So earlier in art class today, someone drew a characters hands in their pockets and mentioned that hands are really like the ultimate end boss of art, and most of us wholeheartedly agreed. So then, our teacher went ahead and free handed like a handful of hands on the board, earning a woah from a couple of students. So the one from earlier mentioned how it barely took the teacher ten seconds to do what I can’t do in three hours. And you know what he responded?
“It didn’t take me ten seconds, it took me forty years.”
And you know, that stuck with me somehow. Because yeah. Drawing a hand didn’t take him fourth years. But learning and practicing to draw a hand in ten seconds did. And I think there’s something to learn there but it’s so warm and my brain is fried so I can’t formulate the actual morale of the lesson.
Saying "I'm not going to draw this thing because I don't know how to draw this thing" is really shooting yourself in the foot, because you've now cut yourself off from an opportunity to grow.
I had a friend in college who was an absolutely amazing artist. I loved seeing his work! One time I said something to the effect of "I could never do that."
He told me something that, as an artist, I resonate with. He said art isn't about natural talent; it's a learned skill. When you tell an artist their level of skill is impossible for you to reach, you're assuming their level of skill is a natural gifting they have, and it discredits the hundreds to thousands of hours of hard work they've put into getting where they are today, and you're cutting yourself off from trying to reach that point yourself.
I don't remember where I heard this but I wish I could, because it stuck with me:
Talent is THE RATE at which you learn things, not whether or not you can learn certain skills at all.
And that suddenly clicked for me. I have been very talented with a lot of things in my life and once I realized that I had basically been getting XP multipliers on my normal life experiences, it suddenly felt so much less awful to realize that I did not have the same advantage with other skills I struggle with, and that's okay. I might even have some debuffs on those, and that's okay. It's still all gaining as long as I keep working on it!!
People do not see masculinity as being as fluid and complex and nuanced as femininity and it’s annoying as hell. Because of patriarchy’s stranglehold on masculinity and radfem theory’s stranglehold on queer spaces, people really think with their whole heart that only femininity is subversive or experimental, or frankly, queer, and that masculinity is only a power grab and nothing more. Embarrassing!
just got a weak-ass non-reponse from one of my senators in response to the pathetic pleading our stupid fucking system forces me to have to do to stop our tax dollars from being used to murder 10,000 civilians (and counting) so out of spite here's a handy tip for folks in the us who keep getting told to call their reps and hate the phone:
when it comes to contacting your representatives, emails are better than nothing and phone calls answered by a person do have an effect, but another hard-to-ignore way to send a message is to send a letter that politicians and their staffers have to physically handle in order to address and physically dispose of in order to ignore its contents—or, just as good as a letter, a good old-fashioned fax
i've been using faxzero.com. it has pages that link to pre-populated forms to directly fax your senators, congressional representatives, and governors. you can send five faxes a day for free, and if enough people do that our representatives' offices could be filled with an obnoxious volume of paper faxes begging them to stop funding mass murder
i know a lot of leftists have mixed feelings on contacting representatives at best. personally, i hate it and usually find it a humiliating waste of political energy better spent elsewhere. however, getting politicians onboard is the fastest way to get the bombings to stop and any indignity is worth enduring if it stops the slaughter still going on as i write this. and for real, it's easy and occasionally a little cathartic. so, please, for the sake of the millions still left in gaza, flood your shitty senator's office until they can't ignore us anymore
hello! I work in tech and here are some important things to know about "tumblr is going into maintenance mode." please note I do not work at tumblr, I've just worked at tumblr-adjacent sort of companies for my entire adult life and i've gone through this before.
what does maintenance mode mean?
literally what it sounds like -- Automattic is not going to be hiring new staff, investing in new product features, or doing anything new on tumblr. the staff that remains working on tumblr will be maintaining the status quo. most of the staff will be allocated elsewhere (or possibly laid off, though it looks like from that memo that's not what they're planning to do). it does not mean tumblr is shutting down. you should still buy premium, get merch, etc, because this is definitely step one of the shutdown process, but a maintenance mode designation is basically to see if tumblr will generate a revenue without putting more money into it than strictly necessary.
