#title: an unkindness of ghosts

[havewereadthis]

"Odd-mannered, obsessive, withdrawn, Aster has little to offer folks in the way of rebuttal when they call her ogre and freak. She's used to the names; she only wishes there was more truth to them. If she were truly a monster, as they accuse, she'd be powerful enough to tear down the walls around her until nothing remained of her world, save for stories told around the cookfire.

Aster lives in the low-deck slums of the HSS Matilda, a space vessel organized much like the antebellum South. For generations, the Matilda has ferried the last of humanity to a mythical Promised Land. On its way, the ship's leaders have imposed harsh moral restrictions and deep indignities on dark-skinned sharecroppers like Aster, who they consider to be less than human.

When the autopsy of Matilda's sovereign reveals a surprising link between his death and her mother's suicide some quarter-century before, Aster retraces her mother's footsteps. Embroiled in a grudge with a brutal overseer and sowing the seeds of civil war, Aster learns there may be a way off the ship if she's willing to fight for it."

[fateandfragments-fanfiction]

Opposites in Sync - Professor!F!Reader x Professor!Dr. Veritas Ratio

University!Honkai Star Rail

Two professors navigate the complexities of their romantic relationship amidst clashing teaching styles and workplace dynamics, finding harmony in their differences while balancing love and rivalry.

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The faculty lounge was unusually quiet for a Monday morning, save for the occasional hum of the coffee machine. [Name] sat at one of the small tables by the window, scrolling through her tablet and reviewing her lecture notes for the week. She liked to start her mornings here, enjoying the soft sunlight and the rare moments of calm before the day began.

The door creaked open, and she didn’t need to look up to know who it was. The deliberate cadence of footsteps and the faint scent of familiar cologne—it could only be Dr. Vanitas Ratio.

“Professor,” Ratio greeted, his tone clipped but not unkind. “You’re here early.”

[Name] glanced up, meeting his gaze with a small, knowing smile. “And you’re cutting it close. Let me guess—first-year data modeling today?”

Ratio sat across from her, setting his pristine leather-bound notebook on the table with almost theatrical precision. “Indeed. Which means another hour of explaining why shortcuts are the enemy of progress.” He sighed, as if the very idea exhausted him. “Your class?”

“Third-years,” [Name] replied. “Advanced applications in behavioral datasets. It’s less about lecturing and more about letting them figure things out themselves.”

Ratio’s brow furrowed slightly, the faintest hint of disapproval crossing his features. “Letting them ‘figure it out’ leads to half-baked analyses.”

“And treating them like automatons means they’ll freeze the moment they hit an unexpected variable,” she countered, her tone even but firm.

This was a familiar back-and-forth for them. Ratio, ever the perfectionist, believed in rigorous discipline, his lectures meticulously structured and his expectations borderline impossible. [Name], on the other hand, leaned into practicality, knowing that real-world data work required flexibility and adaptability. Their approaches clashed constantly, but never more so than when they found themselves in joint meetings or, worse, joint lectures.

The tension only made their relationship more complicated. Outside the university, they were perfectly in sync—partners who balanced each other’s quirks and supported each other through thick and thin. But in the workplace? They were oil and water, and everyone on the faculty knew it.

“Speaking of half-baked analyses,” Ratio said, his tone a shade too casual. “I reviewed the midterm submissions from your research methods seminar. A few of them could use stricter standards.”

[Name] set her tablet down, crossing her arms as she gave him a pointed look. “My standards are fine, thank you. Maybe if you weren’t so busy terrorizing your students, they’d actually learn to think for themselves.”

“Terrorizing?” Ratio arched an eyebrow, his lips curving into the faintest of smirks. “I prefer to call it setting high expectations. They rise to the occasion.”

“They drop your course the moment they hit a roadblock,” she shot back, but her voice softened slightly. “Ratio, you’re brilliant, but you can’t expect every student to have your level of precision.”

“And you,” he said, leaning forward, “are too forgiving. This isn’t a hand-holding exercise; it’s preparation for a competitive field.”

[Name] exhaled sharply, shaking her head as a wry smile ghosted across her face. “How do you make being stubborn look so effortless?”

Ratio leaned back, his gaze steady and unflinching. “It’s a gift—and clearly one that hasn't made you walk away from me yet.”

-----

Later that week, their contrasting teaching styles became the talk of the department when they were scheduled to co-lead a workshop for second-year students. The topic was “Approaches to Analyzing Complex Data”—a title that somehow seemed tailor-made for conflict.

The workshop began smoothly enough, with [Name] outlining the fundamentals while Ratio provided a historical context. But as the students broke into small groups to work on a practical exercise, the differences in their approaches became glaringly obvious.

“Your variables are redundant,” Ratio said to one group, his tone firm. “Eliminate what doesn’t contribute directly to your analysis. Efficiency is key.”

[Name], passing by the same group a moment later, paused to glance at their work. “He’s not wrong,” she said gently, “but it’s okay to leave some redundancies while you’re testing. They help you catch errors before they compound.”

Ratio gave her a look—half-annoyed, half-amused. “You’re undermining me.”

“I’m tempering you,” she corrected with a smile.

The students exchanged uncertain glances, caught in the crossfire of two titans of the field. One brave soul raised a hand. “So… should we keep the redundancies or not?”

[Name] and Ratio both answered at the same time.

“Yes.”

“No.”

The room went silent. [Name] bit her lip to stifle a laugh, while Ratio pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath about “consistency.”

That evening, after the workshop ended and the students filed out, [Name] lingered in the now-empty classroom, tidying up stray papers and unplugging the projector. Ratio leaned against the desk, watching her with an inscrutable expression.

“You could have let me have that one,” he said after a moment.

“And miss the chance to save those poor students from a meltdown?” she teased, glancing at him over her shoulder. “Never.”

Ratio chuckled softly, shaking his head. “You know, if we were any other couple, this would be grounds for a relationship-ending argument.”

“We’re not any other couple,” [Name] said simply, setting down the last of the papers. “We balance each other. Even when we’re driving each other crazy.”

He moved closer, his hand brushing against hers as she straightened up. “You’re something else,” he murmured, though his eyes softened with quiet affection.

“The door's right there if you want to leave,” she replied, a playful smirk tugging at her lips.

Ratio sighed, his lips twitching into a reluctant smile. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”

And as they locked up the classroom together, the day’s arguments felt like distant echoes of a rhythm they had long since mastered. For all their differences, they worked.

The cool evening air greeted them as they stepped out of the building, the campus quiet now that most of the students had retreated to dorms or study halls. [Name] tucked her hands into the pockets of her coat, her eyes briefly catching the golden glow of streetlights reflecting off the damp pavement. Ratio walked beside her, his posture relaxed but his mind clearly still processing the day.

“Do you ever stop thinking about work?” she teased, nudging his arm gently.

Ratio smirked but didn’t look at her. “Only when there’s something more compelling to think about.”

[Name] rolled her eyes, her lips twitching into a smile despite herself. “And here I was, hoping you’d say something romantic. I should’ve known better.”

“You, of all people, should know I don’t waste words on clichés,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Though I could argue you’re compelling enough to distract me.”

She stopped mid-step, her brow lifting in mock surprise. “Was that… a compliment? From Dr. Ratio himself?”

He paused a few paces ahead of her, turning with a faintly amused expression. “Don’t get used to it. You’ll start expecting them, and we can’t have that.”

[Name] shook her head, catching up to him with an exasperated laugh. “You’re lucky I’ve got a soft spot for difficult people.”

They continued down the path toward the parking lot, the banter fading into a comfortable silence. It was moments like this—when the world felt slower, quieter—that reminded [Name] why she’d taken the risk of pursuing a relationship with someone so different from her. Ratio could be exasperating, stubborn, and infuriatingly meticulous, but beneath that sharp-edged exterior was a man she trusted implicitly.

As they reached her car, [Name] turned to face him, leaning casually against the door. “Thanks for sticking around tonight. I know those workshops aren’t your favorite thing.”

Ratio tilted his head, his eyes scanning her face as though cataloging every detail. “They’re tolerable,” he said after a moment. “Mostly because you’re there to soften the blow.”

“Careful,” she said with a smirk, crossing her arms. “If you keep being nice to me, I might think you’re going soft.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied, stepping closer, his voice lowering. “But I do have a reputation to uphold—stern, demanding, impossible to please.”

She tilted her head, her gaze playful. “You forgot ‘secretly charming.’”

Ratio’s lips twitched into a faint smile as he leaned in, his hand bracing against the car beside her. “That stays between us,” he murmured, his voice warm and teasing.

[Name] didn’t reply, but the smile on her face said enough. They were worlds apart in how they worked, taught, and navigated life, but in moments like this, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the way they fit together, balancing each other in ways neither of them would ever openly admit but both deeply understood.

And as the faint sound of campus bells chimed in the distance, Ratio pressed a quick, almost imperceptibly soft kiss to her temple before pulling back with a grin. “Don’t be late tomorrow, dear. The department head loves punctuality.”

“I’m always on time,” [Name] replied, her tone laced with mock indignation as she opened her car door. “You, on the other hand, might want to set an extra alarm.”

He laughed, stepping back and watching as she slid into the driver’s seat. “Goodnight dear,” he said, his voice lingering just a little longer than necessary.

“Goodnight Ratio,” she replied, the warmth in her voice undeniable as she started the car.

As she drove away, [Name] couldn’t help but glance in the rearview mirror, catching one last glimpse of him standing there, hands in his pockets, watching her leave.

Yes, they drove each other crazy at work. But that chaos was part of what made them work so well.

~Fin~

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[michimonie]

Mickey's Christmas Carol Storybook

It's just rotting on my shelf anyway, so why not post it?

PDF version

Mickey's Christmas Carol Title

It was Christmas Eve. But old Ebenezer Scrooge didn't care that it was the best holiday of the year! Poor Bob Cratchit, who worked for Scrooge, had to ask if he could have Christmas Day off. It took all of Cratchit's courage to face his mean boss.

"Christmas!" shouted the miserly Scrooge. "Bah, humbug!"

But he gave his permission. Poor Cratchit hurried home to his family before Scrooge could change his mind.

Just then, Scrooge's nephew Fred stopped by. "Come join us for Christmas dinner, Uncle," he offered.

The old man just scowled. "Christmas! Bah, humbug!" was his only reply, as he shooed Fred out the door.

After counting his money, Scrooge left for home. Sinking into

his favorite chair after a bit of dinner, Scrooge began to doze off. Suddenly, he sat up with a start!

CLINK-CLANK-CLINK! The ghost of Jacob Marley, Scrooge's dead business partner, was walking toward him in chains, moaning and groaning.

"I was selfish," said the ghost. "As I carry these chains through eternity, so will you, Scrooge!"

"No!" Scrooge cried. "I must be dreaming. It can't be.

Help me, Jacob. Tell me what I must do!"

"Tonight," Marley said, "three spirits will visit you. Listen to them and do as they say."

When the ghost disappeared, Scrooge shook his head. I need sleep, he thought. Perhaps it was a bit of indigestion.

He had fallen asleep when the alarm clock rang. There on his night table stood a little

fellow. "I am the ghost of Christmas Past," he said. The ghost held out his hand. "I'll take you to a Christmas of long ago." Scrooge and the spirit flew through the air.

They stopped at a house filled with music and laughter and people. There was a holiday party going on.

"Why that's me, when I was young!" Scrooge sighed.

"There's old Fezziwig. He gave me my first job. And there's my lovely Isabel."

The spirit reminded Scrooge that gold had taken the place of love in his heart. Scrooge turned away. "I don't want to see any more. Please, Spirit, take me home."

Suddenly, the alarm rang once more. "I must have been dreaming again," Scrooge said, rubbing his eyes.

