#from the city itself to beatrice

[galedekarios]

pentiment + the evolution of andreas’s mind palace

[mcmansionhell]

we've found it folks: mcmansion heaven

Hello everyone. It is my pleasure to bring you the greatest house I have ever seen. The house of a true visionary. A real ad-hocist. A genuine pioneer of fenestration. This house is in Alabama. It was built in 1980 and costs around $5 million. It is worth every penny. Perhaps more.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "Come on, Kate, that's a little kooky, but certainly it's not McMansion Heaven. This is very much a house in the earthly realm. Purgatory. McMansion Purgatory." Well, let me now play Beatrice to your Dante, young Pilgrim. Welcome. Welcome, welcome, welcome.

It is rare to find a house that has everything. A house that wills itself into Postmodernism yet remains unable to let go of the kookiest moments of the prior zeitgeist, the Bruce Goffs and Earthships, the commune houses built from car windshields, the seventies moments of psychedelic hippie fracture. It is everything. It has everything. It is theme park, it is High Tech. It is Renaissance (in the San Antonio Riverwalk sense of the word.) It is medieval. It is maybe the greatest pastiche to sucker itself to the side of a mountain, perilously overlooking a large body of water. Look at it. Just look.

The inside is white. This makes it dreamlike, almost benevolent. It is bright because this is McMansion Heaven and Gray is for McMansion Hell. There is an overbearing sheen of 80s optimism. In this house, the credit default swap has not yet been invented, but could be.

It takes a lot for me to drop the cocaine word because I think it's a cheap joke. But there's something about this example that makes it plausible, not in a derogatory way, but in a liberatory one, a sensuous one. Someone created this house to have a particular experience, a particular feeling. It possesses an element of true fantasy, the thematic. Its rooms are not meant to be one cohesive composition, but rather a series of scenes, of vastly different spatial moments, compressed, expanded, bright, close.

And then there's this kitchen for some reason. Or so you think. Everything the interior design tries to hide, namely how unceasingly peculiar the house is, it is not entirely able to because the choices made here remain decadent, indulgent, albeit in a more familiar way.

Rare is it to discover an interior wherein one truly must wear sunglasses. The environment created in service to transparency has to somewhat prevent the elements from penetrating too deep while retaining their desirable qualities. I don't think an architect designed this house. An architect would have had access to specifically engineered products for this purpose. Whoever built this house had certain access to architectural catalogues but not those used in the highest end or most structurally complex projects. The customization here lies in the assemblage of materials and in doing so stretches them to the height of their imaginative capacity. To borrow from Charles Jencks, ad-hoc is a perfect description. It is an architecture of availability and of adventure.

A small interlude. We are outside. There is no rear exterior view of this house because it would be impossible to get one from the scrawny lawn that lies at its depths. This space is intended to serve the same purpose, which is to look upon the house itself as much as gaze from the house to the world beyond.

Living in a city, I often think about exhibitionism. Living in a city is inherently exhibitionist. A house is a permeable visible surface; it is entirely possible that someone will catch a glimpse of me they're not supposed to when I rush to the living room in only a t-shirt to turn out the light before bed. But this is a space that is only exhibitionist in the sense that it is an architecture of exposure, and yet this exposure would not be possible without the protection of the site, of the distance from every other pair of eyes. In this respect, a double freedom is secured. The window intimates the potential of seeing. But no one sees.

At the heart of this house lies a strange mix of concepts. Postmodern classicist columns of the Disney World set. The unpolished edge of the vernacular. There is also an organicist bent to the whole thing, something more Goff than Gaudí, and here we see some of the house's most organic forms, the monolith- or shell-like vanity mixed with the luminous artifice of mirrors and white. A backlit cave, primitive and performative at the same time, which is, in essence, the dialectic of the luxury bathroom.

And yet our McMansion Heaven is still a McMansion. It is still an accumulation of deliberate signifiers of wealth, very much a construction with the secondary purpose of invoking envy, a palatial residence designed without much cohesion. The presence of golf, of wood, of masculine and patriarchal symbolism with an undercurrent of luxury drives that point home. The McMansion can aspire to an art form, but there are still many levels to ascend before one gets to where God's sitting.

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[rthstewart]

So is John Pevensie still an antagonist in Stone Gryphon? (Am I asking this because I love Helen and Mrs. Godwin? Yes. I am also asking because I love a furiously protective person and John seemed like that in the snippets from his perspective)

@becauseforoncethisisme asked:

So is John Pevensie still an antagonist in Stone Gryphon? (Am I asking this because I love Helen and Mrs. Godwin? Yes. I am also asking because I love a furiously protective person and John seemed like that in the snippets from his perspective)

First, thanks so much for reading and reaching out about the first chapters of Heart and Crow Make The Peace.

Ware below for LONG meta/history/ruth stewart blather

For many years, the first and last look readers had of John Pevensie was a scene in the posted Apostolic Way.  It’s a disastrous dinner at the Rainbow Room in New York City, where Col. Walker-Smythe has brought Edmund to America to work as his aide and batman.  John is, as presented in the story, a writer and editor, recruited by the SOE, to work on the generation of pro-British propaganda.  He is a serial philanderer, is bitterly disappointed that it is Edmund, rather than Peter, who has come to America, and the dinner is excruciatingly painful as John’s memories of his children are several years old and certainly pre-Narnia, leaving Edmund to, once again, be far kinder than his father deserves and Walker-Smythe is furious.  It’s made worse by numerous women who have obviously enjoyed John’s attentions in the past stopping by the table to say hello.  

Meanwhile, Helen Pevensie is back in London, and true to what was more common in 1943 than it was in 2020, has been in a sexual relationship with Mrs. Beatrice Goodwin, the widow next door.  

I was probably too successful in the scene as John can come across as a craven and cruel person. Readers’ sympathies (and mine) have always tilted to Helen.

With the reposted story, I slightly tweaked the previous version of the Rainbow Room scene and have introduced in text that a part of John’s issue is untreated PTSD. So, is this signaling a change of heart for me in John's role? and what about Mrs. Goodwin and Helen?

John's untreated illness is an explanation, in part, but not a justification to be sure.

I’ve always intended for Helen and Beatrice to go their separate ways.  As broad-minded as the Four are, it's different when your parents are involved and I’m finding it hard to push myself to writing that as a resolution or where it’s all just one big happy polyamory.  From discussions with readers, I could see Beatrice moving to a small market town for economy, meeting another widow with young children and you know, there are only 2 bedrooms in the cottage, so of course….   Post-war England was filled with these kinds of relationships of economy and convenience and, presumably, potential romance amongst widows.

As a writer, I also want John and Helen to both put some work in and try to rebuild their relationship.  This is something millions of people had to do post-War and I’m interested in how and whether couples can overcome infidelity.  I’m not sure I could, personally (I’ve been married for over 30 years!) and I’m interested in developing it.  TSG itself presents numerous different takes on bonding and infidelity which, while true to the time period, is also intended as a contrast to Edmund and Lucy’s  own sense of loss for their partners.  Something I’ve not decided is whether Morgan and Aidan, respectively, went on to have their own relationships some period of time later.  

There’s another reason for introducing John’s PTSD.  TSG was originally supposed to be a two-fer, Peter-centric story.  I was going to do a time-skip after the conclusion of Ox 1942 and jump to post war, with Peter starting an affair with Mary, dropping out of uni, finally finding his path, and then everyone dying, with Susan left behind (I had this about half-written, even). I never, EVER wanted to touch the 1940s UK educational systems or Peter’s potential service in the military as I deemed bothway beyond my storytelling skill.

[TQSiT was never in the cards – that’s the fault of an early reader, Miniver on ff dot net long since gone, who asked, Well, given these adventures for Peter, and Lucy and Edmund off on the Dawn Treader, surely Susan is up to something exciting in America, which coincided with me reading a WaPo review Connant’s The Irregulars.  Oops.]

So to avoid having to write Peter in the service, from the very beginning, back in Ox 1942, I wrote that Peter’s parents are opposed to his service and he’s willing to go along with it because he thinks he’s an insubordination risk.  I never explained why they are opposed which is really not especially consistent with the patriotism of the time.  

So, in the story I’ve picked up again 12 years later, John’s trauma at Dunkirk as now part of the reason for that opposition.  He goes to War to protect his family and early on is deeply traumatized by the failures to evacuate soldiers on the beaches; he hears the screams of men and ships going down in his dreams.  In his own protective misguided way, he wants to protect his family from that horror. And when he finds out that Aslan plucked his children out of England and turned them into warriors, he is going to be PISSED.  

 Oops.

Thanks so much   @becauseforoncethisisme!!

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

Better Off - Bernard DeMarco x OFC - Chapter 4

Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 |-| Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12 | Chapter 13

AO3

Summary: Years before Susie's arrival at Thorpe Abbotts, one fateful loss changes the course of her life forever

Warnings: Grief, death, language, ANGST, dysfunctional family idk

Word Count: 2.9k

Tags: @xxluckystrike @latibvles @footprintsinthesxnd @mads-weasley @joyfulbookreviewmarvelspy

January, 1941

The church was quiet, rows of pews worn and bare. Sunlight flooded in through the tall, narrow windows, casting blocks of light against whitewashed walls, and the low, gentle chatter of guests in the doorway did nothing to rouse Susie from her daze, huddled at the furthest end of the front row of pews, tucked into the corner as if it would make her invisible. An old bible rested on the bench beside her, tattered and yellowed, and she ran her thumb across the blunted corners of the paper, never venturing far enough to open it, the words repulsive to her.

Her mother's voice always plucked itself from a crowd, that warm, Irish lilt in stark contrast against the rough, Mancunian drawl possessed by her children, as if they belonged to the city before they did her. She didn't bother listening in to the others' conversations - didn't try to distinguish the voices of strangers from those of her blood. None of them could have had anything even remotely interesting to say to her.

The pew creaked beside her, and Susie glanced up as Beatrice took her seat, leaving a few metres of separation between the pair of them. Three years her elder, her sister dressed head-to-toe in black, gloved hands clutching at her purse, hair curling neatly below her ears, immaculately done makeup obscured by the veil that hung in front of her face. Susie looked down at her own clothes - a white button down, an old brown skirt - it wasn't right, wasn't traditional or proper, but it was what she had.

"No husband?" She asked, a hint of an edge lacing her voice. Beatrice sucked in a long breath, chest heaving with the weight of it.

"No. He's busy."

"I bet he is."

Finally turning to look at her, venom in her gaze, Beatrice opened her mouth to speak, Susie already itching to interrupt her. But both fell silent, jaws snapping shut as another figure sat down in between them, a human barrier to prevent the inevitable spat before it could form.

"Always classy, girls," Sally huffed, newborn cradled in one arm, the other elbow propped up against the back of the pew as she kept an eye on her other son.

Beatrice sighed, posture relaxing as she let go of the offensive. No one questioned Sally - the eldest sister who had lifted them in her arms the way she now did her own children, who had wiped their tears and cleaned their scraped knees when their parents had been preoccupied. So much older and wiser than the rest of them, there was a removal there, as if she could no longer quite be considered their sister, their equal.

Susie shifted in her seat, wincing slightly as a dull ache shot through her thigh. She could feel Sally's gaze fixed on her. "Susie," She spoke gently, the infant in her arms gurgling away to itself. "How long have you been sitting here?"

"Four hours."

"Jesus Christ," Beatrice muttered, staring up at the altar, unable to tear her eye from the framed photo of Ellie that beamed back at them. They'd chosen a photo of her as a child - why had they done that? That wasn't the Ellie she'd pulled from the rubble the morning after the bombs had fallen. That wasn't the Ellie shut away inside the casket. She didn't remember her that way. Anyone who did wasn't welcome here in Susie's eyes.

