Two months until Starfury Witchbomb 4, a fan convention for Warrior Nun, Wynonna Earp, and Motherland: Fort Salem - three female-led action/fantasy/scfi television series that celebrate found family and have exceptional queer representation. London, August 7-9, 2026
"It's even more powerful than her giving up the late-night show for Ava. That was about something she wanted in the past. What she's willing to do now, to spend more time with Ava, is to risk her future. To take that leap is, to us, the ultimate declaration of love."
Beatrice wasn’t sure how much alcohol Ava had consumed, she had lost track at some point. She had begged her to have some water, peanuts, anything, but Ava had been hard headed and knew exactly what she was doing.
She bounced her butt up, catching Ava’s thighs again. At least it didn’t look out of place. Plenty of people had stumbled out and they had left a straggler a street behind who kept insisting he was Harry Styles.
Thank God for her sneakers or else this would have looked more like she was pulling a dead body. Oh fuck. Did it look like she was carrying a dead body? Her pace increased out of pure fear. This literally could not be happening right now. She was done for. Ava’s fans would kill her. They wouldn’t even question her. They would tear her apart limb from limb in some sadistic medieval torture session while chanting along to one of their idol’s songs.
The incredibly talented Princington has sketched this adorable and utterly squeal worthy scene from the very first chapter of Liturgia.
Palmer Station AU Lilith always in short sleeves (Ava: you know you’re in Antarctica, right? Where the pencilguins are?) and everyone is a little concerned because she’s always underdressed and usually damp and never seems to notice it’s cold (Ava: it’s cold enough to freeze your tits off! Why is she in shorts? We know she’s tall, she doesn’t need to draw further attention to it.
Camila: She’s a horseshoe crab, that’s for sure.
Ava: … explain.
Beatrice: Survived 4 major extinction events but appears to be threatened. Apt.
Camila: Thanks. I would rather she just wore a jacket).
lilith who once spent hours every day swimming without a wetsuit in the atlantic, leaving her hoodie on a tree branch and her backpack with her gameboy and her snack bars wrapped in a tarp and rigged up on a length of repurposed bungee cord, because she read about big cats who pull their prey up into trees.
the first shock of water in the low celsius and how it made her feel so awake, so alive. and she’s addicted to that feeling, just a little, the body startled into bright awareness.
so at palmer while cam’s always going on about the insulative properties of wool, where even beatrice keeps quilts and her solar space heater and a good sturdy jacket up in her observatory, lilith is walking around in tank tops, hair wet on her shoulders, hands always chilly to touch so when cam tries to show her scales on the keyboard she ends up turned sideways on the upside-down bucket they use as a piano bench, cradling lilith’s hands in her hands and warming them with her breath.
faint notes of matcha and anise from her mouth and lilith wondering how she’d taste.
cam murmuring, ‘you’re freezing. doesn’t it hurt?’ and lilith shrugs.
she can’t look at cam while she speaks. afraid she’ll lose the words, or decide to do something else with her mouth. she’s not good at talking, learned ASL and ESL to let her speak with other divers underwater. in water, sound behaves differently.
‘most fish are cold-blooded. it allows them to live in broader temperature ranges. a useful adaptation for an environment that is traversable vertically and horizontally.’
cam humming, playing with her fingers now, finding the calluses, skin-texture shaped by years of performing certain, repetitive actions. lilith has a few from holding cutlery too tightly.
dark curls shifting as cam looks up. ‘you study that, right? adaptations.’
sign language underwater. backpacks in trees and a body growing fond of the cold. old manor houses with poor central heating and lilith curled up next to the fire downstairs while her mother is at dinner parties. waking up with a blanket over her, and for years convincing herself it was her father’s ghost. because she could not imagine her mother, tipsy in high-heels, smelling of cigarillo smoke, having the delicacy to cover up the small shape half-lit by the dying fire.
maybe she just didn't want to see it.