"Fee, fi, fo, fum!" yelled a voice. There sat a giant,

surrounded by a huge feast.

"What's all this?" Scrooge demanded.

"It's the food of generosity," the giant explained. "And that's something you know nothing about! I'm the ghost of Christmas Present. Come! See what's happening tonight." Scrooge followed the ghost to a tiny house.

He looked through the cracked window. It was Bob Cratchit's place. "What

a poor dinner they're having," Scrooge said sadly.

Then he asked, "What's wrong with the little lad?"

"Tiny Tim is very ill," said the giant. "He needs good food to make him strong and well. Pay his father more so he can buy his family enough to eat..." The giant's voice faded, and then he was gone.

Suddenly, Scrooge heard another voice behind him. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come," it said.

Scrooge turned to find himself in a graveyard. "Whose

lonely grave is this?" he asked meekly.

"It belongs to a very rich man," the ghost said, "a man who was so selfish and unkind that he had no friends." The ghost waited for Scrooge's reaction.

Then Scrooge read the name of the stone. He couldn't believe his eyes! It was his very own grave!

"Oh, give me another chance!" cried Scrooge. "Tell me

it's not too late to change my ways."

Scrooge kept pleading with the spirit until he woke up. There he was, alive and well and right in his own bed! Scrooge leaped out of bed with joy. It wasn't too late — he hadn't missed Christmas after all. There was time to make up for his past mistakes.

He dressed quickly and rushed outside. First he tossed

bags of money to the men collecting for the poor. Then he promised his nephew he would come to dinner after he made one stop.

Scrooge hurried over to Bob Cratchit's house. He

brought toys for Tiny Tim and the other children and a wonderful Christmas dinner for everyone.

Cratchit and his wife were never more surprised or pleased than by Scrooge's change of heart. Scrooge made a promise to this family that from this day on they would

never want for anything. What a Christmas miracle for the Cratchit and for Ebenezer Scrooge!

Tiny Tim had just one thing to say. "God bless us, every one!"

[crowbird]

| LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO ; l. kennedy x gn!reader

| WORD COUNT ; 4.1k | RELATIONSHIP ; leon scott kennedy x gn!reader | PLEASE NOTE ; post-re2 pre-re4, freshly coerced recruited leon kennedy, mention of mold, implied referenced familial alcoholism, reader has a service dog, that's not a warning i just need you to know | CROW’S NOTE ; as promised the credit for the title of this fic lies solely with the love of my life @realdarknesshasloveforaface thank you for beta-reading for a man you don't know jack shit about, there's another note at the end because fic spoilers, wrote this kicking my feet and giggling an shit.

Claustrophobia clung to the archives. A coffin wherein the corpses of documents best left forgotten lay without wake. A shallow grave dug several stories beneath the ground but not deep enough to be a proper burial. The ghosts of misfiled-paperwork-past hung over his shoulder as he stood in the doorway, breathing down his neck in the form of the artificial chill of air conditioning. The box in his arm, a makeshift urn laden with papers classified to even the highest of persons, ready to join its brethren amongst the shelves. Dust in the place of ashes as it would sit untouched until the day it met a delayed cremation. No words of the archives must be remembered; dust will accumulate but when words are discarded they will leave only ashes.

Leon Kennedy was not sure why he, of every possible errand boy, was asked to run this down to The Archivist. Perhaps it was because he was the rookie. Not a rookie, the rookie, once again, although he liked to think the first time didn’t really count. You can’t exactly be a rookie at one’s job when your place of work has been rendered so… sick, it no longer lives. But he was the newest personnel within the STRATCOM’s office, fresh out of training and newly coerced into a government position he did not want. 

But that was not why he was here, well, it was. But that’s not why he was in the archives. In the archives, making mildly uncomfortable eye contact with a cat barely larger than his foot. The creature, normal and alive by all accounts he could know, let out a yawn. It’s jaw unhinged in the same way only a cat’s can do, displaying a mouth the same size as it’s torso before returning to form. The cat let out a small mewl before blinking up at him, as if indicating it was Leon’s turn. 

Leon’s turn for what? He had absolutely no idea.

Shuffling from further inside the archives drew his attention, “I see you’ve met that one already…” The voice was tired but not unkind, soft but far from gentle. The Archivist came into view, they seemed like the sort of person that no matter their stature looked smaller than they were. Most people fill out space in a room, The Archivist seemed to take up negative space, wherein the air was not there. Unnerving was a good word for it, but there was kindness behind their eyes as they approached him. They held themselves with the sort of careful, tentative control only someone who knows exactly how much space they take up and how much strength is behind them can wield. As if they were worried they would scare him off, crush him like he was the kitten at his feet rather than the man he was.

They made a clicking noise with their tongue against their teeth, gesturing towards the creature as it scampered over to them. 

Leon could only stare for a moment, stare at the place they stood as they scooped the kitten up into their arms and placed them within the pocket of the cardigan that dwarfed them. Everyone he had seen either wore a military uniform or a suit, sometimes both. The exceptions were the occasional secretary in office casual but The Archivist’s attire just seemed homey. Soft, warmer than what they would probably wear if they weren’t spending their working hours in the coldest part of the building.

“Hi,” they said, giving their name, “I’m not overly familiar with everyone upstairs but I assume you’re relatively new if you’ve been condemned to an archival run.” There was no humour in their words but they were neither cruel nor dry. Simply a fact, stated to his face as if it was normal. It must have been, he would later learn it was.

“Yeah,” he coughed, his voice had left his throat embarrassingly choked up. “Yes.” He said again, as if to negate his previous attempt, but The Archivist said nothing after and kept their gaze trained on his, unnerving and full and empty eyes meeting blue stained with the melancholy of a certain sunrise in 1998. “You aren’t going to deny it?”

“Hm?”

Leon swallowed, doing everything in his power to ignore the gaze that shifted from his eyes to his adam’s apple at the action, slowly trailing back to his lips as he spoke again. “I mean the rumors? You said it yourself that I was condemned to come down here,” he tried to laugh, add some brevity to his words, lighten the mood if you will. The Archivist made no change in expression, but moved their focus from his lips as they twisted down into an awkward sort of grimace.

“What do you think?”

“What?”

“The rumours, do you think that they’re true?” The Archivist sounded almost amused now. “I don’t actually know what most of them are but I heard the Marines think I’m some old man who lost his mind in the war and that’s why they keep me down here. Can’t spill any government secrets that way.”

Leon bit back a grin, only mildly successful as he handed them the box of documents, surprised but not displeased when they motioned for him to follow rather than leave. “Why are you down here then? Other than the obvious, the obvious being you took a job as an archivist I mean.” He tacked on the last sentence hurriedly.

The Archivist snorted, “I am down here because people like us do not have the liberty to choose our careers, they get chosen for us.”

The chill that had settled on Leon’s skin must have sunk down into his blood at their words. He licked his lips, he could not see their expression. Their pace did not falter a step or three ahead of him as they led him past a particularly packed shelf of floppy disks. They took a left here and led him to a door, stepping aside and turning to meet his gaze seemingly at last.

“Would you mind?”

“What?” He breathed, barely above a whisper.

“The door, my hands are filled,” they lifted the box they were holding as if to make a point and Leon found himself choking on his own embarrassment for what must have been the third time in the last half-hour.

“Right, of course.” He opened the door, and they nodded inside, telling him with oh so little subtlety to go in before they did. Leon licked his lips, absentmindedly tracing over where they had cracked. “Hey, do you know why they asked me to bring these down here?” The question was a little hurried, a little rushed, not even fully finished before he was cut off.

“Confidentiality risk, you know about BOWs already, if they made an intern do it like they do for marines or air force that might raise some questions. I’m not even the only archivist, the others just don’t work down here, I just handle this specific flavour of work.” They remarked, leading him into the room proper.

“I thought you were The Archivist?” The question sounded stupid, but they seemed to agree with him.

“I don’t know the others, I’m just told they exist by upper management, between you and me I think that’s a load of bullshit. No competent archivist would use whatever filing systems’ the air force has going on out there.” They set the box down on the desk with a huff, offering Leon an unspoken chance to observe the room.

It was an office. A desk older than the building itself, (although not in the antique sort of way) in the almost center of the room pushed back closer to the wall, the chair behind it looked out of place with how obviously it was from IKEA. A large dog blinked lazily up at the man from his corner, a service vest hanging next to him on a hook drilled into the wall. The shelves were filled with trinkets, and while there were no windows, there were enough lamps to make up for it. The overhead fluorescent lights were left untouched and the room felt all the safer for it. 

The Archivist was pulling out one of the standard lanyards all employees were given. A parking pass, an id card for the office as well as any additional access keys if called for. Finding the right one, they placed it between their fingers before pausing, as if contemplating something. Wincing as they remembered whatever it must have been they reached down into their jacket pocket and procured a disgruntled looking kitten who honestly speaking, Leon had forgotten about.

“Would you mind carrying that again? I know this is getting rather convoluted in terms of storage.” They asked, gesturing to the box as they crossed the room to a door he hadn’t noticed. In his defense, a coat rack was placed in front of it and he watched them move it out of the way, careful as to not dislodge any of its inhabitants. The door was then unlocked and he promptly followed them in.

“Any reason why it would be so convoluted?” he asked, not expecting an answer.

“I assume it’s because the United States government didn’t ever consider zombies as a viable threat, psychic soviets? Of course. Corporations funding the creation of the undead? Not so much. So all of the bio-terrorism of this nature ends up back here because there isn’t space in the main archives to be afforded for it, that and another seven layers of confidentiality.”

Leon nodded, it made sense, and then their earlier words caught up to him, “Wait psychic soviets?”

“It was a cold war thing.”

“You’re serious.”

“You are carrying a box of files about how a company named after a house hold object decided to fuck around and find out and the fact that the united states government fell for a ruse from a single USSR broadcast is the part you find hard to believe?”

It was then that the dam broke so to speak, and rather than a floodgate of tears, for the first time since Racoon City, Leon found himself laughing. Genuine honest laughter, not from shock or horror, not a chuckle at a joke but a deep and joyful sound which fell from his lips in waves.

“I fail to see what is so funny.” The Archivist muttered, taking the box from him lest he drop it in his fit. He could see a glint of amusement in their eyes. He made no comment on it.

“Sorry, sorry—”

“Don’t apologize, it’s good to hear someone laugh.”

“I— ahem. Right, well, I actually. Okay.” He took a breath, collecting his thoughts before he finally managed to spit out the words that had been plaguing his curiosity for so long. “What did you mean when you said people like us earlier?”

The Archivist looked at him from where they were, further into the room as they pushed the box onto a shelf, “Umbrella isn’t a company exclusive to the states.”

“You’re not American?”

“I don’t even have American citizenship. It’s complicated.”

“As complicated as Racoon City?” Leon said, taking a shot in the dark, blind and no semblance of a target and yet he still managed to hit it.

“Yes, something like that.” They nodded, “I won’t pry if you don’t. But don’t expect any pity or sympathy from me, I don’t do that sort of thing.”

“I can get behind that.” He folded his arms as he looked at them. When most people found out he had been there, they tiptoed around the issue, making care not to mention it. If they did it was with honey words and strained condolences. But The Archivist glanced back at him and  seemed to flush if only for a moment, an action odd considering he could not see any blood rush to their face. But it was the way they stiffed and straightened before avoiding his gaze, it was endearing he decided. Having someone not tip toe around him was refreshing for sure… but unlike the others who might not talk around the subject, The Archivist did not dismiss it. 

“Okay one last question, what’s with the cat? Also the dog?” Leon was grinning now.

“That was two questions, Agent Kennedy.”

“Humour me?”