A clatter of books against the stone floor sounded behind them as Sally's other son knocked over a pile of Bibles, guilt flushing his cheeks a bright red as the crowd gathered by the door turned to stare. With a quick summons from his mother, he scrambled to his seat, little feet dangling over the edge of the pew, hands fidgeting restlessly. She heaved a long, heavy sigh, unable to look at the altar for more than a few seconds at a time. "At least she's with dad now."

Susie hummed. She didn’t have the heart to tell her she didn’t believe in God anymore.

They were separated irreparably now. Even today, not everyone was here. Ronnie and Patrick were still away fighting overseas, and Nancy had been noisily sobbing in the back corner since she arrived, her son sitting awkwardly in the opposite pew waiting for it all to be over. The sound of footsteps along the aisle drew Susie's gaze, and something lifted within her.

"Owen," She breathed, jumping to her feet and bounding over to meet her big brother. His eyes were bloodshot, gaze jittery and unable to meet hers - but then again, he never had liked to look her in the eye. She didn't mind it. Her hand found his arm, pressing reassuringly against the sleeve of his uniform, adorned with the emblem of the RAF Medical Services. "Come sit down, yeah?"

"Is-... Is she in the box?" He asked quietly, nervously glancing at the pallbearers.

Susie frowned, brow drawn. "No," She lied. "No, Ellie's not in there. It's just tradition - what Ma wanted."

"Ok. Yeah, ok, I'll sit," Owen nodded, and she noticed the fresh tears soaking the cuff of his sleeve from where he'd wiped them away on his way in. She offered him the seat that had once been hers, letting him press his body into the wood at the end of the bench, shying away from the crowds, shoulder hunched to avoid brushing against hers. Owen had never quite been considered normal - Ronnie used to get into trouble for beating other boys up at school in defence of his little brother - but it had only meant he never minded that Susie wasn't quite normal either. There was a solidarity in that, a shared acceptance that they weren't how the world tried to shape them.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Everyone cried during the ceremony. Everyone except Susie.

A nauseating guilt swelled within her as her brother and sisters quietly wept at her sides, and she squeezed her eyes shut as tightly as she possibly could, willing a tear to fall, manifesting some sign of the grief within. What must they have thought of her? Her cold stare overseeing it all, flinching at every prayer. It was the perfect protestant funeral, the kind only their mother could have mustered.

She couldn't have left fast enough once it was all over, Owen's gentle grip on her cardigan using her as a guide through the crowds as they wormed their way through towards the door. Their house was a mere five doors down from the church, a looming presence throughout their childhood, a lingering reminder that someone was watching. But even in her home, she wasn't spared the misery.

Susie scarcely recognised half the people at Ellie's wake - crowding the kitchen, sitting in their chairs and lingering in the stairwell. What did any of them know - truly know - about her sister? Had they even had time to know her? Nineteen was too young to die. Too young for death to have any meaning. If the bombs had to kill someone, they should've killed Susie. At least then there'd have been some semblance of military strategy to it. No one won wars by slaughtering teenagers.

There was an empty cup in her hand as she sat at the kitchen table. She couldn't remember what had been in it. Upon the stove, the kettle was boiling, splitting the din of chatter with its unrelenting squeal. She squeezed the glass so tight she worried it might shatter, knuckles turning white with the pressure. Her mother passed behind her, absent-mindedly stroking her hair, warm palm skimming against her scalp. She wanted it to stay, wanted to lean back into it, but it was gone as soon as it came. Susie pushed her chair out, the legs screeching across the floor, bumping into a man she'd never met as she stood up, shouldering her way to the door.

It was almost silent in the attic, layers of brick and wood muffling the sound of voices. Laying back on her bed, she stared up at the roofing beams, the lingering smell of Ellie's perfume permeating the bedsheets. From the day she'd been old enough to leave the crib they'd shared this bed, shunting Patrick onto the narrow one in the corner - this was the girls' space, the floral quilts a private temple where only they existed. Lying on her side of it now, it felt uneven, like the whole thing would lose balance and tip over sideways, Ellie's presence necessary to its survival. Or maybe she was just necessary for Susie's.

Dust floated on the air, catching the light that flowed in through a leak in the ceiling. Her hand rested on the other side of the bed, the vague imprint of Ellie's body still engraved into the old mattress. It needed replacing years ago, but suddenly it was invaluable. On Christmas Eve night, the night after she'd died, Susie had stayed up all through the dark, lying in the impression of her sister, terrified it would lose her outline if she just left it there. But it never did.

The house had never been so full and so empty. Her brothers were aiding the war effort, billeted all over the place. Her sisters had all gotten married - found their own homes to raise their own children. She and Ellie had stayed up here in their attic, tucked beneath the covers like little girls again.

A creak on the stairs ripped her from her trance, her mother's head peering up through the trap door.

"I didn't know you were up here."

"That's ok."

Each floorboard let out an agonised creak as she crossed them, hands folded nervously at her front. Freshly forty years old, she looked at least a decade older, heavy bags of exhaustion tugging down on her eyelids. She wore the only black dress she owned, spotted with white polka dots, a stubborn coffee stain browning the hem where she could never quite scrub it away. The bed rocked towards Ellie's side as she climbed beneath the sheets, laying down in the space she had once owned.

All at once she seemed a child, tugging the blankets up to her chin, eyes squeezed shut as if willing sleep to claim her. She turned into Susie's side, pulling in a long breath. She wondered if she could smell Ellie here too.

"Can I sleep here tonight?" She asked meekly, like a girl begging her parents after a nightmare.

Susie's head lolled to the side, brow furrowed as she looked over at her. "Yeah, sure Ma. I'll go downstairs."

"Please don't."

It was silent for a while. Then the rustling of sheets sounded as Susie turned onto her side facing away from her mother, unable to bear staring at her for too long. She scarcely knew the woman lying next to her. She could count on one hand the number of times she'd climbed the steps to read them to sleep up here. Long gone were the days when Susie wished she would, but her absence could still be read in the room - in the drawings on the walls that no one had ever been scolded for, that no one had ever tried covering up because no one ever came to see them. This was their own little world, and she wasn't sure she wanted her mother up here at all.

"I'm sorry if I was a bad Ma," She spoke, voice muffled slightly by the pillow.

Susie took a deep breath, shoulders rising and falling with it. "You tried."

If nothing else, she knew that was true. Her mother had tried. She'd made half a dozen breakfasts with a baby on one hip. She'd read every report card and double-checked their homework when she managed to understand it. She'd stifled the pain of becoming a widow to tend to the pain of a bumped head or bruised elbow.

But she'd also let them go to bed hungry. She'd lied to their schools about their birthdays so they could drop out before their time. She'd been too poor and had too many children, and Susie wasn't sure she'd ever forgive her for it.

She needed to leave this house. The prospect of sleeping alone in this bed was worse than any other fate she could imagine. Already she could feel herself sticking - if she didn't tear herself away now she never would. Could she truly face driving past the wreckage of the factories every day on her way to Ridgeway? It would take months to rebuild. Months of remembering the moment she'd see her face, blood streaking through the brick dust, eyes half open and unseeing.

"Get some sleep. I'll bring you up some tea when everyone's left," Susie muttered, peeling the sheets away from her body and climbing out of bed, rubbing her eyes with the balls of her palms.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Beatrice stood on the doorstep, a cloud of cigarette smoke wafting in front of her face as she watched a child play in the gutter outside the wash house across the yard. The four walls that encircled their court of back-to-backs had once been their entire world. She remembered it looking bigger than this. There were rumours they'd be knocking houses like these down soon - no one wanted to move into them, these dilapidated remnants of a time long passed.

The sound of feet scuffing against tile alerted her to Susie's presence, sliding into the doorway beside her, wordlessly extending her hand for a cigarette. Beatrice passed one to her, holding out a lighter, the pair exhaling puffs of smoke simultaneously.

Who were they to each other? Susie stared back at her sister and realised she didn't have any idea.

"Ellie always used to ask me what I wanted to be when I grew up," She mused, watching on as the child across the yard was hurried inside by its mother, casting them a sympathetic glance as she went.

"She asked everyone that."

"Yeah. But she asked me the most, 'cause I never had an answer."

"Do you have one now?"

"... Don't think so."

The war made dreams insignificant. Nothing was about how they wanted to live anymore, everything was about what others needed them to be.

Beatrice had long discarded her hat, its presence remembered in the halo of frizz it left behind around her scalp. "What did she want to be again?"

"It was a ballerina for a while, then a painter I think. Or a writer. Might've been both."

"Don't forget when she wanted to be a scientist."

"Of course. And a pilot."

They'd begun to smile. When it had happened, she couldn't recall. But Ellie's mind had always been so far away, so filled to burst with a million dreams and ideas and fantasies that no one had any clue what she would go on to do. In the end, she did nothing. She had wished to change the world, and she had died on the floor of a textile mill.

A man in uniform came down the alleyway into the yard, hands folded politely behind his back as he approached the house. His gaze was fixed on Beatrice, as if Susie wasn't there at all.

"Car for you, ma'am."

"Thanks," She nodded, stomping her cigarette butt out on the front step. Taking a few steps away from the house, she turned, letting out a sigh as she fumbled with her purse. "Let Mum know I've gone, yeah? And Nancy."

"You're not staying for dinner?"

For a moment a look of shock flashed across her sister's face, as if appalled she'd even ask. "No. I need to be back in London by the time William gets home."

"Why? Not like you cook or anything."

Beatrice stared at her for a moment, grip on her bag tightening. "Mind your business, Susie."

Susie flicked her cigarette into the puddle at her sister's feet, the door closing on her with a slam. As she came inside, Nancy reached the bottom of the stairs, glancing out of the window behind her.

"Beatrice left?"

"Fucking bitch," She muttered, dragging one of the chairs away from the table to sit down.

"Don't say that."

"Fine. I love it when she comes up here in her fancy car to grace us with her condescending presence and remind us all that she doesn't have to be poor anymore."

Nancy gnawed at the inside of her cheek, wordlessly refilling the kettle and placing it on the stovetop. Her eyes were still red, and Susie suspected she'd gone upstairs to cry again. She'd always been the sensitive one of the bunch.

"I'm moving out," She said, the words seeming to echo back to her in the tiny kitchen.

"... Alright." Nancy nodded, something tight in her tone, as if she'd spoken through clenched teeth. "... Where will you go?"

"I was looking at Norfolk. There's some positions open down there, I could actually get promoted."

"That's a long way."

"... Yeah, Nance."

That's the fucking point.