‘yes, among other things.’ lilith watches her fingers fold, unfold, as cam manipulates them. ‘some fish, like bluefin tuna, are warm-blooded. this allows them to swim on average around 1.6 times faster than other fish. an advantage, but it also makes them more vulnerable to the effects of climate change. temperature and habitat disruption.’
‘is that why you won’t wear a coat? are you afraid of adapting?’
cam’s eyes are shrewd, searching.
biting her lip, hands almost pulling out from the campfire of cam’s hands. ‘i- no i just… want to belong here. don’t like hiding from it, don’t like all the tight layers and the itchy heat. i like the water to decide how i feel.’
(so you don’t have to.)
camila is not so unkind as to say it, but her dark eyes are bathypelagic. deep, but home to things lilith loves.
‘i like to be free,’ she finishes. a bit lamely, in her mind, but cam only looks intrigued.
she curls lilith’s hands into two tight fists and returns them to her. they end up on her lap, peeling back apart like a pair of dead crabs.
‘but… sometimes adaptations are good, right?’
lilith shrugs, ‘yes, and sometimes they’re a cancer. evolution is a one-sided story. it’s not an artist’s sketch, or god. it’s chaos - just an account of a bunch of creatures who got lucky.’
she expects this to provoke a flinch, a wash of cold water, but camila only giggles, taps a few keys. the start of a tune lilith half-recognizes. familiar in the way a mouth can be even after a long time, with eyes closed.
‘you’re right.’ cam's eyes glitter. things live in the deep ocean where it’s dark. lilith knows this, but cam’s eyes make her believe it. ‘people can get used to the cold.’
her cold hands in cam’s warmth
‘but it’s okay to be warm sometimes?’ cam's voice hitches up at the end, so maybe it's a question. maybe she should answer.
lilith wonders if cam knows how to sign. she should teach her. it’s so useful for diving, for when a girl takes all the air out of the room.
cam turns bright, then. pelagic. ‘also, you don’t want to end up getting sick around me. i’ll make you so much tea you’ll start to hate me.’
impossible, lilith thinks. but all she does is nod, and look away.
#IRS forever barred from examing Trump or Trump family companies?
Not only is this another heinously corrupt act by the most corrupt administration in history, it’s clearly a violation of the law that prohibits interference by executive branch officials in IRS audits.
Republicans love the lawless selfishness of the Trump Crime Syndicate.
hi mara! pls enjoy a snippet from the avatrice soulmate au that's been sitting in my docs for almost four years now
One day, a horrible thing occurs.
Your string disappears.
Gone.
It happens without warning, without any fanfare. One moment you are training with Camila, easily parrying her staff back and away from you. Then the next, as you bring your left hand up to strike at Camila’s side – your movements freeze. Your muscles lock into place and your eyes go wide, disbelieving.
Camila doesn’t see you freeze – at least, not in time to stop the wooden stick from whacking you upside the head.
It’s a surprising hit, and neither of you are prepared for it. At first, Camila releases a victorious shout at finally getting a successful hit in, but it strangles halfway through into a noise that is mostly regret when she sees you staggering to the side, dazed and confused.
Camila drops her training stick and runs up to you, apologies firing off at a rapid pace, hands flittering around you, unsure where to land but hoping to bring some sort of comfort to you.
You ignore it all.
Your heart sinks, plummets like a stone thrown into a river, and you cannot look away from your stupid finger. Camila is touching you now, you hear her shouting for someone – Mary, most likely. Perhaps even Mother Superion – but your focus has not wavered.
You are suddenly filled with an overwhelming amount of remorse and anguish. Not for your own broken heart, but for this stranger. They deserved to have a full life, and you hope against all hope that they were happy.
But, you will never know. You will only ever have this nameless grief.
You’re being pulled to your feet, now. You stumble through the halls of the Cat’s Cradle until you feel your soft bed under you. Mary is speaking with you, and you feel yourself nodding your head. You don’t know what you’re agreeing to, but Mary is pushing you back softly onto your bed, and she’s pulling off your boots and tucking the blankets around you. You feel her slipping into the bed behind you, above the covers, and you feel yourself being hugged from behind.
