#sorry for that ending

[dumpsterfireofsubtext]

Avatrice The Sweetest Taboo chapter [3/?]

the sweetest taboo - Chapter 3 - trapdoorlord - Warrior Nun (TV) [Archive of Our Own]

1930S AU

Fandom: Warrior Nun

Pairing: Ava Silva/Sister Beatrice

Rating: M

Chapter word count: 12k

Chapter summary: Lilith visits, Beatrice is not looking too hot, the girls have lunch, and ... ahem.

---

so this chapter got long as hell. but I had so much fun I couldn't split it or cut it down.

[word-witch-krin]

Drifting

“Shit.” That's all Calliope can think as the engines on their hopper stalled and stopped. To call it their hopper was generous, as she stole it from an Arcaedias shipyard mere hours prior. The log she managed to swipe from a mechanic said it was only being serviced for minor security issues, not a failing reactor and leaking back up fuel cells. The Lavender Rose was just a small transport hopper, no one would miss it. They could take it and finally have a way out of the slums of Arcaedias. Now it was going to trap her in a way that the slums never succeeded at.

As the reactor shuts down, a familiar chill fills the room. An empty, indifferent, uncaring cold. Familiar to all of the residents of the outer ring of Arcaedias. The cold of lost power and desperation. The cold felt while working the worst maintenance jobs on the station. Calliope scrambles to find the emergency environmental suit. Hopefully this one safety measure will be able to save her. Their hopes are dashed as they reach the locker and find only a half measure of safety. The suit that should have been their savior missing, replaced with a simple helmet, air tank, and propulsion pack. None of this suit will save her from the oppressive cold that was seeping in from the space beyond the hull.

Calliope sighs as she puts the suit on. At least it will save her if the hull breaches or the life support is gone too long. At least until the cold gets them. Frost starts growing on the massive slates of glass that surround the cockpit of the tiny ship. Its sharp edges and points grow, threatening Calliope with their inevitable end. She keeps trying to find a way out. The ship is too small for escape pods or large scale backup systems, it was only meant to go between Arcaedias and Luna Coalition Space. The transponder beacon was part of the security systems that were broken, and they were so far off the regular routes that no one would likely pass by this piece of space anytime soon, if ever.

It succeeded, the cold beyond finally has her trapped, no options left. She ran to escape it, stole to escape it, and all of that was for naught as the cold creeped inwards. The frost grew all around them. The walls of the hull, the screens of the dead consoles around her, crawling up the chair beneath them.

In one last desperate attempt at survival Calliope opens the innards of the comms console, and selectively rips wires out, connecting them to a simple 2 way radio comm she had. It was rudimentary, but hopefully this will let them send a signal out. Anything that could get her saved. Tapping out a simple pattern, one anyone would recognize, sending out rhythmic spikes of static to hopefully call for help. Just then, as they were finishing the pattern, and setting it on a loop, her breath catches in her throat. She can't breathe.

Each attempt at a breath just felt wrong, too empty. She is trying harder and harder to breathe. Their helmet grows warmer with the feeling of suffocation overwhelming them with each additional attempt at a breath. The life support had been out too long, and now their air is gone. 

Struggling with the half suit she donned, Calliope desperately tried to get its backup airflow running. 

What if it's empty? 

What if it's broken? 

It's only a half suit, can it even help me?

Thoughts race across their weary mind as the fog grows on the helmet, each laborious breath covering one side while the frost grows on the other. The frost, she had forgotten about the overbearing cold, the barbed chills piercing her to the bone.

The world starts to blur around them, dizzy, and fading. Falling out of their seat, she hits the ground, the chill making it harder to move as her breathing becomes less and less effective. 

Then, a slight hissssss, and the indicator on their helmet activates, signaling the usage of reserve air. Could it even save her at this point. Their vision grows darker as the fresh, oxygen filled air enters the helmet. Is this her fate, to die in this small stolen ship, far away from anyone, alone with the void? 

As their vision goes dark, a light breaches through the frost, searchlights from another ship. She may be saved, and that was the last thought she had before everything went dark, potentially for the last time.

[cordspaghetti]

really factual recounting with no embellishments whatsoever

[brian-kinney-apologist]

I had to do this guys

[scorndotexe]

i can't lie to you i loveee bad endings sometimes. what if nothing worked out. what if the characters gave into their worst instincts. what if they became worse. what if there's truly no hope left. what will they do out of desperation? who will they become as their worst selves?

[mag200]

one thing about orpheus and eurydice is you guys are all like “i’m different i wouldnt turn to look at her” because you are all familiar with the story of orpheus and eurydice. but orpheus wasnt familiar with the story because he was in it lol.

