively, her stomach sinking. She pulls her hand back, waves it through the air, but the fire clings to her skin– Is her skin? "Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop."

She focuses on her breathing as she had in that warehouse beneath Shannon's careful gaze, drags the sleeve up her arm with her other hand to protect what remains of it. The flames wax and wane as she glares at them, and she sets her mind towards her hand, towards what she thinks it's meant to feel like. 

"As if I know what it's meant to feel like," she says, hysterical. But she tries gamely to picture cool flesh, like all those hands on her forehead for years and years, caretakers too rushed to take a moment to scrub their palms together to imbue them with some fleeting kind of warmth. Cool skin, and whole, and definitely not on fire. 

The flames retreat back beneath her skin in the blink of an eye and she presses the back of her hand to her forehead, just to check. Cool against the fever flush of her face. Great. Outstanding. And all it took was torching half of Shannon's apartment.

The fabric covering the arm of the couch has turned black-beaded and stiff, and the sweater sleeve now ends halfway up her forearm, and there's nothing she'd like more right now than to vanish before Shannon slips back into the room with her easy smile and easy gait and easy wave of a hand in response to apologies. 

She's not given a chance to make an escape, though, because Shannon's emerging back into the room, shoving her phone into the side pocket of her tights and grinning at Ava before she can even begin to form an explanation. "I'm moving out at the end of the month anyway," she says with a laugh, "feel free to burn the rest of it so I don't have to figure out when our bulk item collection day is scheduled."

"I didn't mean–" Ava starts, stops. There's something painful in her chest, constricting her ribs, and she scrubs a shaking hand over her eyes, draws it away wet. "I don't know–"

"It's okay." Shannon drags the coffee table back from the couch, as far as she can in the cramped space, and takes a seat on it in front of Ava. There's a bare inch of space between her knees and Ava's booted feet, toes sticking over the edge of the couch cushion. The navy fabric plastered tight to Shannon's thighs is decorated with that same reflective web pattern as the boots, picked out in infinitesimally small stitches, and Ava's fingertips itch to brush across it, to feel every twist and turn and bump of the embroidery. "It's okay," Shannon repeats, and there's a barefaced truth in her voice that makes Ava lift her head to meet her gaze. 

"I don't know what happened, I don't know what I'm supposed to do–"

Shannon smiles softly, the corners of her eyes crinkling. "That's alright, Ava. It will come in time."

"How are you so calm about this?"

"Well, one of us has to be," she says, flat as anything. 

Ava's throat tightens around a sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I just–"

Shannon cuts her off with a grimace, a touch to her foot. "I didn't mean it like that. No wonder everyone tells me I've an abhorrent sense of humour. Powers are a burden, especially newfound ones, but not one I'm going to make you bear alone. I'm calm about this because when I was in your shoes" – her eyes flick down to Ava's feet in her own costume boots and there's a quick twist to her mouth like she's biting back another joke – "when I was in your shoes I felt alone, was alone. But I managed to survive that, and I have complete faith that you will too."

"You don't even know me."

"I know you didn't blow me off when I tried to help you calm down. I know you internalised those instructions and used them to get your powers under control just now. I know you went an hour without setting anything on fire, and then only small patches." Her gaze finds the takeout menus wedged beneath her hip before working back up to Ava's face. "And I think it's fair to assume you've survived much more difficult trials than this."

Ava looks at her hand, splayed across light-washed denim, presses her fingertips into the fabric just to see the way it makes the tendons across the back of her hand press up hard against pale skin. A joy, to move them, to be moved by them. "That's… that's accurate," she allows, digging her thumbnail into the fold of the seam. 

Shannon reaches towards her, hand stalling between them, and then she's gone, a blur, sliding smoothly to the front door and opening it, bracing her hands over her head against the frame. Ava hadn't even heard the knock, if there'd been one, and she rocks to the side to try and get a glimpse past Shannon's outstretched shield of a body. 