“Fine, but let’s get back to my office, I hate being back here, it always smells vaguely of mold.”

“I don’t smell anything?”

“Probably because there isn’t any mold.”

“Why do you smell it then?”

The Archivist hesitated, he could see it as they passed him swiftly that they hadn’t meant to make note of the smell out loud. Leon guessed they must have driven themselves into a corner, gotten too comfortable and let something slip. He’d done it once before, when sparing he’d made a joke if Krauser’s favourite colour was also red after he had his ass handed to him by the man. Krauser had proceeded to grill him on what he meant by that, and Leon shut down, not wanting to think about his infatuation withfor the stranger from Racoon City that fell with her down into the pit.

So he didn’t let them speak about it and instead offered a door, figuratively and literally as he held the door for them to their office, “Seriously, are you even allowed to have pets down here?”

The Archivist relaxed, striding past him into their office with a shrug, “would you like something to drink? Also Link isn’t a pet he’s a working boy thank you very much, he’s just on his break.” They said, gesturing to their dog.

“He’s a service dog then?”

“Yeah, there’s a reason I’m down here and not being forced to play pet for the higher ups.” They froze, winced and coughed, “no offense.”

“None-taken,” amused more than offended, Leon took another glance around the room. On the top left corner of the book shelf a cactus was bathing under a led lamp and a poorly carved wooden statuette next to it. The statue might have been a bird, if he squinted, when he didn’t it looked rather like a fish.

“Hot chocolate or tea.” The question tore him away from the not-fish-but-in-fact-bird-maybe statue. “To drink I mean.”

“No coffee?”

“I despise coffee.”

Leon took note of  that for later. Why? He hadn’t quite decided yet.

“So if Link is a service dog, what’s with the cat?”

“She has separation anxiety.”

He blinked, looked at them again from where they stood next to an electric burner, avoiding his gaze. A cartoon of milk was taken from the mini-fridge and he grinned, “the good stuff then? Not just water?”

“Hot chocolate made with water is an abomination.”

“Do you keep a burner and pot in your office exclusively for that?”

“All the staff rooms are above the main floor. I don't want to have to trek all the way up there every time, I can just rinse it in the bathroom sink when I’m done. I am the only one down here.”

“Wait, it's just you down here? You said there are other archivists supposedly but aren’t there also like assistants or something?”

“I can’t spill any government secrets if I’m too busy to even spill a drink. Do you have a mug preference?”

“Er, no. Also sorry for asking.”

“You don’t set my shifts, you have nothing to apologize for.”

“Right, sorry.”

“Leon.”

He looked up, they were holding two mugs, one of which had “hey listen” painted on in fancy text next to a blue pall of light wearing insect wings, the other mug was covered in text too small for him to read where he stood. “Yes?” His voice almost cracked, thank god it didn’t, he might have died, curled up in the only room of the archives that wasn’t a coffin and melted into the space in between the floorboards to rot if it had.

“You don’t have to apologize for everything, if you can’t think of anything to say that’s fine. I’m not normally this chatty anyways, you aren’t the only one in unfamiliar territory.”

Leon took the mug, the one with the strange little insect, (maybe it was supposed to be an artistic rendition of a fairy?) from them, sipping the rich sweet drink inside. “I haven’t been around people properly much.” He admitted, “I used to be good at talking to them but…”

“It’s been hard?”

“Yeah.”

“If you ever want practice you’re welcome down here.” The words surprised The Archivist as much as they did him. He watched as they looked away from him, hiding behind their mug as they took a long drink, before immediately making their way to the desk. “But it might also be in your best interest to get a companion, someone to keep you company, for example,” they rambled on, “this little guy.”

They pointed at the cat and he stared at them, swallowing quickly to prevent his hot chocolate from dribbling back into his cup from the shock. Only to end up choking on it. Recovering he frowned, looking at The Archivist, then at the cat and then The Archivist again. “I’m not much of a cat person?”

They looked at him over the rim of their mug, eyes digging past his excuses to scrutinize his very soul. It was a lie, obviously. Leon wasn’t a bad liar persay, but in the presence of The Archivist he might as well have been Pinocchio for his cues were quite obvious. All in all, he was neither a cat or a dog person, but he liked them both fine. He had enjoyed the brief amount of training he did with police dogs and had grown up cat-sitting for an elderly lady down the street. He was never quite sure where she went when he was watching her old ginger tom but the pay was decent enough to prevent any complaints. Besides, it made sense, the poor creature not only had its head filled with rocks and screwed on backwards but it might as well have been a comedy act with how stupid it could be. Leon could not remember that cat’s name for the life of him, but he liked to tell himself that it made those years of his childhood worth it. 

“You’re going to have to get better at lying if you want to stay in this line of work, Agent.” they said, something like a smile twitching at their expression.

“I’m normally a fine liar,” he defended.

“Normally?”

“Uh…”

“Do I make you nervous, agent Kennedy? I’m flattered.”

Leon took a page out of their book then, choosing to hide any proof of how flustered he was with a long swig from his mug. The chocolate was sweet and warm and flooded him with a comfort he hadn’t felt in quite some time. The feeling could have been mistaken for nostalgia if he had anything to miss.

“I told you not to call me that.”

“What should I call you then?”

“Leon.”

“Alright Leon.”

Okay maybe that was a mistake, he thought to himself. There was nothing special about The Archivist like there had been about the stranger in red (who’s name was probably a lie but he did not want to remember regardless). That person had been perfect, so inhumanly perfect that he found infatuation born of the trauma the situation had given birth to, was projected onto her from their first meeting. It was a high, he’d never done drugs but he was sure that’s what it must feel like. That rush of endorphins that flooded him.

Yet when he came down from that high and things were so much worse and he was left to contemplate the consequences of actions taken with a mind not fully there from stress. If drugs were anything like that high he decided he would never do them as long as he lived.

(Although he would lie to himself that alcohol didn’t count, some habits are in people’s blood after all).

 But The Archivist offered the company of someone who knew that high, although he did not know how, they all but confirmed it if only in a different place or a different time. It was reassuring. For starters, there was something about the sheer normalcy they offered, they did not treat him as special, or a hero, or anything but another person.

He had wanted to be a hero once, and in some ways he still did. Giving up one’s freedom to save a little girl they barely knew could be considered quite the heroic act. 

(Between him, the bottle and eventually his grave, he regretted that decision sometimes. Only to drink all the more if only to drown out the self hatred that stirred.) 

The kitten at his feet, when had the kitten gotten back to his feet? He didn’t know. Regardless, the kitten at his feet let out a mewl as she stretched, paws placed on his overly polished shoes. When she retraced her paws Leon could make out the slightest of intents from where her claws had flexed into the leather.

“I think you should try it, it seems like she likes you after all.” He didn't need to look at The Archivist to know they were grinning now, he could hear it in their voice as he heard them take their seats. 

“I can’t look after a cat, I’m expected to be out of the country on missions half the time and in here working my ass off the other quarter.” Leon said, squatting down to scratch behind the creature’s ears as she purred affectionately, practically rolling into his hand at the action.

“I can cat sit while you’re away.”

“Is no an option?”

“Of course it’s an option, you just look like you need the company. Not in a bad way.”

If anyone else had told him that he thinks he would be insulted, rightfully so as well, but there was no mocking tone. There was no scathing look. There was no judgment. There was simply, a sad comradery shared between two people in that moment. If he had gone to the weekly therapy sessions like he was supposed to he might have had a stronger foundation to refuse. But the walls of an argument made of wet paper had long since caved in.

“If, if I did adopt her, when would I be able to take her home.” He asked, words soft and far more vulnerable than he was comfortable with.

“Whenever it works for you, sooner rather than later, preferably. When you have away missions just let me know and I can let her stay at my place, she’ll be down here with me whenever you want to pick her up.” The Archivist said, they didn’t look at him, eyes fixed on the papers strewn across their desk. He was grateful for the privacy that action offered.

He nodded, remembered they weren’t looking at him and made a sound of affirmation. Straightening his posture, Leon took a final drink from the mug, his question as to where he should place it cut off as The Archivist simply gestured for him to set it down off to the side of their desk. He did, a little guiltily, before clearing his throat, as he readied himself to leave. “Thank you for the drink.”

“Of course, it was my pleasure.”

“I’ll pick her up tomorrow after work, does that work for you?” 

“Yes, just come down here before you leave.”

“When do you get off?”

“I promise you I will still be here when you leave.” they looked up, amusement and a wry smile painted their face before they did a double take at Leon's own expression.

“That’s not the only reason why I was asking,” he shrugged, doing his best to play it off, as he backed out of their office, hand fumbling for their door knob behind him. Leon didn’t turn away to open the door, no, he wanted to meet their eyes one more time.

“We’re friends now, right?” The Archivist asked.

“I think so.”

Leon was in the elevator, three floors above ground level when his brain finally processed everything. He had a cat, and he had a friend. Maybe? He wasn’t sure that was how friendships worked, none of his past ones had come about like that. Maybe that was fine though. 

By the time he had arrived back on his floor he had forgotten the rumors he’d heard of the archives and it’s graves-keeper. The tomb and stench of mold were all but forgotten as Leon’s mind flicked back and forth to everything he remembered about various cat food brands and the typical first day anxieties of a new workplace, thankfully not involving the undead this time, mostly.

| SONG ; like real people do by hozier

| TAGLIST ; @lysol1201 @uhlunaro (join my murder of crows here)

| CROW'S NOTE CONT. ; useless information but the reason this part is in third person is because Leon went into the interaction not knowing the archivist, from now on they will be referred to by narration with you/your pronouns since i'm largely aiming to tell it from his pov, i will continue to refer to them with they/them pronouns. if anyone has thoughts or feelings about them send me requests because i will write them for these two. also yes, yes i am in fact implying shit about the reader's backstory. yes i am talking about that mold. yes they are not american, while it will never been specified where they are from yes they do at least have one relative from eastern europe, do with this information as you will :)

all works related to some form of published and copyrighted media showcased on this blog are fanworks and i do not own the source material that being said do not copy, modify, translate, claim, or repost my work to any other social media platform, same goes with using it for asmr audios, please do not use my work or i can and will reformat your anatomy

[tsunflowers]

book review corner double feature: generation ship edition. I read two generation ship novels and one was better than expected and the other was worse than expected

"medusa uploaded" by emily devenport was not as good as I hoped :( this is a novel about a woman from the community of worms (lower class citizens) onboard a generation ship who begins to systematically assassinate and manipulate the executives (upper class citizens) with the help of a sentient tentacled bodysuit named medusa. it sounds very good but unfortunately it lacked focus. there were a lot of plot elements and reveals that made the story feel meandering. I felt that the protagonist's dialogue and narration didn't always fit the mood and setting (she says things like "what the what?" and "I know, right?"). and maybe most importantly, there was no reason given for why some people are worms and some are executives. in a story like this the upper class needs to be feeding propaganda to the lower class so the protagonist can rise above it and maybe expose the truth in front of everyone. maybe I've just been spoiled by rivers solomon saying "it's chattel slavery" in "an unkindness of ghosts" but more than anything else the fact that some people have privilege over others just because and the book makes no attempt to explain or interrogate that made it fall flat for me

"generation ship" by michael mammay surprised me. I was ready to write it off based on the title being way too literal, and mr mammay is an army guy who mostly writes military sf. but I think that background of his gave the book the feel of a police procedural for me. we jump between five pov characters who each have their own interests and you just kinda watch the moving parts as you read. at the start of the book the ship is within a year of reaching the planet they've been traveling to and tensions are rising. the governor is trying to amass power and accidentally gains rivals in the form of a cop and an opposition group, and then the information they receive as they close in on the planet destabilizes the situation further. a lot of stuff happens at the end but I can't say it wasn't seeded throughout the book so I can't be mad. and I appreciated that the author knew people can be gay or nonbinary. he didn't really do anything interesting with that but it's a bar some people can't even clear. there was a nice plotline with a female scientist pov character whose husband is really excited that they've been cleared to have a baby but she doesn't really care and people keep trying to manipulate her with it like "well she's a woman so she'll be devastated if her chance to have a baby is taken away" but she's like "hm... well... not that big a deal for me." it was a fast-paced read with more nuance than I was expecting

[justmochi]

lost in solitude

pairing :: mira ft her father

word count :: 2.1k

synopsis :: mira is coping with her breakup and attempts to reconnect with the world.

time :: 2019

warnings :: angst

a/n :: my first oc without any daddy issue so i had to write this to comfort myself. dedicating this one to the people with daddy issues ♡

taglist :: @cafemilk-tea @cixrosie @moonlight-additions @cosmicwintr @astraw-astro @succulentmom @kimhyejin3108 @enhacolor @alixnsuperstxr @hybesunstone @itzy-eve @choihaneul @strmiu @angie-x3 @Kaitieskidmore1 @evaalopezzzz

The first week was terrible. It was the worst she’s slept in her entire life. The amount of fatigue and sadness she felt really weighed her down. She couldn't do the things that were normally a part of her routine.