You blink away the tears, and wonder how long they have been falling.
hi mara! pls enjoy a snippet from the avatrice soulmate au that's been sitting in my docs for almost four years now
One day, a horrible thing occurs.
Your string disappears.
Gone.
It happens without warning, without any fanfare. One moment you are training with Camila, easily parrying her staff back and away from you. Then the next, as you bring your left hand up to strike at Camila’s side – your movements freeze. Your muscles lock into place and your eyes go wide, disbelieving.
Camila doesn’t see you freeze – at least, not in time to stop the wooden stick from whacking you upside the head.
It’s a surprising hit, and neither of you are prepared for it. At first, Camila releases a victorious shout at finally getting a successful hit in, but it strangles halfway through into a noise that is mostly regret when she sees you staggering to the side, dazed and confused.
Camila drops her training stick and runs up to you, apologies firing off at a rapid pace, hands flittering around you, unsure where to land but hoping to bring some sort of comfort to you.
You ignore it all.
Your heart sinks, plummets like a stone thrown into a river, and you cannot look away from your stupid finger. Camila is touching you now, you hear her shouting for someone – Mary, most likely. Perhaps even Mother Superion – but your focus has not wavered.
You are suddenly filled with an overwhelming amount of remorse and anguish. Not for your own broken heart, but for this stranger. They deserved to have a full life, and you hope against all hope that they were happy.
But, you will never know. You will only ever have this nameless grief.
You’re being pulled to your feet, now. You stumble through the halls of the Cat’s Cradle until you feel your soft bed under you. Mary is speaking with you, and you feel yourself nodding your head. You don’t know what you’re agreeing to, but Mary is pushing you back softly onto your bed, and she’s pulling off your boots and tucking the blankets around you. You feel her slipping into the bed behind you, above the covers, and you feel yourself being hugged from behind.
You blink away the tears, and wonder how long they have been falling.
thinking about ava coming back through the arc, her & bea sparring a few weeks later when all the bruises have put themselves to bed and beatrice realising that ava’s better than her.
desperately blocking strike after strike. ava in a whirlwind of light with halo energies threaded through her bones and a white shine behind her teeth. drumming blow after blow, slipping free of holds as though her bones are made of water, as though the pain of pushing near the point of breaking is nothing to her.
ava spinning into a backhand she knows bea can block but she’s (un)holy. she’s faster, almost, than light or the disappearance of it.
blunt sound of knuckle striking flesh and bea stumbling back with a split lip dribbling blood down her chin.
the light sucking back inside ava in the blink of an eye, bright shadow-spots in her wake and beatrice stares at her.
ava’s eyes are wide, dark as unlit candles, meeting hers and she’s rushing forward. bea dizzy-drunk in her hands as they take her by the jaw and she feels something pour into her - the split lip sealing shut with a dash of halolight and ava pursuing it with a kiss. with “sorry, i’m sorry”
and how many times has beatrice not known her own strength? how many times has she sent opponents falling back stunned by her hands and then afraid of them, flinching from them? how many times has she hated herself for it; her body an edge too cutting to be held?
but ava touches her and nothing should be this easy. her lips are a bloodsmear and her face is familiar, here, home.
god has turned stranger to beatrice but she thinks god, she’s back. doesn’t thank him because it wasn’t his work.
she kisses ava hard enough to ignite the ghost of a bruise on her mouth again. gives thanks to someone - herself - because ava is a better fighter than her now, and maybe that means she can be the one who falls asleep first tonight.
Thank-you to all of my new Internet stranger friends for being so gracious about having my post shoved onto your dashboards. I loved reading all of your kind tags and comments! Both Martin and Bosco have been gone for several years now but for 24 hours, they felt very present in my life. I greatly appreciate this gift. ❤️
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