"I didn't think you were coming over today," Shannon says, half on the edge of hearing. "Are you okay? You look like hell."

"I feel like it," a woman mutters. She's standing in Shannon's shadow, the light in the hallway buzzing and blinking and too near dead to properly illuminate her, but then she rocks onto her toes to dart a kiss to Shannon's cheek and there's something familiar in the movement, the careful trajectory of her mouth, the spark in her eyes. "Remind me to get you to vet my next employer," she continues, slipping around Shannon with ease, "so I can have a heads-up on the fledgling supervillain thing. 'Cause you'll never believe the bullshit Salv–"

She spots Ava at the same time as Ava clocks the all-too-familiar shade of scrub pants and stitches together a last few fragmentary memories of those last moments. Eyes widening, breath catching in two chests in unison before the release, the movement, Mary's hand reaching behind her back, a charged thrill shooting up Ava's fingers.

"Mary, this is Ava," Shannon says, sliding between them, a hand pressed to Mary's chest. Her voice is light, in sharp contrast to the tension in her shoulders. "She's not having a great day either."

That's all it takes to defuse Mary, pressing forward into Shannon's palm as though there's nothing else in the universe tethering to this room. "I'll say," she manages to choke out around a hitch in her throat, "seeing how she should be dead. The rest of them are," she continues, shifting to lock eyes with Ava over Shannon's shoulder, "and I saw the hole that you–"

"Jillian Salvius did this?" Shannon interrupts.

"She fucking did something, Shan. With Ava over there, with another kid, with her own son. They didn't tell us shit beyond that, other than 'here's another mess to sweep up, careful, it might be radioactive this time'." Mary pauses, reaches a hand up to touch Shannon's cheek. "How'd you stumble over her? On the way back from the library?" It's clumsy, even to the yawning sound of Ava's ears, you should be dead the rest of them are, like an actor stumbling over their lines. 

"She knows," Shannon says dryly.

"Why do I even bother," Mary sighs, "when you just keep dragging in strays and telling them everything and expecting me to help you rehome them. I only have the one couch, and it's already been spoken for."

"They're… They're dead?" Ava interjects, hard, soft, reaching. Diego's grin peeking around the doorframe, Michael's careful strength, Jillian– She doesn't want to think about Jillian. 

"They are," Mary says, something raw and aching in her expression, "I'm sorry."

"Okay," she says, "okay." The flame filters into her lungs her heart, ripples hot beneath her skin. She tugs the hoodie over her head in a rush, gasping for air, half-blind with panic.

"Ava–" Shannon starts, shifting towards her, but Mary takes her by the shoulder, holds her back.

"Let her make her choice, Shan." The words are barely audible over the inferno in Ava's chest. 

She rises from the couch, keeps rising, midair before them as her fingers turn to flame, her wrist, her forearm. The hospital gown clings tight even as the jeans scorch, burn, flake away in ashen clumps. "I'm sorry," she says, breath scalding in her mouth, and flings herself towards the window, through the rails of the fire escape, spins upwards into the night sky. "I'm so sorry."

[foulbearobservation]

what are some warrior nun hcs that you have that have yet to come up or find a way to put in your writing, and/or you just don’t talk about much?

Oh man I have a ton. I think the biggest one that makes me laugh is that I think Camila is an absolute card shark. She'll hustle you out of house and home before you realize what happened. Poker, hold 'em, blackjack, it doesn't matter what you play, she's gonna come out on top. It kinda plays off the hc I've seen from a few folks that Camila was a street kid / petty criminal before she joined the OCS and I just rly like that a lot!! Also I think Beatrice knows how to count cards. She probably taught herself when she was bored and it just stuck. When you get Camila and Beatrice playing poker it's gonna be a LOOOOONG game that will probably end in a draw lmfao

[dwarnian]

Take me back to the night we met

(ID: A photoset of 4 screenshots focusing on Mary and Shannon’s relationship combined with lyrics from Lord Huron’s “The Night We Met.” /end ID)