She tried sitting down at her desk to enter a journal entry, only to sit down and stare at the blank page for minutes before getting back into her bed and falling asleep. She thought it would help to just write in her bed, but her pen never came in contact with the paper.

She thought reading might get her mind off of things. False. She looked at a book and immediately thought of him. She’d see a broken spine and think of him. She saw him in everything. Even more when skimming the titles on her bookshelf and stumbling upon the ones he had picked out for her.

Her company had announced she had caught a bug going around to take time off to rest and receive treatment. Nobody knew, except for her members, that she was going through the greatest heartbreak in her entire life and no doctor could mend her broken heart.

When the second week came around, she could finally sleep. Only because she tired herself out so much that she could not keep going without three straight days of sleeping. The girls were so worried about her, only seeing her come out of her bedroom to go to the bathroom and right back.

Jiu squeezed herself into the room when she was sleeping, refilling her water bottle and slipping snacks onto her desk in case she had any desire to eat. The leader would stay in there for a couple of minutes, heart aching when seeing how thin Mira had gotten. Her cheeks were so hollow, her skin so pale, her lips so chapped. 

Mira’s father kept in touch with Handong. It was unlike her to go days without messaging her dad so her member kept him in the loop.

Her father liked Wonwoo for having not met him before. Mira talked about him a lot and they truly seemed happy together. He wanted nothing more for his daughter. So when Handong told him, he was livid and offered to catch the first flight out of China to see Mira and put Wonwoo in his place in the process. Handong quickly shut him down and relayed everything that happened. Maybe he wouldn’t kill Wonwoo, but he needed to be there for his daughter. She reassured him it was not what Mira would want him to do so he stayed put while her member contacted him daily about her condition.

The ghosting on Mira’s part was going to be the death of Wonwoo. He tried to give her space w but was ultimately worried sick about her. As much as it hurt him to ask, he swallowed his pride and messaged Handong to check on Mira, and see how she was doing. He did this knowing that Handong might hate his guts as well, but her absence was not something he was prepared for. To his surprise, along with lots of scolding and unkind remarks, Handong provided him with all he needed to know. She was hurting. She slept for two hours at most in one week. Her routine was all messed up. She was on a break from scheduled promotions. She was exhausted. Once the first week passed, she was finally sleeping, but entire days of her life were gone. She was trying to hold her heart together from completely collapsing. That this was the result of his actions and that it would be hard for her members to forgive him for this. But she would be okay. She would pull through with time. She was fragile, but strong nonetheless.

Even after Handong was straightforward and, at times, brutally honest with him, she couldn't bring herself to hate him for his actions. Surprisingly, she found herself respecting him more than any other man could have earned. So, she couldn't hate him for that.

And then the third week arrived. She stayed up longer hours, managed to make herself presentable, and even sat down and wrote the longest journal entry to make up for the weeks she didn’t pick it up. She was slowly getting her usual self back. She was among the living again and she hated laying around feeling sorry for herself. But she hated that even more. She hated herself for letting their breakup tear her apart like this. She hated the way she immobilized herself. She suspended herself for two weeks while the world around her kept on turning. It’s not what she would have wanted for anyone. It’s especially not what he would have wanted either.

Her first time outside in two weeks was so refreshing, that she almost forgot why she didn’t leave her bedroom. The sun was out and she could practically feel her skin soaking up the vitamin D. The ambiance of birds, wind blowing, and distant traffic added to the experience. The only problem that still weighed on her chest was finally picking up her phone.

Mira took a walk around the neighborhood to organize her thoughts. She dreaded seeing everything she missed during her time of absence. But it was something she had to face sooner or later.

When she arrived back at the dorms, she went straight to the kitchen. She picked some strawberries out of their fridge and took them back to her room to eat. She cracked her window open a bit, letting some fresh air in and sitting at her desk.

She brought her legs to her chest, holding them tight so they didn’t fall off the chair, and snacked on a few strawberries before picking up her phone. It felt like she hadn’t seen an electronic device in forever. It was foreign material for her. She would’ve thought she had gotten a new phone if not for her lock screen. She had to change her lock screen soon, staring at the picture of the black cat she and Wonwoo spotted when on a date at a botanical garden.

When she saw how many messages and calls she missed, she was so overwhelmed. Most of them were from her father, and she felt a strong urge to slap herself for making him worry. The missed calls were in the double digits, her texts in the hundreds. Surely her father didn’t text her that many times. Her heart sank when she saw the names of all her missed texts. Her dad, Wonwoo, her manager, their choreographer, both of DREAMCATCHER’s producers, Dami, Siyeon, and a few of their stylists and makeup artists. If she didn’t feel terrible before, she definitely feels it now.

She opened her father's messages first, tears pooling in her eyes when scrolling through all his messages. He said that Handong told him everything and his texts lessened over the last week. Instead of asking if she was okay and needed him to fly out, he sent her pictures from her childhood and high school years. Most of the pictures were of him and her, some with Handong included too.

She wiped her eyes, quickly tapping on the button and calling her father. She hoped he wasn’t busy. She let the line ring until she heard a click.

“Xinyi?” He sounded scared but relieved to finally hear from her. She threw her head back, shutting her eyes to keep her tears at bay.

“Hi, bàba.”

“You’re okay, right? Are you feeling better? Do you need me to get on the next plane–“

“No!” She didn’t mean to raise her voice at him. “No– I’m okay. It’s fine. I’m really sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing? I don’t mind coming.”

“No, I mean you’re always welcome to come. I’m just sorry that I haven’t been present. I didn’t mean to make you worry. I just–“ She tries to keep her voice even but to no avail. She takes a few deep breaths before speaking again. “I just–“

She pauses again, covering her eyes with the back of her hand.

“It’s okay, honey. I know. I know.” He staggers on the line, making Mira want to cry more. She can’t believe she would ever hurt him like this.

“I’m sorry. To you, the girls, everybody. I didn’t mean to be selfish–“

“You’re not selfish, Xinyi. Listen to me.” He was soft when comforting others, but when she heard the familiar sternness in his voice he would use when he had to get his point across, she knew it was in her best interest to listen in. “You are not selfish. You do not have a single selfish bone in your body. You’ve always been like this. You– You get lost sometimes and then after a while you find yourself again.

“You’re so smart. So kind. You are a gift and a blessing in my life. You may not give yourself enough credit for it, but you are so so good. You, my Xinyi, are my greatest accomplishment in life. You always will be.”

She chokes out a sob, covering her mouth with her palm as her body shakes.

“Do you understand me, Xinyi? You’re just going through a hard time right now and it will pass. You’re gonna get through this, okay?”

The lump in her throat keeps her from pushing out words, instead, she hums into the phone while nodding her head. Right now would be a perfect time to go in for one of her dad's hugs.

Moments pass as Mira collects herself and it’s not as awkward as it would be for most people. She and her father understood this about each other. They understood it more than words could ever compare amount to.

“Did you eat today?” He clears his throat before speaking.

“Mhm. A couple bites.” She says softly. She doesn’t feel the urge to start bawling after every word comes rolling out of her mouth.

He sighs. She can just imagine him rubbing his eyes with his head tipping back. “That’s good. That’s very good. That’s something. Just don’t binge. Ease yourself into it so you don’t make yourself sick.”

“I know.” She smiles to herself, rubbing the sleeve of her shirt across her pants.

“Have you– you know… talked to him?”

He knows the wounds are still fresh. She knows she can’t avoid him any longer if she still wants to keep him in her life. “No… not yet.”

“Maybe it’s time. I’m sure it’s been agonizing for him as well. Especially with your absence.” He just sounds so righteous, so wise.

“Do you think he hates me?” 

“Come on, Xinyi. Who could hate you? Let alone dislike you. That would make them a psychopath.”

She tries to hold back her laugh, but it’s better for her to just let it out for her father to hear. Mira pats her eyes dry with her sleeve, sniffling with a smile on her face. Something she didn’t have before the phone call.

“Thank you, bàba. I love you.”

“I love you more, Xinyi. You are the most precious thing to me. You know I don’t care to come–”

“It’s fine. I’m okay. I have schedules to get back to soon either way. I love you.”

The line goes quiet for another second, waiting for him to say it back or pull something noble out of his brain. “Don’t keep him waiting too long, my dear. I’m sure he’s waiting for you to come around.”

Mira makes a kissing noise into the phone, knowing if they kept this going she would get nothing done. She would only prolong Wonwoo’s torture.

It took her a while to work up the courage to press his call button. She rehearsed what she would say, what she hoped he would say, even what he might say if he was just completely done and wanted nothing to do with her. That thought made her sick to her stomach. She kept hovering until she couldn’t. She didn’t realize her finger had actually pressed the call button, she was just rehearsing it. She pressed her phone to her ear with shaky hands, closing her eyes and taking her thumbnail into her mouth.

It rang and rang until it stopped. She looked at her phone, tears blurring her vision once she realized he never picked up. She tossed her phone onto her desk, not realizing how hard she threw it. She began to sob, her fingers brushing through her hair and stopping at the crown of her head.

She tried to be quiet, but the more she got worked up, the more her breaths became erratic and she was gasping for air. There was no way to conceal her cries. And maybe it was a cry for help on her part, in which case she would be successful because Siyeon had pushed the bedroom door open. It was the most sound any of the girls had heard come out of Mira’s room in weeks. And it wasn’t a pleasant sound.

[read-alert]

Another crosspost from my Insta! Happy Autism Acceptance Month! Full titles under the cut

Ellen Outside the Lines by AJ Sass

An Unkindness of Ghosts by Rivers Solomon

Act Your Age, Eve Brown by Talia Hibbert

The Luis Ortega Survival Club by Sonora Reyes

[rhetoricandlogic]

Gary K. Wolfe Reviews The Practice, the Horizon, and the Chain by Sofia Samatar

April 20, 2024 Gary K. Wolfe

Generation starship stories tend to come in a few distinct flavors, with distinct character types. There are the refugees, trying to keep humanity alive while escaping a dying or overpopulated Earth (the sort of wishful fantasy that Kim Stanley Robinson set out to demolish in Aurora a few years ago). There are the colonizers, out to find and take over new planets just because that’s just what humans do, and there are the hopelessly confused who have forgotten they’re on a star­ship at all, whose history is lost or corrupted or mythologized, and who are inevitably in for a rude awakening as soon as someone finds a window. But perhaps the most interesting variety are those tales in which the characters are recognizable figures from our own institutions and history – not stylized enough to be allegories, but which can hold up a mirror in the way allegory does – except with real characters.