why did this happen?
obviously I do not know directly. from my observation, it's in part because Yahoo had absolutely no idea what to do with this platform, and then when Automattic bought it they also... struggled... but it is also in part because the user base has been so viciously anti-monetization that most attempts were killed outright.
yes, the user base is part of the problem. the absolute feral anti-premium, anti-ads, anti-tipping, anti-everything tumblr tried to do to make money is part of the problem. it's not the only part of the problem by a long shot, but I would be remiss not to mention it.
what do I do now?
use the platform. just like, keep using tumblr. do not abandon ship. buy premium, get yourself some badges, get yourself some merch, but use the platform. ad revenue is based on impressions and clicks. if a ton of the user base gives up, that revenue disappears.
--
tumblr is extremely special. I've never seen anything like it in my 20-odd years of being Very Online, and I was a minor BNF in WolfStar during LiveJournal days. I don't know that it can be recreated elsewhere. I don't know where fandom will go. I know that something else will exist after tumblr and that nothing gold can stay, but i don't think the specific kind of joy found here can be recreated. i say this not to be a downer, but to be realistic. I guess I should find a Bluesky invite.
I've been here since 2008. I'm not going anywhere as long as this site exists. hope you'll stay here with me.
I’m hardly the first person to compare them but Terry Pratchett and J K Rowling really are polar opposites in terms of the way their writing treats weird characters. In Rowling’s writing, any weirdness is there to be laughed at (for example: Professor Trelawney, the fake seer who doesn’t know she’s an actual seer). In Pratchett’s writing, though, the characters’ weirdness is taken 100% seriously and the humor arises organically from the situation itself and is never at the characters’ expense (for example: in Making Money, the man who was born a clown and was never told so until he was 13 years old). In Rowling’s writing, the main characters poke constant fun at Professor Trelawney, making joke predictions and fudging homework and talking about how divination isn’t a legitimate field of study. Even after she gets fired and more or less drops the act, the joke changes to “look at this sad drunk lady” and the main characters express little sympathy. The narrative is saying she’s there to make one real prediction and otherwise she’s only there for comic relief. This sort of thing happens over and over in Rowling’s writing, where any quirkiness is there to be laughed at and the misfortunes of characters we’re not supposed to like are supposed to be funny, and it sends a message of conformity under threat of ridicule. In Pratchett’s writing, the clown man’s story is treated as a great tragedy: imagine growing up not knowing why you are the way you are, and then finding out the truth as a teenager! And knowing that your own mother kept the truth from you! This man was so deeply traumatized by this he denied himself any humor or fun for decades, and when he has a crisis and runs off to become a clown again, he is given support and medical treatment and is welcomed back to his job at the bank and accepted for who he is. The fact that this whole situation is hilarious is secondary. And again, this sort of thing happens over and over again in Pratchett’s writing, where characters’ quirkiness is embraced and often seen as irreplaceable by the end of the book, and it sends a message that our quirks are valuable and weirdness should be acceptable. It just strikes me as a much… kinder approach to people, you know?
In Rowling's work, alcoholism is treated as a joke (at least twice that I can recall off the top of my head). In Pratchett's work, it is a serious struggle that is addressed with realism and respect.
In Rowling's work, characters' goodness is indicated by their attractiveness. Fat characters are universally negatively portrayed, as are (tellingly) any masculine features on female characters. In Pratchett's work, characters come in all sorts of body types and there is zero correlation between attractiveness and goodness. One of his main protagonists looks like a half-drowned cat on a good day. That character's love interest is an enormous woman who reminds people of a dragon and is treated with respect accordingly. Another of Pratchett's well-known characters is a fat witch with a very happy sex life. Hell, the most conventionally attractive character I can think of off the top of my head spends a good portion of her time as a canid.