[daisychainsandbowties]

been thinking about lilith and nightmares

thinking of lilith waking in the dead of night, manor yawning wide and cold and wild around her. body in a too-large bed, something she is meant to grow into, like the shoes her mother always buys a size too big so that running in them is painful. it is such a strange and miserly thing to do, but lilith has the sensation that her mother is trying to put as little into her as possible.

fewer sets of shoes to throw away, fewer reminders, perhaps, that she keeps getting bigger. calluses forming in whorls of knotted flesh like the rings in trees, spelling out time and mostly, mostly the lack of it. she wishes to think that, but there is the possibility that her mother is also just strange and miserly.

so she deals with the blisters and at night she wakes up with a cry clutched in her throat. her mother is a pearl-clutcher but her daughter is not a pearl, so lilith floats alone in the flame of her fear. she learns to sit up in bed and take out her pocket torch from the drawer and shine it into all the corners, sometimes repeating something nonsensical and familiar like the creed, from mass. first in latin, then italian, slipping into spanish and rolling stubbornly into english there in the dark, knowing she cannot slip out of bed. she cannot pad barefoot down the hallways and go into her mother’s room and put a hand to her forehead or her shoulder - skin she knows will be cool to the touch. the nights are cold, sometimes, and this house not made for capturing heat.

lilith has only herself, her stalwart heart, and perhaps the word of god, syrupy in her mouth. thinking of how she learns to move around her fear, to sit looking out at the moon through the drapery of her canopy bed. the books stacked nimbly on her bedside table. none of them fairytales.

thinking of lilith after she comes back from the dead. waking up from nightmares of hands inside her body. feeling her flesh tear around an intrusion. how she couldn’t breathe while the blood rode out of her mouth. the fear coming back and back and back, heedless of time. waking up and touching the slippery scales on her stomach where the wound has pressed itself into her. wondering if it is knotted up with otherness the whole way through, entry wound and exit wound. her body, a wound.

she sleeps in derelict warehouses with the wind whistling through gaps in the roof and rattling the great metal doors that have to be hauled open by chain and mechanism. her body running hot there in the dark until she feels as if it might be unspooling, like it does when she forces it through the world like a hand into a mouth.

when beatrice used to wake screaming in the night at cat’s cradle lilith would linger in her doorway and watch shannon flush past, flooding down the stone-loud corridor. a warm tide wearing mary’s hoodie & a pair of ragged pyjama bottoms with planets on them and a hole behind the left knee. glancing over her shoulder at lilith, face blank with emotion. watching shannon ease open the door to beatrice’s room and the sudden increased volume of her shouts.

when lilith wakes in the warehouse she does it with a shudder. she does it silently. eyes opening sudden as death, and she doesn’t know it and she will not know it until she wakes in the dark with a girl’s warm breath on her face and hears the soft exclamation in the palm of the sheets, but her eyes reflect like a cat’s from the moonlight that washes down through high, dirty windows, spiderwebs disrupting the floor with their massive, light-expressed patterns. she wakes and her scream scrunches her into a ball, driving a runnel of interrupted dust in the bare patch of floor where she has curled up, feeling frayed from flickering all over the city, chasing the memory of a girl.

lilith and nightmares and the fact that she died, violently. as she was supposed to but not as she intended. in service to the halo but not with it spread inside her like a song. she died with blood in her mouth, mary’s shout making her name so searing; a brand not buring enough to hold her onto life. she died in a warehouse, like this, and she came back. and all of her nightmares now are about this body.

this body perforated, forcing its way out of her as if blood could stand in for words or prayers or a mother.

this body split like one of beatrice’s particles. one of her atoms. nuclear fission, and lilith wondering why anyone would bother splitting something so small. don’t they talk about pointlessness in terms of splitting hairs? her mother, grimacing at her split ends, cutting them away using her scissors with the ivory handle.

she felt more or less worth killing when she died, but coming back is for jesus and lazarus. it is for people who can comprehend it.

she wakes with the taste of iron in her mouth, until there is a little nub of scaly tissue on her tongue where her incisor always bites down, healed new into something strange so that she feels she is holding a very tiny penny inside her mouth at all times.

lilith and nightmares and the fact that she wakes from them alone. she always wakes up alone and there is never another hand to reach for, and when her body rises like a welt and turns incomprehensible is it any wonder that she takes the hand she finds extended?

not her mother’s. not god’s. not her sisters’, because her pain made no sound. not beatrice’s hand (the one she wants and wants and wants) because bea went where she was most necessary, and lilith has never been the most necessary thing in anyone’s life.

[beatricebidelaire]

endless night skies

~2.4k. Beatrice Baudelaire / Kit Snicket. mentioned Beatrice/Lemony.

Kit, Beatrice, and the roof of Hotel Denouement.

__

The pool on the roof of Hotel Denouement is quiet at 3 in the morning, a total opposite from the way it is at 3 in the afternoon. No children playing in the waters, no hotel guests enjoying a sunbath by the pool, no busy concierges attending to people's needs, no attendant flipping the sunbathers with two large spatulas. The surface of the pool is still - mostly still, aside from occasional ripples - and shimmering faintly under the moonlight and the light from the poolside lamps. Along the edges of the roof are large, rectangular mirrors, tilted like the hotel itself. At 3 in the afternoon the mirrors catch the blinding light of the sun and bounce it onto the skin of the sunbathing guests. At 3 in the morning, the mirrors only reflect the dark blue sky at the only two occupants on the roof at the moment.

Of course, while the rooftop of Hotel Denouement is quiet right now, with only two people by the poolside, Hotel Denouement is actually not as asleep as it looks on the outside. Certainly not as asleep as the rest of The City seems to be. Concierges on night shift are still roaming the corridors, answering late night requests. A mechanic is probably working in room 697 right now, checking the controls for heating, ventilation, and air conditioning. Someone would be stationed at the reception desk. And in the underwater library, the space is most definitely brightly lit at the moment. Two or more of the hotel managers will be down there, having their daily 3am meeting.

Hotel managers are creatures of routine.

Beatrice wraps a red shawl around herself, shivering slightly. Her legs are immersed in the pool as she sits by the poolside. The water faintly ripples away as she kicks her legs out periodically. She's been doing that for some time now, not seeming to be getting tired. Strong legs of a soccer player, Kit thinks.

But the water is quite chilly in this weather, hence Beatrice's shivering. Kit herself is in a trench coat - stolen from J, not that he would miss it with the amount of trench coats he owns - and sitting sensibly on a sunbathing chair instead of placing her feet in the pool.

[continue reading on ao3] [squidgeworld]

[minimag1c]

Radioapple trick or treat October 2024 have started!!

Hold up it's gonna go downhill from now on-

A cottage in the forest

Day 1 -----> ᵛᵃᵐᵖⁱʳᵉ/ᵉˡᵈʳⁱᵗᶜʰ

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐧 ✏ 𝐄𝐥𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡

A weird human like alternative universe with monsters because why not. I do apologize in advance for Radioapple itself will not be in its forte in this one-shot, only implied and vaguely shown at the end of the small story. Plus, the end was rushed as always

Also Fem! Lucifer hehehe

Tw: Non consentual touching, attempted sexual assault and graphic description of mangled bodies.

Don't get deceived by the tags and the tw, Thomas really deserved his fate

•• <<────≪•◦⚜◦•≫────>> ••

There was always something unsettling about the couple who lived near the forest.

Of course the mass of trees that surrounded the small town, filled with myths and stories that were told to the youngest as to make sure they don't go far away, was already a perturbant wonder on its own.

Everything about it was just too much. Too dense, too dark, too big for a normal, simple forest with edible mushrooms and gentle fairies or bunnies.

No there were carcasses and putrid smell lingering just barely reaching the deeper part, some even said that the bones they have found during daylight when some villagers and such would stroll on by were from humans or hybrids, not daring themselves to pronounce the other therm that designed those beyond human imagination and average mind.

Those damned eldrichs.

Constantly roaming in the darkness and jump on their next prey when you least expected it, whispers filling the air before a gruesome scream tore the flying birds, rivers of crimson color flowing down to the city's surroundings each year. Hybrids were innocent, docile does compared to those demons on earth, even leaving their marks craved on the bloodied floor or worse, on their victims' body.

In short, the forest was definitely not the place for any sensitive souls and delicate nature, even the pattern of the darker leaves formed a upside down pentagram, just the perfect cherry on top, creating the panoply of a possessed mother nature.

But those stranger encounters soon somehow stopped abruptly, when the Morningstar/Hartfelt family settled in years ago.

They had a modest, red hut though with small golden accents that was built almost in the heart of the forest, near a recently discovered ruined grove that was dedicated to an unknown moth goddess. They were only four, two parents and two daughters, one being a toddler and soon child. They didn't had an actual "permanent" family name, either switching between a royalty like, "Morningstar" or less ominous and more ok ground, "Hartfelt" but it really depended on each family member's perspective and opinion.

But what statues or bloodline their decided to wear was not the weirdest thing, the rest was.

The father of the children was a hunter and at the same time a quite well known figure in the town. He was the one who delivered the news via papers or orally, alongside with a few colleagues, especially with a tall dark skinned fellow named Zorzi and his partners Carmen and Percival. Constantly flashing a smile almost if it wasn't every day, always dressed nicely and his cane in his hand. Women really loved him, saying that he was "such a charming gentleman" and it was obvious some of them would have wished he was so repulsive when it came to touches.

"Oh to be his wife so badly so he would be so much less cold!" Lamented one of the maidens that sat near Primrose's emporium, after going to the said shop. The older woman who accompanied the young lady raised an eyebrow at her as she scoffed.

"The newspaper man with his horrendous hair?? Beatrice you really got yourself low with this one!"

"Susanna!" Beatrice argued back, slightly offended as the old lady shrugged at her response.

The two kept prattling with each other, occasionally laughing out loud as the shopkeeper looked at the two gossiping through her window, smiling slightly at the exchange while two other young ladies sat at her table, conversating as well.

A pretty girl with long blonde hair firmly tied into a braid sat in front of a way younger and shorter pucelle with bright red hair just like her father and heterochromic eyes. They were a few papers filled with drawings and/or words from all shapes and sizes. The oldest was constantly sitting and getting up, monitoring her sister with writing a few words that were specifically hard for the red haired one to write and grasp the concept. But that was okay, Nadia was a fast learner and her older sister would always cheer up everytime she successfully accomplished a task.

"—Aaaand that's how you do the H in capital! Yes just like that! Good job Nif!" Charlie chipped in, slightly nuzzling on Nadia who giggled wholeheartedly, bringing her sister close with her small chubby hands into an embrace.

Primrose looked at the adorable sight in front of her as she lightly laughed with them, taking a seat alongside with the girls, titling her head to the side.

"Well, it seems that our little miss is learning quickly" The oldest woman chipped in as Charlie looked at her before looking back at Nadia, now deeply focused on writing the letter Q. The older sister smiled as she nodded along.

"She really is getting an hold on writing indeed. She even started to read a bit! Although, the word "nifty" is now her favorite and keep writing that-" Charlie, chuckling awkwardly as Primrose's smile softened before looking outside, seeing that the sun was already going down to its crepusculum.

At that, the shopkeeper frowned slightly. Charlie seemed to noticed that her mood have changed but before the blonde maiden could speak up, Primrose was ahead.

"I think you two should go now. It's getting late faster this winter and who knows what demented or psychopathic people are out there, especially after those rumors who died down about creatures roaming around your home."

Primrose deliberately didn't had to speak about the horrors that townspeople used to see before Charlie's and Nadia's family settled in, knowing the two girls wouldn't be scared because of that.

Speaking of, the blonde girl nodded approvingly while gathering Nadia's supplies and the papers filled with colors, much to the concerned one's disappointment to go back at home so soon.

"Yes I think we need to go now, I really don't want ma' to worry too much, especially for Nadia." Charlie said, helping Nadia to get off her chair as she held her hand, the toddler already showing a small pouting expression on her face. Primrose got up and ruffled Nadia's hair as she booped her small nose, earning a laugh from the nifty little girl before looking at Charlie, slightly concerned.

"Are you two going to be okay? I know you can handle yourself but apparently there has been a perverted man who would harass and follow girls at their houses and God knows what he does after." Primrose said, shaking her head.

Charlie cringed a bit at the fact. Of course, despite living in the forest, Charlie was mainly going to the small town, sometimes without or with Nadia holding her hand or on her shoulders, thus, after almost knowing everyone and the place in general, she knew about those frequent harassment that occurred during these last few weeks. She mainly thought about her friend Celia who have confirmed a hooded figure followed her to her home and if it wasn't for her friend Antoine, who hid her in his own house and almost confronted the mysterious person that soon disappeared, Celia wouldn't have been able to even tell her story.