Rivers Solomon used the setting to effectively model racism and slavery in An Unkindness of Ghosts, and much of that rigid segregation is also reflected in Sofia Samatar’s The Practice, the Horizon, and the Chain. But Samatar has far more on her mind than generation starships, and the novella has as much in common with a kind of narrative much rarer in SFF: the academic novel. In addition to presenting a brutally dehumanizing social struc­ture, Samatar’s characteristically gorgeous prose also carries the undertone of someone who has sat through plenty of frustrating committee meetings, tried to introduce change to an entrenched system, or grappled with issues of equity, opportunity, and intellectual freedom in the face of corporate interference and senior faculty sinecures – all presented with a sense of realpolitik that makes it surprisingly resonant with some very real current anxieties. In fact, the key words in her tripartite title can be all read as metaphors of the promises and challenges facing educators.

The initial point of view is that of a nameless boy who labors in the bowels of a giant starship, one of a fleet operated by the powerful United Min­ing corporation, which maintains a rigid separa­tion between ‘‘the Hold’’ and the elite ‘‘upstairs.’’ Despite the backbreaking work and appalling conditions – he’s even chained to the wall, like other workers – the boy develops a talent for draw­ing by using sharp objects and even his chain to make pictures on the walls of his cell. This draws the attention of a professor, who selects him for a chance to study at the University, much as her own father had been chosen. But she’s facing her own challenges in the University, where even the textbooks must be approved by the corporation, and which divides the curriculum into the Newer Knowledge and the Older Knowledge – which will look familiar to anyone who’s been near a university in the last several decades – and she reveals her own sympathies by noting that ‘‘My father taught the skills we need to survive in the vastness of space… I teach the skills we need to humanize space.’’ Shades of humanities depart­ment budget defenses (or is it just the former academic in me having flashbacks?).

If all this begins to sound a bit like a treatise, the vivid poetry of Samatar’s descriptions and the passion of her characters turns it into a moving human drama. The boy’s utter terror at being removed from his familiar surroundings, grim as they were, is palpable, and the professor’s sometimes testy interactions with her colleagues and a seemingly intractable system are all too credible. As they begin to form an unlikely al­liance, the boy shares what he has learned from the prophet, his longtime mentor in the Hold. The practice, he said, was ‘‘the longing for un­derstanding’’, and the horizon was a feature on ancient Earth which invited you ‘‘to look neither up nor down.’’ As these ideas begin to inform the professor’s central question about her profession – ‘‘Can the University be a place of both training and transformation?’’ – the two of them set in motion what might be the beginning of revolu­tionary change, or might backfire entirely. The Practice, the Horizon, and the Chain takes on a number of heavy issues for a relatively modest novella, but never loses focus on the dreams of its two memorable central characters, or on the power of its distinctive setting.

[sabaramonds]

dmdp posting again. hey guys. MANGA SPOILERS !!! ive rambled about this on discord and on twitter in bits and pieces but it haunts me so im going to talk about it again here. so theres this song i heard a month or so ago, turtles all the way down by sammy copley, and every time i listen to it i start tearing myself apart at the seams over the corpse god and his emperor (and once again i will be referring to them strictly as their titles because, again, if you havent read the entire manga and been edged for 80 chapters, it just isnt right...) typical ok this got super long so im actually putting it under a cut this time but 👇 go forth if you want to be subjected to the depths of my illness

anyway!!! i just cant help it. everything about it perfectly encapsulates their relationship from corpse gods perspective. like

im not well as you can tell by the way i havent looked you in the eye im about to lie and say im fine but inside you and i know thats not true but its either this or let my burden weigh on you and that i just cant do so ill choose for the both of us and youll just go along because youve trusted me for no good reason here i am, committing treason force the last page of our story one more boring allegory hope to god youll rise above me; always bite the hand the loves me mine, mine is the unkind kindest cut of all and ill watch you fall

i feel crazy. “but its either this or let my burden weigh on you / and that i just cant do / so ill choose for the both of us” because corpse god doesnt want to burden his emperor more than he already has; his emperor has already dirtied his hands for him. thats already too much. “youve trusted me for no good reason / here i am committing treason / force the last page of our story” because he feels as if he is unworthy of his emperors love and trust and kindness and that aside from what hed done under a foreign necromancers influence, the grief and rage that possessed him to act in violence made him even more unworthy - made him a traitor to his masters teachings, to his emperors affection... even before we got further context for their relationship in the last few chapters of the most recent arc (civil having his #girl moment) i wrote in “the ghost of who you were” that corpse gods escapist fantasy of seeking out a world, or creating one, where his emperor would never have to dirty his hands on corpse gods behalf - or on the behalf of any child subjected to violence by adults who should love them - was an impossible dream he chased in an attempt to outrun the forgiveness of his emperor (though, to his emperor, there is nothing to forgive at all) also “hope to god youll rise above me; always bite the hand that loves me / mine is the unkindest kindest cut of all / and ill watch you fall” so fucking prophetic. to me. about corpse god choosing for both of them (sealing away his emperor and other spirits hed contracted with deep within himself so they could not reach out to him and judge him for what he had done) and the fact he did, indeed, watch his emperor fall; he had done it himself, with his own two hands, as unwillingly as it had been.

and i am aware that its not fair to bring you here then send you on your way you had so much to say and to ask like, “why am i not cut out for the task of loving you forever, of holding you and never wanting less?” well, i can take a guess see, i could choose for the both of us and youll just go along because youve trusted me for no good reason love, no matter what the season; force the last page of our story youre my favorite allegory hope to god that youll forgive me; my mistakes will long outlive me mine, mine is the unkind kindest cut of all and ill watch you fall

ripping my face off as i listen to this song and think about them right now. as we speak. “and im aware that its not fair / to bring you here then send you on your way” like every single part of this. “hope to god that youll forgive me / my mistakes will long outlive me” corpse god binding his emperors soul to him (consensually) only to push him away in the aftermath out of guilt and grief and feelings of inadequacy. his emperor never stopped wanting him, not even when corpse god became one of the undead himself; not even when he was nothing but bones held together by his masters magic, a brain in a jar kept cradled close to his frail, fleshless vessel... in his emperors own words: “no matter what youve turned into, the empire and i are always on your side.” in chapter 80, he says to corpse god, “being alive isnt about whether or not youre dead body. its about whether youre looking to the future or not.” he follows this up by addressing corpse god not by the title he himself had given him, but by his name (BRAIN DAMAGING) (I WAS ON THE FLOOR WRITHING LIKE A WORM)

and i dont know if this makes it any easier perhaps youll find comfort when i say: you and i are nothing more than meteors, never meant to live long past today yes. ill choose for the both of us: youll just go along because you trusted me against your judgement you deserve someone who doesnt force the last page of your story no more boring allegories hope to god youll rise above me, though youll always be part of me mine, mine is the unkind kindest cut of all ill watch you fall now watch me fall

most of the song i feel very strongly reads as corpse gods perspective but “perhaps youll find comfort when i say / you and i are nothing more than meteors, never meant to live long past today” feels like such an emperor thing to say. when you are a child emperor, you are braced for political assassination; when you are from a land where necromancy is a real and thriving art, your fear of death can be softened by the knowledge that if the one you love outlives you (even if their own flesh, too, is long gone) then your voice will still be heard by those who matter. though even then, the emperor is quite a funny guy. he loved corpse god before he was corpse god; he loved him when he was flesh and bone, loved him when that flesh dissolved and he was left as just a skeleton of who he had been; he loved him when corpse god killed him, loved him when corpse god bound them together. and always, he waited for when corpse god would be ready to face him, waited for him to be able to live. because corpse god was not alive before. if we go off of the emperors idea of “being alive” meaning “looking forward”, corpse god was always looking down or looking back; caught in his past, his regrets, his fears. i mentioned what his emperor said in chapter 80. in chapter 81, the opening page of corpse god is him smiling at the sight of his emperors back, thinking to himself: “unlike me, you only ever looked ahead. how could you keep your eyes trained forward on what was to come? i didnt understand at the time (and here, we see corpse god as he once was: face hidden by a bone mask and cowl, unsmiling) but now, i think i get it a little.” he thinks this as he watches his emperor dirty his hands on his behalf once again. he called for his emperor willingly, this time; he asked for his help, not as a subject beseeches their lord, but as a friend. an equal, the way his emperor had always treated him; he is ready to be alive, now. he is ready to look forward instead of past, to accept his emperors forgiveness, his love; to think of himself as worthy returning that love and wait i forgot lol i was so caught up in the insanity of the emperors perspective in those first few lines and segueing into corpse gods growth during the latest arc that i forgot to talk about “hope to god youll rise above me / though youll always be part of me” wanting his emperor to have better than what he does (corpse god) but wanting to always keep part of him with him + “ill watch you fall / now watch me fall” literally he killed his emperor with his own hands (unwillingly) and then his downward spiral in his grief and when he eventually went absolutely bananas on those geldwood cultists giving them a brutal torturous death for murdering the orphan children he was caring for at the time and believing his actions had made him unworthy of the power he wielded and (holding my head) as you can tell i think about this song and about them a normal amount. i think ill stop talking here. for now. i just. oh my god. theyve come so far. the fact corpse god is able to face his emperor now. jesus christ 😭 if you think im bad about these two just wait until i start talking about civil. lol

[cavalierious-whim]

Sylvain struggles to settle into his role as Margrave and writes a letter to Felix, an olive branch he isn't sure will receive a reply.

This was a commission. Be sure to check out the fic here on AO3 and if you'd like, follow me here on Twitter!

Post-war life is a strange thing.

It isn’t that Sylvain expects it to be easy. Reconstruction is a bittered thing with too few resources and people left to do the heavy lifting. He doesn’t miss war but he isn’t quite equipped to handle the aftermath, either.

This is what he thinks when he looks at Gautier Manor rising high before him. It is in disrepair. Still in one, solid piece, but patched in areas that he doesn’t remember. Boards on the windows, tarps over broken roof tiles to keep out the rain and snow. The steps that lead to the double doors are pitted and chipped. 

Sylvain feels as though he’s looking at a ghost. He stands there, staring, a bag slung over his shoulder and his horse pawing at the ground behind him. 

“Margrave?” A quiet voice to his right, meek and trembling. The servant girl keeps her head bowed and wrings her hands in front of her apron. 

It takes a moment for Sylvain to realize that she is talking to him. Margrave, she’d said, the question rolling off her tongue softly. 

Feel wrong. Sylvain shifts awkwardly, dragging a gloved hand through his hair. Winter has not fully settled in, so the air is crisp but still warm enough for only a thick woolen cloak and the barest essentials. 

“I’m…” Sylvain stops, words refusing to form because his tongue feels fat in his mouth. 

Sylvain is a man who has always cared for himself, mostly ignoring the whims of others. Always told his father to fuck off, slept with both men and women to satisfy the void in himself, and never wrote to his mother despite knowing it’d be good for her. 

And now, he’s come back to a home full of ghosts and even his title to haunt him.

“A Margrave is meant to serve his people,” his father once said. The only good advice he ever gave him. 

“The work of a Margrave is tiresome and grueling, but you are built for it.” Sylvain never listened to his mother, not even when it counted. He still wouldn’t listen to her now, his own self-deprecation his worst enemy. 

He very nearly didn’t come back home. 

But he did because if there’s anything Sylvain does not do, it’s let things sit stagnant and unresolved. Besides, the people here have done nothing to warrant an absent lord. They’ve done their best to get by in the midst of war and famine. Even the girl that stands next to him seems strong despite her thin frame.