[chiptrillino-art]

(ID in ALT Text) Happy very, very late Mother's Day!

I am not saying that zuko is sokkas substitute for kya. or they look in any way similar! The whole concept here is that something was happening at the moment, be it how they were laying in bed, how the hair pooled over the pillow, or how sokka was able to hold onto it. It just brought sokka back. It triggered a memory, and suddenly he relived a brief memory. Making him suddenly miss his mother again. hope you enjoy!

[jaypentaghast]

the kisses to his temple are you fucking kidding me

[cozyjo]

Alex Hirsch talking about why he couldn't be at The Art Department Eindhoven irl, he slipped a disc and boy did he come prepared to talk about it jdjdhshs

also an image that now exists: bill cipher breaking alex hirsch's back

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

I am incredibly serious right now when I beg you all, please, and if you have Twitter or Tiktok or whatever to please spread the word: click on an author's profile on Ao3.

You want to know if an author has written more? Want to know if they're still writing? Want to see more from them? Want to know if they've written a trope or kink or sex scenario you enjoy?

Click on their name. And look at their profile.

I cannot tell you how many times in the last six months someone has read a new or newer fic of mine and said they (a new reader who has read nothing else I've done) "can't wait to see what you do next!" I've written 50+ fics and over a million words already.

"I don't know if you're still writing..." click on my profile. I am. I literally wrote a 128k+ fic for that ship last month.

"Would you ever do X?" "Please do Y!" I already did. Click on my name and look at my works.

Archive of our Own is a library. It's an archive. Not social media. It is your responsibility to fight back against the laziness that corporate algorithms have trained into you.

Click my author name. Just click it. Just click it.

Before you demand more, or ask if a writer will do XYZ, or wonder if the author still writing, or anything - click on their profile. Click on the author's profile.

I'm not trying to be mean or condescending or anything like that. I'm just exhausted. It's disheartening and frustrating to repeat myself ad nauseam, because someone couldn't take thirty seconds to do the tiniest bit of work to see if I've written lately, if I've written more for their ship, or scan my works to see if I've written what they're asking for. Please. Please. I'm begging.

Click the author's name, and explore before you ask.

[jerich0two]

Surprise! It's not Hazbin Hotel, shock horror... but happy pride month! I like this Mordecai headcanon (edit: I've since been told that it's canon!)

[ayo-edebiri]

#Merry crisis

[cidnangarlond]

[kishdoodles]

Wait for it... It's coming...

[beloveds-embrace]

part 2 of baker!reader + do not ever ask me to write accents lmao i suck at those 💀😭 and a huge thank you to all the sweet and dessert suggestions! i couldn't add all of them, but oh my god did i love all of them and choosing between them was sooo hard (that's what she said). if your dessert didn't make it here im soo sorry 😭

It was a quiet morning when you finally decided to reopen the bakery. The town had been whispering, speculating about the sudden disappearance of your husband—tragic, they said, to be found mauled by a bear in the woods. You hadn’t shed a tear, hadn’t flinched at the news. Maybe that was cruel of you, but after what you had endured, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel anything for him anymore. Not fear, not sadness—just relief.

And now, with the bakery open once again, you felt lighter. Freer.

The 141 boys were there first thing, as you had hoped. Each one walking into the cozy space like they belonged there. Their heavy, winter boots made the wooden floors creak, their towering frames somehow making the space feel intimate rather than intimidating. You smiled as the familiar smell of fresh bread and sugar lingered in the air, the warmth of the ovens cocooning you and the rest of the bakery in comfort. Free from that terrible man you’d called a husband, it was as if the world itself was taking on a more vibrant color.

“Morning, sweetheart,” John greeted you, his eyes crinkling beneath his hat, though there was something watchful in his gaze.

“Bonnie,” Johnny chirped, leaning on the counter, his eyes sparkling as they usually did when he spoke to you. “Place smells heavenly as always.”

“You’re open today, huh?” Kyle said, grinning as he eyed the display of pastries lined up neatly behind the glass. “Missed our favorite baker, honestly.”

Simon didn’t say anything at first, just gave you a long, steady look from behind his mask. You knew he had seen the signs. He was the only one who had seen the bruises, had taken your hands so gently that day and whispered that promise. You hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t said anything in return, but you had trusted him all the same. You are glad you did. You are so glad it’d been him to see.

Now, as you wiped your hands on your apron and stepped out from behind the counter, your heart was lighter than it had been in months. “Everything’s on the house today,” you said, your smile wider than it had been in ages. “For you guys, at least. After all… I’ve got a few new things for you to try.”