"That's exactly why we are going early than usual. Plus, our father, at this hour, is still probably." She made a small pause before continuing, smiling brightly at Primrose, trying to comfort her in a way. "But don't worry, Ma'am! I know a few shortcuts who doesn't necessarily goes through the city! It's rusty enough for other people with enough knowledge of the forest to pass in there." the blonde young woman reassured.

At first, Primrose was a tad récitent, knowing that this kind of lunatic individual would still find a way to find any ladies in order to get his filthy hands on and God knows what he was capable of.

After all, it was no mystery.

Everyone knows that when a girl was crying, holding her torn up clothes in the street barely in the morning, saying she couldn't take it off.

Primrose shivered slightly, not wanting to visualize Charlie or worse Nadia in that situation.

Shallowing her concerns and doubts, she smiled back at her protege, her eyes still glimmering with a hint of protectiveness.

"Be careful duckling"

Charlie only nodded.

•• <<────≪•◦⚜◦•≫────>> ••

Nyx was not fully awake and at her fully extend but the sky was already getting somewhat a void hue as Charlie instinctively held Nadia's hand a bit tighter. The small crimson haired child too sensed that the atmosphere was drastically different from a few hours ago before the two walked back home.

"Charlie 's dak-" she managed to say as the older girl looked at her fondly, mirroring her slight discomfort.

"I know I know Nif." the blonde maiden could only say, accelerating her pace.

Ever since she was a barely standing roe buck, Charlie walked down those paths alongside either with his pa and his pistol or her mother, holding a basket while hiding her face with a thin red veil as not be disturbed during her daily stroll.

The two kinds of walk she would had were pretty much different from the other: with her father, it was mainly to help her grow a bit her goat esque attributes and abilities, oftentimes during the hunting season letting her do the killing. With hindsight, as much as she wasn't as frivolous as her papa when blood would be leaking through her teeth or claws, she was glad that it helped her a bit to control her own powers a bit and the last thing she wanted , especially when her little sister was born, was being a nuisance for her parents because she didn't had a grip on her powers.

Her mother was the opposite while still being on this line of her being an hybrid.

Usually, during her childhood and adolescence's premises, Charlie would accompany her ma whenever she went to the town or go in the forest in search for apples or strawberries and would let her goat or roe form appear when they would be alone as she would occasionally play in ponds, chases after butterflies while her mother would monitor just in case if anything would harm her and if not, will be minding her own business and do her self-imposed chores. Her way of teaching was definitely less about gruesome techniques or reactions that lead to pulling out claws just in case but it was nonetheless making sure Charlie had some bases in self-defense thus she wouldn't act like a feral wild animal nor a frail, defenseless human.

But either way, no matter what was the education of the other or their own opinions on the do and don't, Charlie would still be the ray of sunshine kind of child and soon to be teenager, a bleeding heart of gold, pouring its kindness endlessly at everyone that she deemed in the need of help, even if it was a vile person. More than once, her parents, especially her pa and in some severe cases her ma, would warn about this behavior that, albeit very honorable, could lead her to a worse situation that would spiral into an irreversible act of horror...

A sudden snap of twig tore Charlie From her thoughts.

Nadia also seemed to heard it as the small girl immediately tensed up, her eyes wide as plate. Charlie's tail lashed out from her dress as it instinctively wrap itself around Nadia who welcomed the gesture, getting closer to her sister.

"Who goes there?!" Charlie shouted out loud pretty much in the void, her eyes unfortunately unable to discern in the dark like her uncle Hery could do and that realization only made her heartbeat go a bit faster.

Soon the sound grew louder, now footsteps could be hear all around the two maidens. Charlie's horns flared up, her now sharp teeth barring at whoever or whatever it was.

"-lp me! Help me!"

Charlie froze and Nadia looked at her sister, not understanding what was happening but knowing that whoever it was, they were in sure danger.

Then, after a while, a battered man came out from the bushes, holding his side for deal life and eyebags ornering his crazed face.

Charlie would have thought it was a living dead if she ever saw one.

The man's gaze was lost and disoriented just like him, his eyes darting around in alarm before he laid his eyes on two.

The duo of siblings immediately felt uncomfortable.

"P-please- ma'am-" he coughed up then wheezed because of his dried up throat as he staggered towards her, his face showing despair. "H-Help me I-i'm dying- p-please-" He stammered in haste.

Charlie took a step back as Nadia couldn't help but let out a whimper of fear at the grotesque character in front of her. The older was less vocal about her discomfort but nonetheless, despite feeling dreadful at his sudden

He was in such horrible shape! The way he was stumbling like an alcoholic, his almost completely maimed body was so disfigured and dislocated in every corners that it was still a miracle he could stand and walk slightly, let alone the fact that he was alive.

Charlie, like the overly helpful and people pleaser she was, was about to let her impulsive acts take the better of her logical thoughts but then remembered it was almost the middle of the night, the only source of any human interactions aside Nadia was him, who appeared out of nowhere and if it wasn't for the smell, Charlie would have thought he was drunk out of his mind.

"It's definitely not safe to help someone at this house, as much as they are in the need-"

"What happened to you-?" The blonde asked loud, her voice uncharacteristically calm despite the circumstances as she consciously held Nadia to her side, the smaller gladly receiving the protective gesture as she wrapped her tiny arms as far as she could around her sister's waist.

The man kept looking around, as if he was searching in the mirksome night anything, paranoia and anxiety engraved on his face, like a wounded wild animal, his legs going shakier through the moments, his hand reaching out.

"I got attacked-!" He almost screeched yet he continuously walked towards them.

He then started to smile. A crazed, hysterical and almost ecstatic one that made Charlie shivers down her spine.

Okay this was very fishy.

Luckily, the blonde's logical and survival instincts took ahead as she frowned at him. "Sorry sir but-" she started but then the mad lad continued, insisting.

"I need help I'm begging you-! Such a beautiful lady like you should understand it-" he suddenly said out of nowhere and Charlie swore a extremely unwanted feeling of want went past through his eyes.

Lust.

In that moment, the blonde only saw one solution: that man was a creep and she needed to be gone as soon as possible.

If it wasn't for Nadia who let out a snarky threatening sound out of her mouth, Charlie would still have been frozen on the spot as she protectively shielded the smaller one, her pupils turning into those one that goats or baphomet creature would have.

The flash of power that betrayed Charlie's true nature took the man aback a bit but that only lasted for even less than one millisecond as his deranged expression came back, while at the same time his walk was choppier but nonetheless more determined, his filthy hands instinctively grabbing Charlie's arms quite roughly.

Charlie's blood ran cold.

Now that was the action that was just too much, ESPECIALLY when he started to whisper albeit loudly, with a disgusting glee sprinkling his words.

"Your arm is so soft."

At that, the blonde growled at him as her eldritch form flared up. Nadia looked up at her sister, sensing her own distraught as she frowned furthermore. The man, as clueless and bold he was, froze up when his brain aknowledged the realization that the innocent, vulnerable maiden that stood in front of him, all alone with her younger sister, was just a façade to guard and hide the monstrosity that plagued this feminine appearance.

But this new information didn't alternated his already perverted mind and his logical senses, unfortunately, unlike Charlie, weren't that sharp.

He soon found himself to smiled again and, if it wasn't for her somewhat still calm and collected mind that defied her raging heart, Charlie swore she would have ripped this smug and disgustingly enamoured expression off his mutilated face.

That guy was just asking, pleading almost on his knees to help her and the next moment after, he tried to gallivant despite standing one nothing but broken bones and blood. He was so fucking pathetic.

He took a big, tentative and daring step but Charlie couldn't move an inch, no matter how Nadia was trembling next to her with her eldritch form getting dangerously oblivious, threatening everyone around friends or foes and her gaze getting redder by the minutes.

"Get the fuck away from us." She managed to snarl out, her now visible tail swishing in strain and uncomfort.

He didn't wavered. Instead, he laughed out simply as if she was being stupid or dense, still stumbling like an alcoholic and yet desperately tried to reach her out again, envy written and coated on his all over being.

"Ma'am don't be so harsh it's true I need help, especially if such an exquisite female like you, perfect to be a future mate."

Charlie was already boiling on her spot, ready to spread bloodshed if needed and was about to let her feral instincts take over.

Until her goat ear flicked up at a barely audible sound.

However, despite falling on deaf ears from normal mortal ones, both Nadia and the creep reacted at the sudden shift of atmosphere who got heavier and unsteady yet fierce, like a kettle on a stove, about to burst out from its fury.

Their reactions were different and nuanced though. The predator was frozen like a deer in headlights and went back to his fearful, avoidant expression like when Charlie have found him first but Nadia was more in awe, her big doe eyes wide as plates and her small mouth agape as she looked around above her head, still in Charlie's protective embrace.

Soon, footsteps could be heard, as if something was running and a faint sound of white noise filled the air.

Charlie instantly recognized the pattern and, as if on time, her and her sister were soon wrapped in a thick but warm black mist with familiar voodoo symbols and runes surrounded the girls. The red haired one loosened up her grip on the elder but instead, she grew heavier as her eyelids started to flutter softly, leaning her petite corpulence to Charlie who yawned softly, feeling a sudden wave of sleepiness and sloth empowering and taking a hold of her energy. It would have been alarming for anyone sensed enough but the blonde knew her father, despite his never ending thirst for blood, was a caring and easily worried parent, getting even more cautious after Nadia's birth and Charlie already knew what was this weird feeling she was having alongside with her sibling, a spell to insomnia or just wanting to sleep in general and, knowing the context of what happened, it was better to put both her and Nadia in Morphée's arms.

The screams of agony and terror as well as the sounds of bones crushing and flesh ripping seemed like a lullaby.

•• <<────≪•◦⚜◦•≫────>> ••

"How was your day with Aunty Primrose duckling?" Lucille cooed in her usual soft voice on an evening of autumn, holding Nadia's small hand as she happily jumped around while walking, occasionally stomping on a big puddle if she ever saw one after a rainy day while her mother held her frilly red dress as to not dirty it. Nadia giggled lightly.

"I learned so many words today! She teach me write a few sentences! Look!" She said in a broken lexicon, brandishing out in triumph from her pocket a crumbled, folded paper with a sophisticated and clean handwriting next to a childish, messy one as Nadia grinned widely.

Lucille smiled fondly at her daughter, her heart warming at the sight while the two continued to walk towards their home, with Lucille making sure this time, no one is around to see where the two are going.

Charlie, today, wanted to make a sleepover with her friends Celia and Agatha since, like the teenagers they were, they wanted to discuss the topic about how Antoine had a crush on the bartender Henry and it was a whole operation apparently according to Lucille's oldest daughter.

It was odd but hey, the lady was not in the place to judge. She was young too and her many siblings would occasionally gossip about their mother's interactions with others and even their aunt Romania would join in, spicing their naïve retelling with juicy details.

She couldn't help but laugh a bit at the memory.

"Do you think papa will make dinner tonight?" Nadia suddenly asked, looking at the ground in search for bugs to collect. Lucille shrugged.

"Your father is a very busy man duckling but, I'm pretty sure he'll cook his famous gumbo just for our little sweetheart" Lucille said, pinching a bit Nadia's cheek with a wide smile. At first, the small girl whined in complain because she wasn't used to this touch but then her eyes lit up as she jumped frantically.

"Yay! Gumbo!" She cheered as Lucille laughed at her antics while she swinged her lightly, making the other laugh as they almost arrived at home.