In Rowling's work, good and evil are just designated sides. The moral weight of their actions is judged by whether the protagonist (who of course is designated Good) likes them or not. In Pratchett's work, the characters are judged by the moral weight of their actions, which is calculated in terms of the harm or good they cause. Rowling's characters, even the 'good' ones, are downright mean at times. Pratchett's characters aren't perfect, but when they do bad shit it's pointed out as something they should work on. Because anyone can become a bad guy, and he understood that.
rowling dislikes cats. it's subtle but it's there: as cool as mcgonnagal is, her ability to transform into a tabby cat is never used for anything much but a demonstration that especially magical stuff is possible for some folks. the squib lady with all the cats was pathetic and her house smelled terrible. filtch and mrs norris were extremely sinister, and his sincere love for her was uncomfortably gross when he's furious and tearful over her petrification. crookshanks, who gets a little bit of hero work, is unpleasant, domineering, and violently unpredictable, and hermione's blind affection for the creature creates friction for her friends. finally umbridge's collection of cute cat plates is *creepy*, because she's claiming a feminine delicacy at odds with her 'toadlike' body. she actually does seem to like cats for real, but this is also pathetic.
rowling pretty clearly thinks cats are something that inadequate, unhappy people with nothing better in their lives seize on to love, because cats are so unpleasant that you have to be desperate to actually have one. of her many terrible opinions, this one is probably in the middle of the list, but i find it pretty significantly shitty anyway.
meanwhile nanny ogg has greebo, an absolutely bastardous old monster of a cat who once treed a bear, and he's a magnificent counterpart to nanny ogg's lifelong dedication to having a damn good time. pratchett clearly thought the both of them kicked ass by the barrel and wrote them accordingly. he knew cats were weird little people and cat lovers had great taste in semi-domestic monsters.
(rowling also consistently writes human transformation to be absurd, uncomfortable, and/or tragic. hmmm!)
I love learning about other culture's Houseguest Protocols but I hate hate hate when they don't match up cause like
I (PNW Canadian, raised with etiquette from my old British great-grandparents) sleeping over: Can I help with dinner. Can I do the dishes. PLEASE let me do something useful. Im sorry I'm here. I can sleep on the floor it's fine. You don't need to cook for me I can go outside and drink pond water. Do you hate me
My friend (Indian, raised by entire extended family in Dubai) hosting me: Why won't you let me feed you. Do you need more coffee. Am I doing something wrong. Do you have enough blankets? I will buy you warmer clothes. Here, you can sleep in my room, I'll take the couch. Why are you crying? Oh God am I a bad host
a few people pointed out that they probably wouldn’t understand what they were saying and just mimicking whatever sounds they happen to hear so I wanted to add this
something something …yelena sprawled out on the couch after a long day, kate asking her a million questions. the blonde scrunches her nose in annoyance, swatting absently in the direction kate is hovering, “fly away, little hawk” “what?” muttering again, “fly away” she’s making to roll facedown into the pillow, when kate snatches the blanket off the back of the couch, jumping onto the cushion occupied by yelena’s legs, she holds the blanket behind her back for mock wings. yelena rolls her eyes, throws the pillow at kate when she gives the blanket a test flap.
on contact with the pillow, kate lets out a yelp and collapses down onto yelena, swallowing her in the blanket, “kate get off.” she’s hiding a laugh as kate squirms into yelena’s body, “you shot me down, i think my wing’s broken.” “oh, it’s broken?” “yeah, you need to kiss it better.” except yelena is moving her hands dangerously close to kate’s ribs and then she’s flipping their bodies and holding down a squealing kate, “no! yelena! i said kiss!” yelena is still tickling her when she finally gives a kiss to the archer’s jaw, “hmmm you seem all better to me.”