“We are Gautiers,” was another thing his mother once said. “We are the people of the bitter north winds, hardened by our lives here and made better for it.”

“What is your name?” asks Sylvain. 

The servant keeps her head down. “I’m—”

“No, look at me.” He isn’t unkind. He says it quietly, carefully, even, like he’s addressing a hatchling not yet out of the nest.

When the girl looks at him, though, Sylvain finds not a hatchling. Her eyes are sharp, glinting with measured and underhanded intelligence. Like a magpie, he thinks, in the way that she regards him as though he’s a text to be dissected. 

“Rhesa, Lord Margrave,” she replies.

“Well, Miss Rhesa—” She starts at that, her head tilting ever-so-slightly. “I can’t promise that I’ll be a good Margrave, but I’ll be a better one than my father.”

She snorts. Tries and fails to hide it behind a carefully placed cough. It is funny—truly it is, but it is funny to them for different reasons. 

For Sylvain, it’s a hope and mostly a dream, but he makes no promises because he’s never been a good man. And the one person who helps him, who makes all the difference in the world, has fucked off to Seiros knows where because playing a mercenary is easier than being a lord. 

Felix is the man that forces Sylvain to face his ugly parts, but without him there, Sylvain is bound to fall back into his old habits. 

“Keep me on my toes,” he says to Rhesa. “That’s an order.”

Rhesa gives him a once-over and an amused glance. “Is that permission to speak candidly when I see fit?”

Sylvain barks a laugh. “Yes, I suppose that it is.”

“Well then, Lord Margrave, you’re already off to a good start.”

He is lost without Felix. But, as Sylvain trails behind Rhesa to the manor he thinks that he might remember how to survive in the cold. 

“We Gautiers never forget. We are born of the permafrost and ice runs in our veins.”

Sylvain wants to think that maybe his mother would be proud.

#

Truth be told, everything goes pretty well until Sreng hears of a new Margrave and sends a party to investigate the border.

They do not launch an attack. The party is small and all they do is reconnaissance, riding the edge of one end of the border to the other, taking note of rumors and stories of just what kind of man Sylvain is. The rumors must be dismal. Sylvain knows that his reputation precedes him, even here in the far corner of Faerghus. 

One morning, he is surprised by a letter. 

Rhesa doesn’t bother knocking before she slips into his office. She’s loud, heavy-soled shoes loud against the floor instead of the dainty sneakers his father would have expected her to wear. Rhesa doesn’t bow her head. She doesn’t present him the letter, laid flat on a silver platter, bowing politely as she holds it out. 

She dumps it onto his desk next to the rest of his paperwork before crossing her arms. “It’s from Sreng,” she says curtly. 

Sylvain looks up from his current headache. Accounting reports from sheep farms to the south. He rubs the tension from his eyes, turning to the new letter instead. “You opened this,” he says, thumbing the edge of where the envelope has been sliced open. 

Rhesa sniffs but doesn’t apologize. “Would you rather be poisoned?”

“What? No?”

“The last time they sent a letter to the Margrave, it was dipped in something that made him bedridden for two weeks.”

Sylvain’s lips part. He tilts his head, considering this. “I—well, I had no idea. Mother never mentioned—”

“And why would she have?” Rhesa snorts. “You were off playing hero with the would-be king of Faerghus. Of course, she didn’t distract you with something like that.”

“I wouldn’t have come home.” He says it bitterly, tongue twisted by the distaste for his father that curdles his gut. 

Rhesa’s expression softens and her next words are quiet. “Yes, I know. You would have just wanted to know, yes.”

Sylvain actually isn’t sure. He sits there, elbows against his desk, fingers steepled and brow furrowed as he thinks. He and his father were wholly hostile with each other, and for many reasons. Knowing he’d spent some time sick wouldn’t have changed a damn thing. 

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned, Lord Margrave, it’s that we don’t always get the things that I want. Do you think I prefer to be here, doing as you ask?”

He laughs at that, a soft chuckle. Keep me on my toes, he’d asked her. Nothing could have prepared him for how perfectly Rhesa settled into her role. She’s quick-witted and sharp-tongued. Over the weeks he’s come to appreciate her blunt honesty, whether he wants it or not. 

“No,” he finally says. 

“And yet, here I am, caring for your sorry ass. I deserve a raise.”

“Yes.” He means it. Rhesa can hear his genuine tone and she sighs, hackles dropping. “Are you going to read the letter or not?”

“Oh, so it’s interesting?”

“Probably the most interesting thing to walk through those front doors in a decade.”

Sylvain pulls the letter from the envelope and spreads out the thick, uneven parchment paper. “‘To he who sits on a would-be throne of his making—’” Sylvain pauses, choking back a laugh. “Wow, what an entrance. Does this clansman think I run a monarchy here?”

“Your father certainly thought he did.”

Right. It isn’t a surprise that they think he’s more like his old man than not. The stories about him that circulate certainly don’t help. The fact that Sreng hasn’t attacked the border since he came back means they’re curious enough to stall their advance, but Sylvain isn’t a fool to think that’ll last.

“What does he want?”

“He—” Sylvain skims the letter and then rears back, surprised. “Er, she—”

“She?”

“‘I’m unsure that we can come to an agreement but maybe you’re more of a man than your predecessor. Time will tell.’”

“That sounds ominous,” drawls Rhesa.

“It’s signed Ulla, Twenty-Ninth Chief Clan Dahl.” Sylvain raises his brows. “That’s a title. And I thought mine was long.”

Rhesa sits on the edge of his desk, uncaring that it’s improper. “And so, what? They want to visit?”

“She expects me to come to her, actually. Make peace, or so this letter says. She doesn’t seem very confident about it though. I think she’s mostly curious.” Rhesa’s nose scrunches at that. Sylvain’s mouth tenses and he leans back in his chair. “Hey, now, I take offense to that look.”

It’s gone the moment Rhesa rights herself, back onto her feet, and ready to go back to her chores for the day. “If I may say—”

“You always do, whether I want you to or not.”

Her expression thins, curdling slightly. Rhesa huffs and continues. “I was going to express concern for you visiting yourself. We have no extra men here, so I know that is your plan.”

She’s right. It’s too much of a risk. Sylvain has no progeny he’s aware of and it would be utterly stupid to march into enemy territory alone. If this was the war, the answer would be simple: he’d do what was needed, no matter the cost. 

But the war is over. It isn’t so easy to turn back the clock and think before those times. Matters during reconstruction are handled differently, with a sort of tenderness that Sylvain isn’t sure he holds. His hands are too rough, too soiled, tainted black with the bitter darkness in his soul. 

It’s a learning process. Sylvain spends every day telling himself that he’s more than what he thinks he is but he’s alone this far north, even with the friendship he’s found in Rhesa. The others walk on eggshells around him. He has no family left. 

“I… there’s someone I could…” 

Ingrid sent a letter unexpectedly a few weeks back, citing that she’d shared a meal with him. Told Sylvain exactly where to find him and demanded that he clean up his damn mess. 

“A pen and paper, Sir?” 

Sylvain’s already pulling out a fresh sheet of parchment. “He won’t answer,” he murmurs, dipping a quill into his inkwell. He shakes it slightly, letting the extra slip off before penning a rather blunt letter. 

Felix won’t want platitudes. Insults have always been his language of choice. 

#

The letter goes entirely unanswered until Sylvain wakes up one morning, nearly a month later, to a glass of cold water being dumped over his head.

He yelps, jolting up in the bed. It’s the beginning of winter, so the room is bone-cold and his sheets are now soaked. Sylvain shivers, curses, and jumps from the bed, feet smarting against the frozen stone floor. “Fuck, fuck. Rhesa—”

It is not Rhesa. Felix stands opposite him, covered in furs, a mug in his hand. Rhesa stands in the doorway behind him, hiding a grin behind her palm, choking back a laugh. 

Sylvain stares. Stands there like an awkward vulture, curled in on himself, shoulders hanging as he wonders, What the absolute fuck. 

Felix knows that look. He snorts and his stiff stance loosens, like a cat shaking itself out. “You’ve always been a lazy lout.”

“I’m not—lazy?”

“It’s midday.” Felix’s voice is prim. Matter-of-fact as always, the words crawling from his mouth as though it pains him to speak. 

“I’m the Margrave. I can—”

“Do what you want, no doubt,” cuts in Felix, finishing before him. “Didn’t you come here to make a difference? To be something more than your old man? Instead, I find you lazing in bed into the late morning. Not a damn thing’s changed.”

Rhesa still watches from the doorway, eyebrows drawn high on her forehead. The look she hides behind her hand is one of both shock and amusement. 

“Felix—” starts Sylvain with a wince.

“I’m the fool, of course. I should’ve known better.”

“Why are you even here?”

Felix rolls his eyes and growls with impatience. “Your letter,” he snaps. “That’s why—midday, Sylvain! Isn’t there somewhere you’re supposed to be in two days’ time? I pushed my horse to get here early because I knew you’d need help, but I didn’t think I’d have my work cut out for me.”

The letter, one penned in Sylvain’s neat penmanship. He’d nearly forgotten. 

Felix, I know you owe me nothing, but I need your help, Sylvain wrote. To anyone else, Felix would deny it. Even if everyone knew, even if they still know he’d come to Sylvain’s rescue, Felix will insist until his dying days it wasn’t for him. 

“I’m not here for you,” says Felix, as if on cue. So stubborn. Sylvain nearly laughs at the utter predictability. “In any case. Get dressed and meet me in the kitchen. There isn’t time to plan.”

“Plan?” asks Sylvain, finally righting himself and sitting on the edge of the mattress. It’s hard to look proper wearing nothing but his night clothes and he pulls at his sleeve nervously. 

Felix sneers at him. “Don’t be daft.” He turns on his heel to leave. “Ten minutes,” he finishes, punctuating his words with a rude gesture that leaves Rhesa snickering in stitches. 

#

“Sir—”

“Don’t start.”

Rhesa chuckles as Sylvain shrugs out of his dressing gown. Ten minutes means five with Felix. Sylvain doesn’t have time to dodge her well-intentioned and teasing jabs. 

“I was surprised, you know. He was somewhat presentable there, but—” Sylvain howls with laughter. Felix is never presentable. Rhesa clucks her tongue before continuing. “You should have seen him when he rode in. I made him at least clean his boots.”

“I’m sure he loved that.”

“About as much as he loved the way that I wouldn’t let him in at first. That’s the Duke of Fraldarius?”

Sylvain is still laughing as he slips on a clean shirt. “In the flesh.”

Rhesa rounds him, buttoning up the front with quick and deft hands. “Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised. It takes a strange man to love another, I suppose.”

Sylvain freezes against her. His heart thuds in his throat. “I—” He knows he can’t lie. About anything else, sure, keen, well-cultivated words tumbling from his mouth like perfectly composed verse, but with Felix. “I’m not…”

There’s a look that Rhesa gives him. Something stern and stoic, a little bit cross-eyed, her lips tugged into a severe frown. But then it softens and she sighs. “That’s how it is, isn’t it? The ones we want to make it work with are always the hardest.”

“Like you’d know.”

Rhesa shrugs. 

Sylvain finishes dressing in the quiet, the brush of Rhesa’s fingers the only sound as they slide over soft wool. “It isn’t my place—”

“Yeah, it isn’t.”

“—but you told me to keep you on your toes.”

Sylvain shoots Rhesa a pointed look. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

A smile curls across her face. She reaches out and straightens the lapels of his waistcoat. “I am only doing my job, Sir.”

“I don’t pay you to tease me.”

“No, but you do pay me to take care of you.” She pats Sylvain’s chest with friendly affection. “I’ve heard the stories, of course. Rumors of a mighty romance between a Margrave and a Duke. When love is that strong it’s hard to hide. At first glance, it was hard to imagine. He looks rather like a drowned cat and you have… well, taste, at least.”