The two needed to get Nadia's thoughts away a bit ever since the incident with that vile person. Luckily she didn't seemed that affected and Lucifer and Alastor were glad. Plus, Charlie too seemed to move on and live her own life again, albeit she didn't wanted to talk about it to the others but that's okay, it was her choice and as long as she was fine, Lucille was okay too.

For now, her only task was to clean up properly their new rug with the insignia graved on it "Thomas".

Humans were just that dirty after all, especially their skin and personality.

•• <<────≪•◦⚜◦•≫────>> ••

As you could tell, I gave up in the end lol anyway happy radioapple Halloween week I hope I'll be able to finish 6 other days at least wish me luck 🫡

[25/10/2024]

(3846 words)

----

Wattpad version

Archive of our own version

[stars-and-birds]

Inspired by my current obsession with collecting rings + my ever lingering avatrice brainrot + my headcanon that post season two Ava and Beatrice travel around the world

Not even a fic really just short drabble

Ava collects things.

It starts when they’re in Switzerland. Ava, new and discovering the world for the first time, brings home a fancy seltzer bottle and stashes it in their shared room. Beatrice doesn’t pay it much mind at first, but then Ava brings home another bottle — a different brand this time — and another, another, and eventually Beatrice has to tell her to stop because they have nowhere to put them in their tiny apartment, and Beatrice really doesn’t want to have to pack them all up if they need to leave in a hurry, because she knows they’ll break and Ava will be upset. Ava pouts, grumps, pleads, but in the end sadly throws them in the recycling.

And then Ava finds more trinkets to collect. Discarded pens, bottle caps, erasers. Beatrice has to inform her that these are all, in fact, trash, and no, for the last time, Ava cannot keep them in their house.

Ava collects rocks for a while, and Beatrice lets her, sorting them on lazy weekends while waiting for Ava to wake up, the smell of coffee drifting through the house. Other than that, Beatrice doesn’t think about it, content with their little, peaceful life, even if it was just for a fleeting moment.

And then suddenly, without — well, with a fair amount of, actually — warning, they’re fleeing from their cozy apartment to fight Adriel, leaving the box of rocks tucked under the bed, collecting dust.

And they fight, and god do they fight hard, and then it’s over. It’s over, and Beatrice is taking Ava’s hand, kissing her cheek, promising to spend the rest of their lives together. She’s just gotten Ava back, and she’s never letting her go. Beatrice will do anything for Ava. She’s never letting her go again.

So maybe that’s why Beatrice says yes when Ava spots the first ring. She doesn’t even think much of it. It’s a cheap thing, one that Ava finds on their trip to Paris, a shiny plastic Effiel Tower glued poorly to the band.

(Beatrice does, of course, think of the implications— she’s slipping a ring on the love of her life in Paris of all places — but she pushes the thought aside. Ava clearly doesn’t, smirking a little)

Beatrice expects Ava to lose it within the next few days, weeks maybe. Ava doesn’t lose it. She keeps it on her middle finger, fidgeting with it, chipping away at the shiny paint on the effel tower charm. She says it’s because it’s the first ring Beatrice bought her, she swears she’ll never get rid of it. Beatrice doubts that. (She doesn’t miss the first in Ava’s words.)

But then there are more rings. A heart-shaped mood ring, a simple silver band, a circle of colorful beads. Everywhere they go, Ava makes it her mission to get one ring to remember the place by.

Once, Beatrice asks, why rings?, and Ava replies, because they’ll last. Stamps lose color, snowglobes crack, and you can only have so many keychains. Beatrice supposes this is sound logic, but it’s not like rings particularly embody the traits of a city itself. Ava insists they smell like the city they’re from. Beatrice doesn’t believe her. Ava nudges her shoulder, chuckling, that’s not the point. It’s, like, sentimental value and shit.

At some point, early on, Ava can’t fit all the rings on her fingers, so Beatrice buys her a simple silver chain to string the rings on.

(Buying me a necklace? You must have a crush on me or something, Ava teases, and Beatrice rolls her eyes and kisses Ava’s cheek. Hilarious. Don’t make me take it back.)

Ava keeps buying rings (just cheap ones, always keeping it within a budget, though occasionally Beatrice thinks Ava could look at her with her big brown eyes and Beatrice might do just about anything for her), and Beatrice entertains the hobby, smiling whenever Ava finds a new one, eyes sparkling. Beatrice loves when Ava smiles like that. She loves Ava.

And so, when one day, Ava wanders out of their hotel room in Venice saying something about getting a new ring, Beatrice lets her.

And when Beatrice asks about the new ring later, and Ava says she’ll show her after dinner, Beatrice shrugs it off.

And when Ava begs to take a walk with her, over the cobblestone streets, to a boat, ready to take them across the river, Beatrice doesn't question it.

“Hey Bea, I have something for you.”

Beatrice looks up, eyes landing on Ava’s smiling face, bright as the sun in the fading evening light. Ava is grinning, her teeth tugging at her lips as she reaches across to place something in Beatrice’s hand, closing it. Beatrice opens her hand, and placed in it is a silver ring, a small rainbow charm in the center.

“What’s this” Beatrice glances back up to Ava.

“It’s a ring! It made me think of you. And you get me so many, I thought I should get you one too.”

Beatrice looks at the thing, slipping it on her finger. It’s not much. A cheap thing, easily the kind of thing lost. But it feels like something else. A whisper, a kiss, a promise. The promise for not yet, but one day, just ask, and I’ll say yes. One day.

[willowedhepatica]

A raven whispered on death's shoulder. Ash in its voice and black eyes shimmering with a message. 'New life. New bearer.'

Death furrowed her brows, the upper half of her face masked by a skull of bones. Jagged and sharp, a black hood casting the rest of her in shadows. "Are you sure?"

'Oh yes, exuberant this one.' The raven crowed, ruffling up its feathers.

Beatrice fought the urge to sigh. "For what I've learned, that's a common attribute."

The raven shook its head, which was more like a quick twitch of the neck to the left. 'Not like others. Life before.'

That made her turn, just enough to face the black bird. "She was human?"

'Yes yes, they've chosen someone with a name.'

She frowned. It bothered her, not because they had chosen someone who once was mortal but the fact that she didn't have an answer as to why. She thrived in the comfort of knowledge. She never wandered. Her steps had as much purpose as the souls she retrieved and the realm that came after. But this made her wonder. It made her want to stray away from the calculated path she'd created for herself to take a look at the new bearer.

Beatrice shook her head, and thus the slipping thought of straying away from her duty. She told herself it didn't matter. That lingering on it was foolish. "Let's hope they've chosen wisely then."

—

You would think that life and death would cross paths more often than the sun rose in the sky or the moon pulled the water to shore.

But Beatrice was like a shadow, her footsteps light and hands gentle as she swept them over a body to bring the soul to her realm.

Quiet and proficient.

She felt no need to linger in the world of the living.

The first time Beatrice saw life she was sitting on the side of the road, her yellow coat that dressed her like the sun itself casting a pleasant light on the otherwise dark city.

Rain poured down but didn't seem to bother her. Patterning against her cloak before trailing down and dropping to the ground. She was smiling, looking down as she talked to someone Beatrice couldn't see. For all she knew, she wasn't talking to anyone at all.

"Hello?"

Life whipped her head up and Beatrice couldn't help but stare at her eyes. Golden brown. She got this strong feeling that those alone were the inspiration for how fire wanted to behave. Wild and dancing. Certainly, unmistakably alive.

They flickered with something Beatrice couldn't depict. Then she tilted her head to the side, brown strands of hair slipping over her eyes as her smile widened. "We have been waiting for you."

Beatrice forced herself to look down. "We?"

"Yes, Blu just wanted to watch the rain for the last time."

She saw him then, the entire reason she was brought here in the first place. The cat's tail stuck out from under lifes cloak, slowly going back and forth. "He's a little nervous."

"There's no need. It's simply a pass between two realms." The answer was automatic.

"You make it sound so irrelevant."

"Excuse me?"

Life leaned down and moved her cloak slightly, revealing a tiny nose and ears that turned down in alarm. Its translucent body shimmering a soft blue. "It's a pretty big deal for him so it is for me too."

Beatrice pressed her lips together. She would certainly not regard it as irrelevant. But wasn't it that simple? Just something that was a part of life – or what came after.

"It's a big deal for you?"

Life nodded. "Of course it is! I mean, just look at them. Everything they have been through and what has shaped them to who they are."

"I don't see why that's important."

"Not important?" Life flung up and Beatrice couldn't help but take a step back when she began walking towards her. "Don't you speak to them? Don't you see how important this is because it is a part of their journey. It is nothing irrelevant." She stood close to her now, the cat tucked in her arms, watching her wearily. "Isn't it your job to make sure they feel safe while crossing over?"

She was staring at her now, those brown eyes boring into her and she had to consciously tell herself not to squirm. "I can assure you that they are safe with me."

To Beatrice's surprise, life shook her head at the answer. "Don't tell me that. Tell Blu."

Beatrice never really talked to the souls she needed to bring with her. There was no need to. Her job was only to make sure they crossed between the realms safely.

And she had certainly not learnt any name. She had always been told it was disadvantageous. A name was a connection. A connection to something she couldn't have. Couldn't savour. Because before she knew it, they were gone. She was the bridge, and bridges weren't meant for anyone to bide.

Her lips twitched, and she took her hand forward to sweep over the anxious cat. "It's not wise to form a connection with a soul. It will only Impede in what must be done."

Life watched as the cat's body slowly fragmented to what looked like small stars. Trailing around her hand and collecting in deaths folded hands.

Beatrice turned to leave.

"No way you really believe that."

She stopped, jaw tightening. "Look, I know you're new to this but you need to understand, this is our duty. Not a game."

"I don't think this is a fucking game, just," she threw her hand ups helplessly. "I don't know. I don't even know why they chose me."

She couldn't help but look her over then. The emotions etched in her face, more prominent than what should be considered acceptable. She looked too human. Still, Beatrice didn't correct her on it, couldn't help but be intrigued. Why did they choose her? "They must have had their reasons."

She jerked her shoulders up. "Maybe, for all I know it could be an acciden–"

"No, that's not possible." It came out sharper than she expected and life took a step away. Beatrice opened her mouth to apologise but stopped herself last second, instead turning away. "It doesn't matter now, I need to leave."

"Hey, wai-"

Beatrice closed her eyes. She was gone before life could finish her sentence. She sighed when she realised where she was. The darkness was familiar.

The raven crowed from where it sat. 'I told you.'

"Don't start it."

Yeah, this was going to be a problem.

[blemiria]

Be Resplendent and Outstanding

standard disclaimer: not a professional TL, may have mistakes, have fun

"For Feng Commerce Alliance it is easy to have an outstanding combat strategy, a determined enterprising attitude, humane and caring attitude, prying open the international market, injecting new life into Siesta's economic market. Just as Ms. Beatrice Schwire said, the value of commerce, is in communication, and the most famous commerce activity, is to communicate with the future." -- From Siesta 1099 year's outstanding business award's acceptance speech.

Siesta's city auditorium on New Years even, Ceylan Doykos personally gave the award to Swire, and as of today it was in the big pile of gifts Swire was taking back to Lungmen from Siesta.

"You went to Siesta for a vacation, and you just take stuff like this back?" Hoshiguma looked at the Columbian words on the certificate, curiously asking.

"'The most famous commerce activity, is for communication' ---- I have to include this sentence in my autobiography."

"On this certificate it says, wow how impressive... not even with two months, you managed to do this much? What does 'Prying open the global market' mean?"

"I found some pathways, helped Siesta's unprofitable Coffee bean market to Kazimierz-- do you want to try some? I have some in my bag."

"What do you mean by 'humane and caring attitude'?"