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.
okay, so about beatrice's veil, and what it tells us
we've all seen or made jokes about how impractical it is and there's no way she can see out of it. and turns out that's sort of the point. because the show is saying that subtextually, beatrice doesn't need to see out of it. because beatrice represents the high priestess card
"The High Priestess tarot card is usually interpreted as feelings and intuition. She can represent the inner voice of the soul, our faith in ourselves and our inner wisdom. She can also represent the need to listen to your intuition and pay attention to your feelings." -ryanhart.org
it's why when her veil is up, the chainmail is in the shape of a cresent moon, and when it's down the cloth is. i've posted a lot about silver being associated with the moon already. so for all of you who love the sun/moon lovers trope? well they gave that to us intentionally, too. all of those shadows that beatrice sinks into so easily, her preference for the colors of midnight and moonlight in her wardrobe (unless she's partying with ava in the peacock phase). that's because she's the high priestess and she's associated with the moon. and all of ya'll who love the avatrice worship thing? congrats, that was an intentional gift as well. it truly was all for us
beatrice can see things that no one else can. it's why her veil has a third eye on it. you can also see the cross that alludes to the one the high priestess wears on her robes, in some art based on the "solar cross," which some readers interpret to mean she's a worshiper of the sun
beatrice may not seem like the ethereal psychic type that the high priestess card might suggest, but she has an instinct about people. she told us so herself, the first time she met ava. "i had a feeling she'd be a handful." beatrice is a deeply feeling person, and an intuitive one as well. it's how she saw straight through duretti with his false flattery and even michael when he was being vague about who he was and what he wanted. she has always known when ava was telling lies or the truth, as well. also, she's the only person in the world to have seen "god" with her own eyes and lived to tell the tale. if that's not a true spiritualist then i don't know what is
the one person who deceived her most was father vincent, who outranks her as the hierophant himself. they are counterparts, and we see them side-by-side often in season 1, providing council for others and making decisions for the ocs. she thought she had a comrade and confidant in him, someone who could see the same paths she could. but she was wrong, and it caused a reversal of her card whenever she ran into him. calm emotions? nah
we see beatrice spend a lot of s2 trying to deny her intuition, especially early on with michael. some part of her knew from the very beginning that this man spelled doom for the one she held dear above all else. and the high priestess provides more than just worship, but protection and guidance for the one she worships as well. she was always the one who ava would go to and commune with. but the difference between the high priestess' relationship with others of the cloth and the one she's dedicated herself to is that there's a sacred reciprocal worship between the two. the sun loves the moon, too, and would do anything to see it shine back
beatrice is the mediator for her god, and for both sides of the veil. you can see it behind her in the card. she sits in place between two pillars, representing duality, which means that she knows the way to a third path that can travel between what is expected and what is enforced. if there was ever someone to rely on to find a way to reach ava, it's her. after all, she is the keeper of the veil itself and the guide in and out
now i've posted this image before, because it means many things on warrior nun, because that's just how they roll. but look closely and use your own intuition, and i think you'll see why beatrice and this image of her epitomizes the high priestess quite literally from head to toe
That scene in S2E2 after the fight where Ava asks Beatrice, “just your job?”….I’ve been thinking about it a lot because for the last 12 years, Ava has been told she is nothing but a job, a burden, an unwelcome responsibility to people in her life. She never mattered beyond, “I’m only here because you’re literally helpless and can’t take care of yourself,” or, “You have the Halo so we have to train, protect, and look out for you.” She probably doesn’t have many, if any, memories of a time before being paralyzed and therefore doesn’t remember what it’s like to be anything other than a problem to people.
The fact that Beatrice, as “contained” as she is, recognized that and willingly stepped out of her own comfort zone to reassure Ava that it was about more than just the mission for her…that she genuinely enjoyed her time with Ava… It had to be one of the very few times anyone has ever said that she has value as an individual and is more than just a job, burden, or responsibility. It’s the second time that Beatrice tells her that Ava matters, in fact (S1E8 for reference), and I adore the writers (and actresses) for giving us such a heartbreaking but beautiful storyline for Ava and Beatrice.