Sylvain scoffs. “Flattering.”

“But watching the two of you… Love isn’t just about romance, you know, it’s also everything in between. It’s knowing a person, both the good parts and bad. That man—” Rhesa points to the door. “We all know your bad parts but he’s the only one to look at you like they mean nothing.”

Sylvain feels her words deep in his gut. “I… he’s… It’s complicated.”

Rhesa snorts in a silly, pig-like way. “Yes, well, complicated means that it can still get sorted out.”

#

“It’ll be better for everyone else if you settle shit here at the border,” is the first thing Felix says when Sylvain appears in the kitchen a half-hour later. He’s annoyed, tapping his boot against the tile floor. Sylvain took a half-hour thanks to Rhesa’s unwanted advice. “This woman—”

“Ulla,” supplies Sylvain, settling in at the table and going for a piece of toast. He slathers butter and jam across it messily, and Felix watches in disgust. 

“Right.” Felix’s voice is so flat, it’s damn-near bored. “UIla. Are you sure this isn’t a ploy to get you alone and do some damage?”

“Well, that’s why I wrote to you, isn’t it? I’m not so stupid to ride into Sreng alone.”

“You have men.”

“I do not.”

Felix’s gaze narrows and his head tilts. “What?”

“When Father died.” Sylvain shrugs nonchalantly even though it still stings. “Most of the household left. What’s less than a skeleton crew? Either way—”

“That’s why you called me here? Because you scared everyone off?”

Sylvain frowns, offended. “I’ll have you know—they left before I arrived.” Rhesa leans in to pour him fresh coffee, not even bothering to hide her laughter. “Don’t you nag me too.”

“I said nothing, Lord Margrave.”

Felix regards her with a cool glance. “She talks to you like you’re a bug underneath her shoe.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get a handle on her.”

“No, I like her.”

Oh. Both Sylvain and Rhesa pause, surprised by the off-handed compliment. 

Felix turns back to his food, shoveling in a few bites like he’s a man starved. Judging by his thin shape, he is, just this side of hungry. He was wandering, said Ingrid in her letter. You know how he does, bothering others and forgetting about himself.

Rhesa bows, a neat little curtsey that is certainly mocking. “Why thank you, Your grace.”

Felix’s expression sours. “I’ll stop liking you if you keep calling me that.”

“Oh, leave her alone. She’s just doing her job.” Sylvain shoos her away and Rhesa leaves, giving him the same teasing bow. “Back to the matter at hand.”

“How’d you manage to get one of their Chiefs to write to you?”

“I didn’t. She reached out to me personally. It was odd—”

Felix’s mouth purses. “It stinks. She’s planning something.”

Normally, Sylvain would agree, but so far Ulla hasn’t done much other than watch. There’s been ample opportunity to launch an attack. “We’re barren here at the Manor. If she came on us, we wouldn’t be able to fight her off. She knows that.”

Felix hums, drumming his fingers against the word kitchen table. It’s less fancy than the dining room and a little more like home. They’re so used to roughing it that the glitz and glam of a proper dining set puts Sylvain’s teeth on edge. It’s warmer in the kitchen. Homier. Reminds him a little of Mercie, and other friends Sylvain’s surprised he misses.

“Marriage?” asks Sylvain. 

It would make sense. Peace treaties are often drafted through a lens of land sharing and cultural exchange. The idea of it is awful but he could put together a dowry—

“You aren’t actually considering that, are you?” Felix’s face says it all—it’s an idea he despises.

“Why would you care? Aren’t you going to fuck off again once this is said and done?”

“Sylvain.”

“Ingrid told me, you know.” Sylvain’s tone is a little too proper. He pulls back, steeling himself for Felix’s ire because this is a conversation that is often started and never finished. What are we and where do we go? Sylvain’s been wondering for over a decade by this point. “You’ve been wandering around. The Meandering Swordsman—”

“It’s not as though there’s anything at Fraldarius Estate for me. We don’t guard the border.”

It’s a useless argument. They both know it, so they fall stagnant and turn back to their food. Sylvain munches at his toast and Felix pours another cup of coffee. 

“It’s a two-day ride to their camp. She just wants to talk. Go with me and when we come back, you can do whatever you want. I won’t care.”

Felix’s expression is unreadable. He waits, almost as if he wants Sylvain to say something else but when he doesn’t, Felix just sighs. “Alright then.” He pauses, rubbing at the table again. “My horse. I pushed her too hard. She’s in no shape to ride.”

“That leaves you two options, then. You ride with me, or you walk.”

Ah, thinks Sylvain when Felix’s lip curls. There’s that annoyed look I love so much. 

#

Felix chooses to ride with him which is both a blessing and a curse.

“You smell better, at least,” teases Sylvain, mouth near Felix’s ear as he leans over his shoulder. “Did Rhesa make you bathe?”

“I’ve been on the road for weeks. Do you think I like being dirty?”

“I think, given the opportunity, you’d live in your absolute funk for years—especially if it kept people away from you.” Felix’s silence in return speaks volumes, leaving Sylvain laughing into his neck. And maybe—just maybe—Sylvain thinks he relaxes just slightly, giving into the lighthearted teasing. 

It’s a step backward. War was shit but Sylvain liked that it brought them close. He and Felix shared tents, food, and even cots, and blankets. Wandering hands, too-soft touches that Felix will deny if ever asked. But it happened, they happened. 

Sylvain misses it. 

#

Felix squirms. 

It’s half a day into their travel and he won’t stop moving, sliding over the saddle, stimulating parts of Sylvain that he thought were dried out and useless. It’s just been him and his hand since the end of the war—and barely that.

The only other time they’ve ever shared a horse was after a battle one day where Sylvain was nearly dead. Felix found him in the nick of time, threw him over the back of Sylvain’s horse, and settled into the saddle before riding like the wind back to camp. 

A close call. Too close.

This though—

Felix squirms, wriggling in his lap just so. Heat settles in Sylvain’s gut. This is too close, as well, Sylvain practically plastered against his back, arms loose around Felix’s waist to reach the reins. His forearms brush against Felix’s cloak, cinching his torso.

“Felix—”

“I can’t get comfortable. What kind of saddle is this?”

It isn’t built for two. Sylvain’s about to quip that when Felix shifts, slipping back over the hard leather of the saddle, ass meeting Sylvain’s groin. 

They both freeze. Sylvain’s fingers tighten around the reins, pulling them taut. Even Felix is on high alert, cheeks flush. Oh, this is bad.

“Sylvain,” starts Felix. Even. Measured. “Are you—”

Sylvain’s definitely half-hard in his trousers. Has been for an embarrassing amount of time. “Can you blame me? Felix, you’re… and we’re—” 

Well, they’re something. The what is up in the air, but there’s enough history for Sylvain’s dick to harden at the thought of the man, let alone his ass within reaching distance.

“You know how it is,” finishes Sylvain. He ignores the ache of his cock, willing his erection to go away. It only throbs harder. 

Felix’s throat bobs as he swallows. His mouth parts but he’s slow to respond. “I—Yes. That’s—Sylvain.”

Sylvain didn’t realize one of his hands dropped the leather strap to rest against Felix’s thigh instead. Palm, flat against the lithe muscle, gloved fingers digging into the thick material of Felix’s trousers. “Sorry,” murmurs Sylvain. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to. It just… look, I’ll—”

He moves to pull away but Felix’s hand is quicker, snapping out to wrap around Sylvain’s wrist. He holds Sylvain’s hand there. The movement is subtle, instinctual, as he pulls Sylvain’s hand to his trousers instead. 

“Oh,” breathes Sylvain. “Well. That’s—”

“Familiar,” mutters Felix. “Gods, it’s—I didn’t want to fall back into these habits so easily, but—”

“It’s hard not to.” Sylvain drops his chin to rest against Felix’s shoulder. “Honestly, I feel more stressed than I ever did during the war. It’s because I don’t know what to do with myself. But with you—”

“Are you going to keep yapping? Or are you going to take care of the problem?”

That surprises Sylvain. “Felix,” he says, voice tipping into something sultry, “we’re on a horse.”

“So the years of talk about your riding skills mean nothing, then? Put your hand where your mouth is.”

Sylvain puts his hand elsewhere. Takes little effort and no time to undo the front of Felix’s trousers, wrapping his fingers around his cock. A soft sound falls from Felix’s mouth, and shit, Sylvain’s missed this. 

“My glove—”

“You’ll get frostbite.”

“I’d rather feel your cock.”

“The glove is fine.”

Sylvain keeps his eyes on the icy path, letting the lilt of their horse’s gait drive them. All the while, he strokes Felix’s cock, sighing at the familiar heft of it against his palm. Precome already dribbles at the tip, leaking down the side. Sylvain sweeps his thumb through it. 

“How long were you hiding this?”

“I wasn’t—”

“Is this why you were squirming?”

“No.”

Oh, it is. He can tell by the way Felix’s body goes taut, pulled straight as a bowstring, tight with tension. Sylvain chuckles, squeezing his cock tighter as he jerks it. “Oh, that’s cute.”

“Idiot,” snaps Felix. “Imbecile. You—this is your fault.”

Sylvain hums at that, moving his hand lazily. His own cock twitches in his trousers, desperate to be relieved, but he’s enjoying this too much. Felix tries to keep quiet but a moan slips loose. Delicious. Sylvain feels his gut swoon at the soft whimper. 

“Shh. Can’t spook the horse.”

“Fuck you,” bites out Felix. “Fuck you, and—oh.”

“Like that?” A twist of his fingers around the tip of his dick. His thumb settles underneath the crown, tracing the vein on the underside. “I haven’t forgotten what you like.”

As if he could. The sight of Felix in his bed is seared into his brain. It keeps Sylvain company on cold and lonely nights or bath times or the sheets in his bed. Anywhere, really. He shoves his nose into Felix’s nape, inhaling. Sweat and soap. Crisp, brisk winter. Felix.

Sylvain moves his hand faster, using Felix’s precome to slick his hand. Still a little dry but he knows that Felix likes the friction. His hips move, bucking ever so slightly into Sylvain’s hand, chasing the heated touch of his glove. 

“I’m—”

“Are you close?” Sylvain kisses the juncture of his jaw, right where it meets his neck. “So quick. Mhmh, I would be too.”

“Get on with it.” Felix’s voice is pinched. “I don’t want to hear you prattle.”

“You want to come?”

“Yes.”

Sylvain laughs and moves his hand faster, stroking his cock with a well-practiced touch. Felix whines, wiggling in the saddle. His hips move, meeting every downstroke of Sylvain’s fingers with an aborted thrust. It takes no time until he’s spilling into Sylvain’s hand with a groan. 

“There’s a good boy,” says Sylvain into his ear. He wipes his hand on the rag in his saddlebag. 

“Shut up,” is Felix’s acerbic reply. Still, he shudders, still coasting the high of his orgasm. 

Afterward, they fall quiet. Felix closes his trousers and the horse continues on, entirely unaware. Sylvain's chest is pressed to Felix’s back. His cock is still hard against Felix’s ass, aching with the need for release. 

But Sylvain behaves. Takes hold of the reins properly and wills himself to just hold Felix close. 

Felix doesn’t push him off.

#

Later, when the moon is high and the fire dulls to burning embers, Felix slips into Sylvain’s cot. 

“You can tell me to leave,” he says in a hush. 

Sylvain pulls Felix close, an arm around his middle, hand pressed flat against his stomach. He smells like outside when Sylvain leans in close, nuzzling the back of his neck. “You’re cold.”