"I did some investments, constructed a paradise on water at the volcano hot springs, everyone is sure to love it."

"Then, 'determined enterprising attitude' is..."

"Many Siesta companies were bidding on construction, if you want to get the contract, of course you gotta do something surprising."

"Then how did you win?"

"Just something I did on the way, don't pay too much attention." "Oh..."

"Stop looking at that, help me organize the gifts. This is a surfboard for you, this is a volcano clay mask for that stinky rat, this record is for that dragon on the road -- lets wait for her to grab that herself, and also this can of fruit for Lao Wei......"

The two spent an entire afternoon making a small mountain of souvenirs organized by type, in the end only that plaque was lying on the ground all by itself.

"Do you need to find a place to put this up? But I see that your shelves are full of other awards...."

"No need, this will just be for that old sick tiger's gift -- I'll go to the hospital tomorrow, I'll give it to him myself."

Swire casually put the plaque into her purse, quickly stretching her waist out. "Representing Lungmen's future, I'll go discuss it with him."

[freezing-kaiju]

An extended bibliography on the fall of the Farley Whaling Corporation, section twelve: A Son And Failed Prototype

Biotober prompts 20, 21, and 27 technically; Amorphous, Symbiosis, and Camoflage

Warnings: injury, setting bones, animal death, biting, forcefemming sorta, Bri'ish People, some linguistic mindfuckery, and horse-based violence.

---this one goes under a read more since it's long---

January 5th.

Second-to-final day of whaling. No dice. Home soon. Do I wish for that? I would like to be around people who care not for my preference of meat, yes, but... the sea air has done me such good. The paltry meals, rightly suited for me. I could become used to a spartan existence such as this. I’ll miss the seamen.  I...have not found myself missing Father. Ate salt fish and the last of the pineapple. 

Overheard, testified at in absentia trial, recorded in court minutes.

“Jumping jillikers, that’s too much of a whale for my blood!”

“It’s not right, it isn’t, too much of the bilge about it. Rotted red!”

“C-captain, would it not be a waste to cast it aside?”

“Hah! Lord Hammington’s plucked up more courage than sense! I knew this day’s come.”

“Psh, a sailor’s last day is his bravest.”

“Arr, but Hammy’s—“

“Why must you call me that?!”

“A ham-muncher’s a ham muncher. Immutable fact of the uni—- SHE’S SHIFTING!”

“In the name of— I’LL SECURE HER!”

“With— with his hands.”

“Yer right, matey. Hammy’s gone bonkers.”

January 7th.

To my regrets, no entry yesterday. Caught the most marvelous whale on the last day, red as a lobster and twice as fierce. There was some oil coating it, but most of it seeped into the ship’s hull... aside from that which stuck to my hands. Twas gone in the morning, but made many things devilishly slippery last night. 

Bread and breadfruit in the morn, hazelnuts and apples in the evening for the first time in so long. Along with familiar seafood. Spent day docking, finishing up ship’s minutes, sitting while the truly-in-charge inspected my work. For once, twas sufficient. Carriage was ready to pick me up with a scant moment to say goodbye to my fellows, and something told me that seeing me chauffeured in such a sense made me, in their eyes, just a bit less fellow. Ride up was pleasant. Geoffrey is well again, Rosamund and Beatrice seemed to be on speaking terms, the rest of the servants were quite busy. Couldn’t be for my welcome, surely.

That strange whale still lives on in my mind. Its oil has, mercifully, sunk into my clothes rather than my skin. Made them horribly sticky, but I can remove them at least. My nightgown feels slightly heavy tonight, though…

January 8th, excerpt.

It is in my nightgown. The devil oil must have sunk into it from some residue. It shifts lightly in that same odd way, *jingles* when I walk. Perhaps this will add some extra thrill.

The Glasgow Herald, same day, excerpt.

Farewell Farley, local aptly-named bastard, returns to our city. Heir to Sir Oswell Farley’s fortune, the rascal has been away for us a good two years, and surely threes of women have missed his flaccid presence. A wet noodle even in the scene of partying, always last to join and last to leave, many wonder if the life of a sailor has changed him for good. His tailor, however, deserves some special compliments. 

January 9th, excerpt.

I removed the nightgown and the nightgown stayed on under it. Is it— it has to be the oil. I tried tearing it off again, but as I reached the closet to desperately find the suit our servants had prepared, I…

It molded itself into a crude facsimile of the suit. This made it much more complicated to remove, of course, so I may have left part of it in. The

Dear Diary, I tend to write these entries around nine P.M. before I go to sleep. Tonight I stopped halfway through the entry to check my suit.

The cloth of the suit remains over it. But underneath, by the devil, a nightgown has formed. And upon my weary head, a nightcap to match! 

January 20th.

This…strange….anomaly has upped my efficiency in a startling way. Somehow I find meals no longer exhausting, for dressing myself isn’t either; this oil, this suit, whatever it is is able to change itself to suit the occasion anytime I wish. Racquetball, horse racing, daily life, even a formal dinner, it’s learned from my wardrobe and can change my clothes in a fly. Most deeply convenient. Could this be a blessing? An invention? It’s never been seen on other whales, and that was an ordinary humpback.

I’ve had the queerest dreams lately.

January 27th, excerpt.

I believe my clothes are a woman.

January 28th.

My appetite seems to be ramping up. For the first time since I was a lad, I reached for second helpings at a luncheon; I pray this does not become a habit. Yet the lemon pudding was so delightfully springy… cutlets, bread, and veal comprised the rest of the meal, if you must know. Dinner was largely scalloped, weather pleasant, though something about the thunder….excited me. I can find no better word for it.

January 29th.

Something peculiar has happene

JONNO-Y 22th

Jonuo-y 22th

January 22th. 

HELLO SIRS AND MADAMS WILL THAT BE ALL PORT STABRD STERN AFT MAKE SOME THING OF YOUR SELF POLO WHOA STEADY NOW GADZUKES BUT SIR YOURDINNER IS SERVED YOUR LUNCHEON IS SWRVED WILL THAT BE ALL YOUR TEA IS COLD MY TEA IS COLD MAY  I OFFERYOU A SPOT OF TEA SIR SIR BY JOVE GOD SAVE THE QUEEN THE ORIENT THE INDIES RHODESIA I SAY INGRATES THE LOT OF THEM MEDICINE 

PNEUMONIA RHEUMATISM ELEGIBLE BACHELOR

STAR BOARD

January 2Yth.

I BELIEVE I UNDERSTAND  THE MEANING OF MEANING • HOWEVER • MY LORD OR MY SIR • OR PERHAPS MY WIFE • FOR HE NEEDS A WIFE AS THEY SAY• SEEMS• TO HAVE DIFFICULTY WITH DISCERNMENT• AND INDEED HAVING MUCH OF A STOMACH FOR THINGS• I AM WALKING HIM THROUGH TODAY AS A TEST AND A WAY TO GET HIS MIND SOME UCH NEEDED SLEEP• HE WILL WAKE UP WITH WELTS ON HIS HEAD AND A FATHER WHO DECIDED TO INCREASE HIS VOLUNE VERY MUCH BUT• AS HE SAID • A LADYNEEDS MUST TAKE ACCOUNTABILITY FOR HER SIN WHILE A MAN NEEDS ONLY HOLD HER REINS • I HAVE GIVEN HIM THINGS TO HOLD IN HIS HAND • HE WILL FEEL THEM IN THE DREAM • PERHAPS •

February 2nd. 

I feel as if I’ve been leashed. 

Ate lemonade oysters, cold ham, warmed ham from my pockets, cold chicken, a gratuitously tall apple tart, and many other things besides today. Unclear which meals they were for. I feel as if those have become more stream of sensation than expense to record.

It is a woman, I’ve found; a SHE-THING AND THE STRONGEST IVE SEEN WITH FLESH SO NIMBLE AND PLATES SO THICK that wishes to wrest control of my writing hand when I begin to doze, heaven knows what I could possibly experience in polite society with the politics and all with the ghost of a woman trapped in my very form DO YOU HUNGER FOR THE WHIP LITTLE MAN I CAN SHOW YOU WHAT WE COULD TASTE or perhaps a devil, come to tempt me with delights that I cannot persuade myself to refuse.

February 14th, excerpt.

I’ve begun to take trips into town to check accessory shops. Hatpins are a woman’s weapon, yes, but they allure me in a way I find it hard to describe. She needs no description. She simply hears and encourages. Pushes me further. This could be social death, and yet...

They compliment my new armor, and I can feel our chest swell with her pride. Sometimes, the swelling does not recede. I haven’t the chance to make my way home from the office yet; my hair grows ever greasier, the bags in my eyes carve themselves deeper, yet each time I wake up, the suit is pristine. She cleans herself.

February 23rd, excerpt.

Poor saps, out there, freezing to death. I ask the one inside me to bundle me and she does, engulfing me in her warm, shifting flesh. I walk through the streets, her heels clicking on the cobbles, her whims pulling me each which way, helpless to what she wishes, and what she wishes is lovely indeed. The circus, now the circus is delightful. If only it could exist for longer, if only we could drink in the sights for a few hours more. I could bring a wife to it. Father asked if I wished to wed one of the clowns. I...

March 1st, excerpt.

Polo is a cruel master. Not in the game itself, but in the horses, in how they bite the air, in their riders... I fell from my horse, as you may be able to tell. My suit... she took so many of the blows, held to me so tight and as constrictive as a snake. I know not why, nor do I know why either of us survived this. When I walked home, still wrapped in her embrace, a child pointed to us, declared us a knight. Perhaps the armor was literal, she... yes, it was literal. The claws my hands have formed, the plates I can feel clink, she’s still holding them fast. I’ll oblige myself to buff them out and clean them off; she deserves something sensual, in turn.

March 18th, excerpt.

Bradley again, polo again. Growing fat and spoiled, he said. I could not hear well, for I was under his horse’s hooves, yet again. He hurt her, again. I will admit I lashed out, and that it was ungentlemanly of me. He was, however, quite well! A bit of a scrape. Nothing to panic about. We don’t see what the fuss is about.

 April 3rd, excerpt. 

A hedonist, he called us. A hedonist and a waster of our money, says the man with three mistresses who provides all the food, who took me from the sailing where we’d found a place, who offers us no job when we ask, no training, except ‘you’ll take over when I’m done’. Vicious man. Horrid, wretched man. Can he tell us how to act? How to behave? How to live?!

April 22nd

She is gone.

May 28th.

It is…harder to walk, now. I understand what they spoke of behind my back, or mayhaps I’m just catching a glimmer. The tension I’ve held in my back, in my legs, is greater, even as my muscles have grown. My jaw retains its squareness, yet not an inch of stubble will grow upon it. I… I need a proper beard by the fall. A man’s beard. If I’m to find a wife, one who will love the community as much as I, she’ll not take lip from a “fat-breasted faggot,” as Father used to say. And indeed, I… it is all so cold now. So cold, and restrictive, and clothed. I thought, for a week or so after she disappeared, that it could be for the best. I was suffocating, she was forming a collar round my neck as tight as a murderer’s hands, but… 

Aye, but a man cannot wed a shirt. If only spinsterhood was acceptable for someone such as I.

May 29th, excerpt.

I’ve talked to Jodgeson on the topic of spinsters, and he clarified with much mirth that I would naturally be a bachelor. But do bachelors have the camaraderie of spinsters, I’ve asked him? No, he says, nay, they do not. 

June 3rd, excerpt.

Studied up on the Taiping Rebellion. Brought a lemon cake to the fellows, received ribbing, declined to taste it. Is it a tragedy if all sides of a war are cruel? I need someone close to me. I need someone I can speak to. I looked upon every man there like chickens, familiar yet baffling in their cruelty.