Soap raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Is that so? Then we’re in for a treat, eh boys?”

You went back to the counter, pulling out a few trays and plates, your hands moving quickly as you started setting them down in front of the men, watching their eyes light up at the spread. “I’ve been experimenting,” you said, your voice light, almost teasing. “For John, I’ve got pecan pie. Thought you might like it—something a bit rich, a bit warm.” Like you, goes unsaid but you hoped he still heard it.

John’s eyes gleamed as he accepted the slice you placed in front of him. “Always knew you were a mind reader,” he murmured with a chuckle, cutting into the pie and taking a bite. The smile that spread across his face was slow, but appreciative.

“For you, Kyle, lemon meringue tarts. Something sharp, refreshing. A little tangy,” you said, setting the plate in front of him. “And a bit sweet, too. Had a feeling you’d like it!”

Kyle laughed, picking up the tart and admiring it at first. “You know me too well.” He took a bite, his eyes widening at the burst of lemon on his tongue and then groaning in delight. “Perfect, as always.”

Simon watched you closely, and when you placed a plate of apple fritters in front of him, his gaze softened just slightly. “Made these with you in mind,” you said, your voice gentle. “Thought you’d appreciate something classic, Si. Simple, but comforting.”

He didn’t say anything at first, just nodded in that way of his, taking the fritter in his gloved hand. When he took a bite, his eyes closed briefly, and you could see the silent approval in the way his shoulders seemed to relax ever so slightly.

“And for you, Johnny,” you giggled, setting down a small bowl of Cranachan in front of him. “Thought you might like something traditional- whisky, raspberries, oats, and cream. Feels like a bit of home, doesn’t it? At least I hope so. It was my first time making it.”

Johnny beamed all the same, eagerly reaching for a spoon. “Ah, bonnie, you’re spoiling us.”

But it wasn’t just them you were thinking of. You had made a fresh batch of focaccia bread for yourself, but this wasn’t just any bread- it was bold, spiced with rosemary and topped with chilli flakes and garlic. It was a reflection of your own newfound boldness. You’d been quiet, subdued for so long. Now, you wanted to feel alive again.Perhaps it might seem corny, but this focaccia bread meant to signify that for you.

You set a slice of the focaccia on a plate for yourself, taking a bite as you sat with them, your smile not faltering for a second. It was savoury- settling warmth in your stomach. “I think this might be my new favorite, actually.” you said with a soft laugh. In your mind, you were already thinking of making and selling more of it.

They didn’t say much in response, still tasting their own desserts, but you could feel their appreciation, their understanding, in the quiet way they accepted it.

The rest of the bakery was alive with the smell of freshly baked treats: rich brownies, soft sugar cookies, fluffy cronuts, and delicate eclairs. Tres leches cakes sat next to pumpkin pies, while apple and custard empanadas filled the air with their sweet, warm scent. Cheesecakes, cardamom rolls, strawberry lamingtons—the selection was almost overwhelming, but everything sold well. Especially the bear claw pastries. You smiled softly to yourself at the irony. The bearclaw pastries might also be your new favorite, right alongside the focaccia.

Johnny noticed it immediately, the little twitch of your lips, and raised an eyebrow. “What’s so funny, bonnie?”

You waved him off, shaking your head. “Oh, nothing. Just… the bear claws. They’ve been selling really well lately. Thought it was… fitting.”

Simon’s eyes flicked to you, then to the bear claw pastries sitting neatly in a display case. A slow understanding crossed his gaze, but he didn’t say anything. Just a slight nod, the corner of his mouth twitching, the silent acknowledgment of the truth that you all shared. You had no doubt the others knew about it as well- maybe even had a hand in it. Such incredible men.

And for the first time, standing in your bakery, surrounded by warmth and the quiet camaraderie of the men you had come to trust, you felt a sense of peace wash over you. The past was behind you. Now, you had a future to look forward to—one filled with new beginnings, layers to unfold like a mille-feuille crepe cake, and the quiet reassurance that you were no longer alone.

“Here’s to new beginnings,” you said, raising your cup of coffee, your smile bright and genuine.

The boys raised their cups in return, their expressions soft but full of unspoken promises. “To new beginnings,” they echoed, and for the first time in a long time, you believed it. Especially because you could see the way they were looking at you.

masterpost

[mychlapci]

i cant stop thinking about what happens once megatron leaves with the high guard. imagine this random 19 year old that almost killed your leader is now in charge and he just had the worst day of his life i'm talking mascara streaming down the face chest heaving breaking out in random sobs and you're supposed to be like Can we launch an offensive Can we Please Launch a fucking offensive