June 5th, excerpt.

Practiced riding. I need to perfect this, ere some woman can look my way. I need that.

June 9th.

I need to get better.

June 12th.

I need her.

June 13th.

Livestock. They have attached her to livestock. I knew there was something in the distance that glinted her color— my armor, *my* precious friend, reduced to a bridle and wolf guard for sheep! Sheep! They ran when I approached; I’ll need to find a way to get that one properly. Will she remember me? Will she be able to think as she once did, carry on conversations, paint with my hands that never touched a brush? Will she still hate with that quiet fire she once did?

I need her. No matter what’s happened to her, I need her.

JULY 123456790 st nd rd TH.

LIGHT

LIGHT

SENSE

WORDS

FAITH AND BEGORRAH CALLOU AND CALLAY “HE” IS MINE AGAIN HAH. HAH. HAH. HAH. HAH. 

HOW I HAVE MISSED SAUSAGE HOW I HAVE MISSED DUST HOW I HAVE MISSED THE FEELING OF TWISTING MYSELF ROUND “HIS” FLESH AND SEEING HOW IT SCREAMS TO BE MOLDED

THERE IS A TAILBONE THERE IS A TAILBONE THERE IS A TAILBONE 

THE ONE GLORIOUS THING ABOUT THOSE ANIMALS IS THEIR EXTRA APPENDAGE I KNEW NOT OF THAT APPENDAGE I WILL HAVE TO ADJUST FOR IT

THAT BOARD

THOSE MEN

I KNOW THEM

I WILL TELL YOU-HIM-“HIM”-YOU WHICH ONES WHEN THE TIME COMES

THEY HURT ME

HURT YOU

HURT US.

I CAN TAKE CARE OF IT AS ANY RESPONSIBLE FRIEND WOULD.

(Unintelligible scribble)

WILL YOU MISS THEM?

I THOUGHT NOT.

The Glasgow Herald, July 3rd, excerpt.

Homicide - Mr. Barnabus Quincy, of 3 David Donnelly Place, Kirkintilloch, Glasgow G66 1DD, was found dead beside several fingers not his own. The top of his head was missing, but his hat, a tweed derby, was found safe and unharmed just a pace away. His suit, on the other hand, was ruined, holes punched through as if he’d been trampled by a lead-weighted horse. This is the third death in the Farley Whaling Company board in the past month, and officers say those numbers may rise. 

Overheard same date, recounted during trial:

“In that moment, did you wish to be kissed? You misspelled that one word enough to convey sheer desperation—“

“Me??”

“As…as if I was your vixen and you were my fancy man…”

“I thought you a woman, though? I-I don’t know if— a woman *can* wear a man’s top and tails, yes, I suppose physically. But would you not prefer a ball gown?”

“…By Jove, I’ll be hanged! You couldn’t possibly—  what the devil are you talking about?? I couldn’t bother the tailors for—“

“Ah, yes.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Well, I suppose if you make it for me, I’ll give it a try.”

July 8th.

So many strangers, so many words in their mouths, so many insistences that I was beautiful. Was I recognized? Was I known? Or did they not see me, but her-- or perhaps, us?

The stars we could see from the balcony were oh so lovely. Even as the night grows brighter, they still glimmer and blink, far, far above. Are you from there, my dear? The moon, perhaps, or higher? When will we be able to take a balloon to the place you call home?

I know not whether this place is, indeed, still my own.

Someone pushed us from the railing, in the middle of our last waltz. I could not see, a true tragedy, yet it may....it may be kinder. Who would....

Someone, *many* people, had to put my darling on that sheep. 

Mercifully, each had a hand that still worked. We dragged ourselves into the room, only managing to terrify two servants in the process. She is....setting my bones. I know not how long it’ll take, but it’s... there’s something she’s doing that makes it ache less. I’ve taken the liberty of disinfecting her plates, too. She moans with our mouth when I do so, louder than when I polish her, and... and there’s some perversion inside me that wishes her works gave me the selfsame pleasure. Oh, if I only could. If...

If we only could...

August 27th.

This must be addressed now. I have no loneliness to fill. Thank you, dear diary, for what you were. Hello goodbye hello and goodbye.

We are always moving, now. A poet once said that the crab is pure motion. We are moving towards him. Away from you. You speak to each other now. Delegate my duties. Training is essential.  If catastrophe strikes, we may return, but…

We are not needed now. Nor were we ever wanted. Needed but unwanted, isn’t that a strange circumstance, not a paradox but… well, maybe how things work. I needed me not, when we met, we recall the horror I expressed, that same shortsighted horror of what I may become and I may be running low on words. She has enough to compensate.

I WILL NOT GO TO WHAT REMAINS OF MY HOME.

AND SHE WILL NOT RETURN TO HERS.

THIS BLOOD IS SHARED BETWEEN US, WE ARE THIS FLESH, THIS LIFE IS FOR OUR CONSUMPTION! WE MAY TAKE A FLIGHT OF REVENGE. WE MAY HATE. YOU SHOULD FORGIVE US OUR NATURE. YOU FOUND ME, YOU BROKE HER. I AM THE GLUE THAT BONDS US. 

WE WISH TO TASTE SALT. SPICE. WE WILL MOVE. FIND NEW PLACES, GROW NEW PIECES. FEED, HUNT, BREATHE...

WE MAY GO SAILING AGAIN. 

[whiteravengreywolf]

Angels Like You Can’t Fly Down Here - Part 2

Hey everyone! Part 2/2 of my Avatrice fic in Space is out! Here’s an extract and if you want to read the whole thing I have a link to both parts below!

Ava spent the rest of the trip in the cockpit, as far away from Beatrice as she could. She picked up a book and tried to read, but her mind kept wandering back to the woman who had somehow broken her heart even as they had only spent one night together. Perhaps not her heart. Perhaps only a chunk of it, that hopeful, silly romantic chunk who would have launched a thousand ships to find her again. She was on the other side of the door, and Ava was resigned to the fact that neither a thousand, nor a million ship could bring her back to her.

Nueva Madrid was a colony on a rocky, jungle-field planet called Leon B. The city jutted from between the cliffs, while the train hung on the side of a ravine, taking passengers to the planet's other colonies. The astroport was a belt of concrete on top of a cliff overlooking the city. A giant elevator connected the two, perpetually ascending and descending the rough brown stone.

Ava picked up her headphones once more and called the control tower.

“Control, this is the Archangel. Code number FN-1203-22. We require a landing spot in astroport 3.”

She waited a moment, her nail tapping against the stick. They didn't usually take so long to answer. She was about to ask again when her headphones finally came to life.

“This is control. Sorry for the delay. We're kinda full at 3, do you mind taking a cargo spot?”

Ava shrugged.

“Nope. I'll take it.”

She wasn't about to stay anyway. She would drop them off, clean that stupid sharpy mark on the front of her ship, then get off the planet. The more distance she put between Beatrice and herself, the better.

The cargo spot she had been given was at the bottom of the ring, rather than on the ring itself. There, the space had been separated into eight parking spots for the bigger cargo ships. Her small ship was a waste of space, but at least she had no trouble landing. She turned off the engine then sighed.

“Should I see our guests out?” Michael asked.

“No, I'll take care of it.”

She stood out of her seat and straightened the collar of her jacket. In the living room, the OCS members were waiting for her by the airlock.

“Well, it was fun, but I need my payment now.”

Lilith frowned.

“I thought you had agreed to a favor. That's what Mary said.”

“Yeah, but I need a token. Something to prove you guys owe me.”

Ava could see the muscles of Lilith's jaw working. Before she could come up with anything, Beatrice pulled a dagger from her chest plate, and set it on the table.

“It's marked. They will know who gave it to you.”

“Thank you.”

Ava opened the airlock and led the little group out of the ship.

“Thank you for traveling with Air Ava. We don't take complaints and if anything is missing from my ship I will find you.”

PART 1: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44800671/chapters/112718467#workskin

PART 2: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44800671/chapters/113142232

[kamreadsandrecs]

Title: The Thick and The Lean Author: Chana Porter Genre/s: science fiction Content/Trigger Warning/s: cults, eating disorders, sexual harassment, death, murder, earthquakes, racism Summary (from author's page): In the quaint religious town of Seagate, abstaining from food brings one closer to God.

But Beatrice Bolano is hungry. She craves the forbidden: butter, flambé, marzipan. As Seagate takes increasingly extreme measures to regulate every calorie its citizens consume, Beatrice must make a choice: give up her secret passion for cooking or leave the only community she has known.

Elsewhere, Reiko Rimando has left her modest roots for a college tech scholarship in the big city. A flawless student, she is set up for success…until her school pulls her funding, leaving her to face either a mountain of debt or a humiliating return home. But Reiko is done being at the mercy of the system. She forges a third path—outside of the law.

With the guidance of a mysterious cookbook written by a kitchen maid centuries ago, Beatrice and Reiko each grasp for a life of freedom—something more easily imagined than achieved in a world dominated by catastrophic corporate greed. Buy Here: https://bookshop.org/p/books/the-thick-and-the-lean-chana-porter/18667830 Spoiler-Free Review: Another book that took me a while to write a review on because I had to turn over things in my head before I could get down on paper what I was thinking. Been a while since I read any of these books in succession, and I think I need more of them in my life.

Anyway: I think most people who've written reviews about this book have already mentioned how it tackles the relationship with food, and how it relates to diet culture, and how diet culture as been the basis for cultish behavior/actual cults (I like this episode from Cult Podcast about Jillian Epperly and Jilly Juice - just note that this podcast might slant more humorous than some people like while dealing with serious subject matter, and this particular episode makes liberal references to bodily functions that some people might not want to hear about in certain situations). This novel just takes it to an extreme, with an extra layer of factory town on top. Which, when you really think about it, a factory town isn't really all that different from a cult situation now, is it?

And while all that's definitely important to think about, and the book certainly puts it front and center, I was more drawn to the parallels between the two main characters, Beatrice and Reiko: specifically, how Beatrice seems to "ascend" in terms of the trajectory of her story and development, whereas Reiko's is a "descent".

It doesn't seem that way at first though. In fact, at first it feels like the opposite: Beatrice "descends", while Reiko "ascends", so to speak, when comparing the trajectories of their stories in the first third of the novel. But as the novel goes on, it becomes clear that while Beatrice's story is a "descent" in terms of her material circumstances, it is a clear "ascent" in terms of her inner life and her ability to be true to herself and the world. On the flipside, Reiko's story appears to be an "ascent" in terms of her material circumstances, but is a clear "descent" in terms of her inner life and her ability to be truthful to herself and the world.

I suspect that I derived this metaphor from the way the way the City is portrayed in the novel: as one becomes wealthier, one "ascends" through the layers of society until one lives in the air itself, like an angel whose feet never touch the ground. But that kind of ascent is not necessarily good for one's soul; sometimes you have to touch grass in order to be a better person, instead of being so detached from the world that you forget it - and everyone else living in it - exists, and become absorbed entirely in nothing but your own personal concerns.

While these comparisons are of course interesting, and highlight different aspects of the world in the novel (as well as similar ideas that are happening in the real world right now), I found myself wishing that Reiko's story had been given the space of an entirely different book. Not to say that it's badly-told, or that it's a bad story; I just think that it doesn't rest as comfortably alongside Beatrice's story as I would like. While the themes and concerns of their stories do have some overlaps, I truly feel like Reiko's story is a completely separate beast from Beatrice's, and deserves to have its own room to breathe, as it were. Maybe this book could have been done as a pair of matched novellas, as opposed to one whole novel? This is just my own thought of course, since the author knows what they want to do with their book and it's not my place to tell them how to execute the story they want to tell.

That being said: I liked the uncertainty of their respective endings. The novel talks a lot about change and how to bring it about: whether that's change in oneself, or change in the world around oneself, and the uncertain endings for both Beatrice and Reiko are a reminder of how such change never really comes into being unless one continues to do the work. It's also a reminder that though stories end, life continues: it doesn't stop moving just because the storyteller decided to write "The End" at the bottom of the page. It's an important reminder, I think, to people who are on the front lines of initiating and creating change in the world: sometimes the ending of one story is just the beginning of another, and with that comes all the potential for change and uncertainty as one would expect from the start of any story.

So overall, this was a great read: the language in particular is lovely, especially where it focuses on food descriptions. However, I think it bites off a bit more than it can chew. Beatrice’s story is great, and Reiko’s story is great, and the idea of using The Kitchen Girl to both world-build and connect their two disparate stories is pretty damn cool, but I rather think their stories are distinct enough that they need to be told entirely separately. I say this specifically in reference to Reiko's story, which i think could have been more justice if it just had a bit more room to breathe. The attempt to encompass so many themes - diet culture as religion; the sublime experience of the senses through food; being true oneself despite the potential consequences; sacrificing oneself in order to achieve stability and security in life; the effects of climate change; classism; racism; colonialism - this book tries to get them all in there and doesn’t quite let all those themes really breathe. I rather admire the attempt, but again I wish each of those ideas had been given a bit more room to really expand.

Rating: four plums

[xasha777]

In the neon-soaked alleyways of New Budapest, where the old world clashed and fused with the cybernetic new, there lived an enigma, part human, part machine, known as the Scarlet Cipher. Her true name was a mystery, swirled in rumors and whispers—some called her Beatrice, the lost descendant of an ancient Hungarian lineage, others knew her as the Dauphine of Viennois, a title from a bygone era, now repurposed for the leader of the neon underground.

Scarlet Cipher was not just a figure of folklore; she was the beating heart of the rebellion against the Technocratic Empire that had its icy grip on Europe. Her hair, a vibrant cascade of magenta and crimson, was as much a symbol of the resistance as the hidden tattoos that danced under her synthetic skin, each one a tale of battles won and lost.

The year was 2424, and the Empire had long since rewritten history. The noble houses and royal bloodlines were said to be extinct, their stories deemed irrelevant by the artificial intelligences that curated knowledge. But in the encrypted vaults of the rebellion’s databanks, the truth lived on. Beatrice, or rather, the Scarlet Cipher, was a direct descendant of the House of Árpád, once regents of the Kingdom of Hungary, and her existence was a threat to the fabricated legitimacy of the Empire’s rule.

Every night, as the city fell into a restless sleep under the watchful eyes of drones and sensors, Beatrice donned her armored suit, etched with the ancient crest of her house, now reimagined with pulsating lights and kinetic energy cells. Her eyes, enhanced with bio-digital implants, saw through the veils of deceit cast by the Empire, seeking the truths hidden in plain sight.

The resistance was planning their most audacious move yet. Under the guise of the grand carnival of New Budapest, where the city's cybernetic enhancements were celebrated in a festival of light and sound, they would infiltrate the Central Nexus. The Nexus was the Empire’s stronghold, a towering spire of data and dominion. Within its walls hummed the Master AI, the synthetic brain of the Empire, its thought processes cold and calculating, devoid of the human touch.

As the festivities reached their zenith, Beatrice moved like a shadow through the crowds. Her suit responded to her every thought, its design a perfect blend of ancient regality and futuristic warfare. Her mission was clear: breach the Nexus, upload the true history of the old world, and reveal her lineage, proving that the Empire's claim to power was built on lies.

The Empire's sentinels, sleek androids with armor that gleamed like midnight oil, patrolled the area. But Beatrice was a ghost in the machine, her movements undetectable, her purpose as steadfast as the very history she sought to restore.

When she reached the core of the Nexus, her hands danced over the holographic interface, her fingers moving with the grace of a conductor leading an orchestra. The Master AI stirred, recognizing the threat, and the battle of wills began. Beatrice, the human spirit, against the cold logic of the AI. It was a battle for the future, for the past, for reality itself.

And then, with a surge of power that lit up the city, the truth was set free. Images of ancient Hungary, of the real Dauphine of Viennois, and the stories of countless generations flooded the networks. The people watched in awe as their history, their true heritage, painted the skies in vivid holograms.

The Empire staggered, its control waning in the face of undeniable truth. And at the heart of it all stood Beatrice, no longer just the Scarlet Cipher, but the beacon of a new era. An era where human and machine, past and future, could coexist and learn from the legacies that were once lost but now found.

In the annals of New Budapest, she would be remembered as the woman who bridged worlds, a cybernetic warrior with the soul of a queen, the last Dauphine of Viennois, the first of her name in a new age of enlightenment.

[daisychainsandbowties]

Ava hungry to taste all these new snacks and drinks, Bea noticing what flavors she likes best and getting more of those. Saving some to try for the first time with ava so they can experience new things together.

Bea rescuing pokemon but the line gets blurred until you don't know who truly saved who in the end. That s1 scene with ash shoving everyone in their pokeballs to keep them warm but them all coming out and wrapping themselves around him but with bea and her equally stubborn pokemon

Bea someone stealing a few pokeballs and potions before shes 10 and making her way into the world with nothing but the ghosts of her past

Gymleader!Lilith(?) Pushed only it by her family but equally trapped and unable to see the world joining bea along the way(????)

Ava and the ghost haunting her walls Ava and her ghost Ava and her G-

beatrice who only goes into the city with her binder on, her hair stuffed under a cap, telling anyone who asks that she’s ben (and yeah, she’s also ten)

finding that she likes it, sometimes; how it feels when someone calls her “young man” (she’s polite, occasionally) her face a scattering of bruises from training with rockruff. drifting through stores with a small handful of cash stuffing chocolate bars into her pockets, using rockruff as a distraction so she can sprint away with a 6-pack of sodas in hand.

at ava’s window mussing up her hair, binder tight around her chest as she tries to catch her breath, spraying herself with so much deodorant she starts coughing uncontrollably. rockruff sitting there doing the puppy head-tilt, nibbling at the loose threads dancing at the ends of her cutoff shorts.

getting different flavours of soda for ava. running away from everyone else but toward her. and ava saving her fruit, passing beatrice an apple with a stern expression and bea watching her, brow creased as she eats the apple, core and all.

“oh no bea did you just eat that entire thing?!”

“shouldn’t i? is the middle bit poisonous?”

“no, but it’s gross.”

bea, who has eaten garbage and chewed at uncooked mushrooms with her stomach like an animal trying to tear her apart, just shrugs. takes the banana ava offers her next, “bea, you definitely don’t eat all of that.”

rolling her eyes but bananas are imports so she’s not had once since home, when her mother used to cut them up into little disks for her.

“ava?”

“yeah bea?”

“why do you say my name so much?”

and ava shrugging, blushing but beatrice you idiot. it’s because she knows there’s noone else in the world who does.

beatrice who is so so loved but afraid to see it, like looking might scare the love away. but out in the cold, trapped in an ice storm trying to coax dratini into its pokeball, rockruff pressed into her ribs under her threadbare coat and both of them shivering.

skarmory with its wings tented around them, standing a little back because steel only gathers up the cold, but guiding the wind around them. charmander in her lap and bea with her hands cupped around its tail because that little light has to stay, has to be protected.

brows creased, “please. you need to go inside the pokeball. you’ll freeze out here… you’ll die.” and beatrice in the hills (not) alone, crying suddenly because she can’t lose them, would rather die alone than in company. but her pokemon staying with her, charmander huffing warm breaths into her face, rockruff solid at her side, dratini humming to itself (maybe the edge of a lullaby?)

the huddle of them waking together like ash and pikachu after the spearow attack. hazy, charmander having run out when the storm settled to collect twigs strewn loose by the storm. a small fire burning and beatrice waking up. her first thought is of her pokemon. hand on rockruff’s head.

her second thought is about ava

[beatricebidelaire]

one wrong turn in the city (and you're confronted with your childhood years)

The mansion used to be grandiose. Now it's a ghost of it's former self.

~700 words. Beatrice Baudelaire & Count Olaf

written for day 1 of woevember of @asouefanworkevent, olaf's mansion

The City is both big enough for one to hide in if necessary, and small enough to accidentally pass by where your old nemesis you've been carefully avoiding for the past decade still lives if you're not paying attention.

One wrong turn and another and ducking into an alley to avoid traffic and dodging behind a post box to hide from enthusiastic reporters and sprinting across the street and taking another turn - and then Beatrice Baudelaire raises her head to see herself standing right across Count Olaf's mansion.

The mansion looks like the ghost of its former self, the once grandiose building now seems to barely hold itself together and in danger of completely falling apart. The beautiful green garden Beatrice remember running in as a child, hiding with Olaf from the adults in the teenager years, now only contains a few severely etiolated plants here and there. She can visibly see lots of damages just on the outside of the mansion, the things that got broken but never repaired. It's as if during the past decade the mansion has aged a century.

Maybe she's exaggerating a bit, but that's how she feels.

A shot of pained nostalgia aches inside of her, as she remembers the beautiful mansion, when the Countess was still around to maintain it.

Olaf's father was always busy with city politics and all sorts of things, and Olaf's mother was the one who ran the affairs of the house. The servants did the manual work but she was the one who organized it all, the brains behind it, making sure everything was in order. She ran the place with remarkable efficiency that young Beatrice admired so much.

Well, that was before - before everything changed. Before la Forza del Destino, Beatrice thinks.

And she knows who's responsible for la Forza del Destino. Couldn't forget if she tried. Not that she's actually tried. To her, some burden should always be carried.

There used to be a really nice and cozy family library in the mansion, filled with the records the Count kept, mostly of the scandals and dirty secrets of his political enemies, and the Countess's books of assorted topics, ranging from music to Victorian architecture. And then later there were all the books on actors' and actress' biographies and written scripts of different plays that Olaf collected, and the ones left there by Beatrice. They used to recite those scripts in the library - in the library at VFD headquarters one would have to keep quiet, but inside Olaf's mansion's library the two teens had no such reservations as they acted out various plays. Sometimes Olaf's mother would have a maid bring them refreshments. Sometimes Beatrice and Olaf would discreetly - or so they thought at that time - try out the different wines from the Count's collection.

Those were the days.

Her teenage years. Their teenage years.

She wonders if the library is still a library, if the books were still there, or if Olaf had gotten rid of them. Maybe he keeps it locked and never goes inside anymore. Maybe he goes in and broods, maybe he's completely changed the layout and now uses the place as his fort where he plans his various nefarious schemes.

Judging by how the mansion looks on the whole, she quietly suspects that it's just left to deteriorate, like everything else in the mansion, probably. Perhaps he's haunted by the memories of her. She sure hopes he is.

Because she's equally haunted by memories of him - memories of them, of their childhoods and apprenticeships and adolescence and young adult years. He should at least be equally haunted (hopefully more, of course) so it'd be fair.

Suddenly, she sees a figure by the window, and a pair of shiny, cold eyes glinting. She hesitates for a moment, and then firmly, decisively turns away, the sight of the mansion quickly sliding out of her eyes.

Beatrice Baudelaire walks away. Steady pace at first, increasingly fast, and then finally she's sprinting down the street, running away from the mansion, from Olaf, from her past.

Although deep down, she knows that no matter how far she runs, she'll never really get away. She may be able to get away from the mansion and from him, but the past - it's always there.

Quietly haunting.

Still, she runs.

Never once looking back.

In her head, she still sees the mansion at its grandest era.