“Yeah.” A pause. Sylvain yelps slightly when Felix presses his cold, socked feet against his shins. “Earlier…”

“Earlier?”

“You—” Felix “You didn’t… It was just me.”

Oh. Sylvain chuckles and kisses the base of his neck. “It’s fine. I know I teased you but I did as I wanted. I’m perfectly fine like this.”

“And if I’m not?”

Sylvain stills. “Do you regret—”

Felix’s response is immediate. “No.” Another pauses as he rubs his face, embarrassed. “I want… You said you missed this. I do too. I didn’t… I know that I’m not good with words, but this—this is something that we do well. Being just us.”

“Us,” murmurs Sylvain. “Against the world, right? I think we said something like that when we were kids.”

Us against the world. They’ll have to pry us apart.

It’s funny what time can do to a friendship and how love can pull two people apart. But it can bring them together. War was complicated but losing themselves in each other helped them through the hard times. 

Still. 

“You left,” says Sylvain into the hair at the base of Felix’s neck. His hair is loose, around his shoulders. Sylvain drags a hand through it, petting the silky strands. 

“I didn’t know what to do. With my father gone and the Dukedom… I just—” Felix grunts. “There isn’t use in talking about this.”

“Felix—”

Felix moves, sitting up and turning to lean over Sylvain. “Your hand isn’t enough. Sylvain, I—I missed this. I missed you.” He hovers there, over Sylvain. Drags a hand down his chest, fingers dipping into the open collar of his shirt. 

Sylvain’s tongue is thick in his throat. There are a thousand things he could say, but what spills from his mouth comes unexpectedly. “I love you.”

Felix snorts, his expression crinkling. “I know.” Then he dips low, crossing the distance, and it’s like falling back in time.

Sweet, staggering kisses. Heated touches and the soft slide of fabric as they shuck their clothing off. It’s too cold to get undressed, but it’s enough, opening Sylvain’s shirt and tossing their pants to the side. Felix’s skin is searing hot against Sylvain as he straddles his hips. 

The thing is that Sylvain doesn’t need to hear Felix say those words back. Sylvain knows it and feels it in the way that Felix presses against him. In calloused fingers that drag down his bicep and across his chest. Nails that dig into his chest hair, scratching through it. 

The way that he kisses him, all tongue and lips, and how he slots their hips together. Sylvain’s already hard, cock twitching as it leaks against his stomach. Felix’s hand is frozen, icy against his heated length. 

“Sylvain,” he mutters against his mouth. Sylvain bucks into his hand with a whine. “Sylvain,” repeats Felix, kissing the sharp line of his jaw next. 

It’s too soft but perfect. War isn’t lingering at their backs, ready to strike. They don’t have to be quick and quiet, they can drag this out and do as they wish, which they do. 

One finger first, pressed into searing hot heat. 

“The fucking saddle oil,” hisses Felix, as if they haven’t used it before. “Fuck.”

“Easy does it,” says Sylvain, laughing against Felix’s throat. Felix hangs over him, rutting back against his hand. “Slow down, for fuck’s sake.”

“Goddess, you’re—oh, that’s—”

Sylvain fucks him lazily on several fingers until Felix is a sweaty mess, chest heaving and cheeks pinched pink. He’s flush down to his sternum, reddened skin on display in the split of Felix’s shirt. 

When Felix finally slides onto his cock, it’s too tight. Sylvain looks skyward and counts the stars. His nostrils flare as he tries not to immediately bust. So, so good. 

And Felix—the way he hangs over him, the tips of his fingers pressed into the meat of Sylvain’s chest. How he immediately moves, rolling his hips, trying to force Sylvain’s cock deeper. Takes him at the right angle and then he’s seeing stars, crying out as they push and pull at each other.

It’s quick. Lasts barely moments, Sylvain holding Felix tightly around the hips as he’s ridden. He pulls Felix into every thrust, back arching up from the ground. The slick slap of skin. Felix’s soft, biting curses. Sylvain tumbles over the edge first, coming into Felix’s ass, and painting his insides white. 

Felix drops his hips, grinding against him. Fucks his cock into his own palm until he’s spending himself all over Sylvain’s abs. 

Sylvain laughs, wiping the sweat from his brow. “No better than fumbling teenagers having their first roll in the hay.”

“Surely better than that.”

“What, is it bad otherwise?”

“What? No?” Felix looks offended. 

Sylvain laughs again, his smile warm and affectionate. He pulls Felix’s hand to his mouth for a kiss. “Thank you,” he says. 

“For fucking you?” Felix scoffs. 

“For coming back to me.”

Felix is quiet as he slips off his cock. Minimal clean-up, wiping at themselves with a dirty, soiled shirt. Felix pulls on a fresh top and slips back into the cot, slotting against his side. 

“I didn’t come here for you,” he says, just as he always does. 

“Yeah, I know. You came for yourself.” Sylvain presses a kiss on his forehead and Felix sighs. 

They don’t talk much after that, they just count the stars in the sky together until their eyes are drooping. It’s the best sleep Sylvain has had in a year. 

#

Sylvain and Felix find the Srengese Clan of Dahl two days from Gautier Manor, just at the border. 

They are led into the center of the camp where a cookfire is blazing and meat is slow roasting as it's turned on spits. Sylvain’s back is sore from their late-night romp on the hard ground—and then a second in the morning. Felix let him fuck his thighs, still half asleep and dozing before spilling himself into Sylvain’s awaiting palm.

“Is this your husband?” Ulla asks it without judgment despite expecting an entourage, not two tired men and day-old clothing. She is a serious-looking woman, tall and muscular. Her dark hair is pulled into a thick braid that rests over her shoulder. Green eyes bore into Sylvain, dazzling with intellect. 

“Not yet,” says Sylvain cheekily. Felix hisses, shoving an elbow right into his ribs. “Ow—fuck—”

Ulla bursts into laughter. Then, she extends a hand. “Humor,” she says. “I can’t say I expected that from you.” Sylvain shakes her hand firmly, wincing slightly at her tight grip. “Now, tell me about your husband.”

“I’m not—”

“Yet,” cuts in Ulla with a wink. 

Felix, for all his snark, does the unthinkable—he doesn’t correct her. He just rolls his eyes and lets the idea sit. “Your mother’s ring,” he says, turning to Sylvain. “That’s what I want—the plain band. It won’t get in the way of a sword.”

Sylvain has only a moment to be stunned before Ulla drags them over to the fire pit, shoving them down. Later, he thinks. Later, I’ll—

Felix sits next to him uncontested. He knocks their knees together, leaving them together for a grounding touch. They meet gazes for a tender moment. Ulla watches but says nothing as she spoons a savory stew into a bowl. 

Sylvain finds that he doesn’t have a care in the world. His chest is light. Giddy.

Yeah, later.

[thedisabilitybookarchive]

Thanks for the shoutout!

I haven't read every book on the list I'm about to give you, but I have researched them all. So while I can't guarantee they'll all be exactly what you had in mind, I've done my best to pick out ones that seem like they will fit best.

Fantasy

[Plain text: Fantasy]

Anthologies:

[Plain Text: Anthologies]

Uncanny Magazine: Disabled People Destroy Fantasy- Thomas, Lynne M. et. al.

Magazine Anthology

Fiction, Non-Fiction and Poetry

This is issue #30 of the Uncanny Magazine publication. A list of contributors to this issue can be found on the archive entry.

Novels:

[Plaint Text: Novels]

One For All- Lainoff, Lillie

Young Adult

MC with POTS | Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome

Retelling of the story of The Three Musketeers

I do believe that this book is very much an "ownvoices" book, as the author also has POTS.

Six of Crows- Bardugo, Leigh

Young Adult

Six of Crows and Grishaverse series

Magic and Crime

Cane User with Chronic Limp, Chronic Pain and Touch Aversion MC, Dyslexic MC, MC Gambling Addiction and Implied ADHD, Multiple MCs with PTSD

I've read this book. There's one part in particular, in the beginning of the book, where it refers to one of the MCs feeling more pain in his leg when it's cold which I've never really seen discussed in a book before. The characters in this book are also present in an original storyline in the Shadow and Bone TV series.

Science-Fiction

[Plain Text: Science-Fiction]

Anthologies:

[Plain Text: Anthologies]

Defying Doomsday- Dolichva, Tsana

Multiple Disabilities

Apocalyptic/Dystopian Fiction

Short Stories by Disabled Authors

Disabled people surviving in various apocalyptic situations. There is a list of contributors and a list of as many disabilities as I could find on the archive entry for this book.

Rebuilding Tomorrow- Dolichva, Tsana

Multiple Disabilities

Post-Apocalyptic/Dystopian Fiction

Short Stories by Disabled Authors

Follow up to 'Defying Doomsday'

Essentially what happens after surviving the apocalypse. Again, a list of contributors and as many disabilities as I could find can be found on the archive entry for this book.

Uncanny Magazine: Disabled People Destroy Science Fiction- Sjunneson-Henry, Elsa et. al.

Magazine Anthology

Fiction, Non-Fiction, Personal Essays and Poetry

This is issue #24 of the Uncanny Magazine publication. A list of contributors as well as article titles can be found on the archive entry.

Novels:

[Plain Text: Novels]

An Unkindness of Ghosts- Solomon, Rivers

Adult

Autism

Space and Mystery

Solomon is consistently suggested to me as a good source of neurodiverse, queer and intersex representation. This book is actually their debut novel.

Hench- Walschots, Natalie Zina

Adult

Hench series

Cane User MC with Mobility Impairment, Chronic Pain, Improperly Healed Bone, PTSD and Possible TBI

Superheros and Supervillains

I've never personally read this one, but in the interest of adding variety to the list I think it's a good addition. It's not the "person becomes villain because they're now disabled" trope, it's the "person becomes villain after seeing the continued destruction caused by hero, also they're now disabled" trope.

I also have an entry for @nopoodles Unlicensed Delivery, which you can find here!

-

If you're interested, you can find more books like this on the archive. Hopefully this list has given you a better idea of where to look for the representation you want.

Happy browsing!

I wish there was more representation of disabilities and chronic illness in fantasy, science fiction and action genres.

Not just a side character with 30 seconds of screentime. An important character that doesn't just exist to further the storylines of other characters. I want a character that doesn't get "cured" or healed. A character that stays disabled and/or chronically ill. A character that isn't afraid to ask for help. One that doesn't think they're a burden and doesn't try to hide their disability/ chronic illness.

I want to see how it affects them, not just know they're disabled/chronically ill and it jist never gets mentioned again. I don't mean it should be their entire personality but being disabled and or chronically ill can affect many parts of life.

I just wish there was more representation of disabilities and chronic illness that shows every part of it. Especially in fantasy and science fiction it's lacking.

[trans-axolotl]

2, 5, 12, and 16 for the reading asks <3

2. Did you reread anything? What?

Yes! I've had this habit since I was a kid, but almost every book that I really like I read more then once. My fav books I've read several dozen times. Some reread highlights this year were Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars By Kai Cheng Thom, Disability Incarcerated by Liat Ben Moshe, Are Prisons Obsolete? By Angela Davis, and An Unkindness of Ghosts by Rivers Solomon.

5. What genre did you read the most of?

Nonfiction and fantasy! This year most of what I read was critical disability studies and fantasy books, but there were some other genres I read every now and then.

12. Any books that disappointed you?

I read a lot of random fantasy books that were just okay, don't really remember the titles cause they were whatever.

16. What is the most over-hyped book you read this year?

Probably The Locked Tomb series. I didn't hate it, but it wasn't really my thing.

Thanks for the ask!!

[libidomechanica]

With shall render better here

Not, shall the world—flowery eye     doth dwellers over young some made for to express the     sedatened to stick Crime returns—already surprise a     ghost resolve only tender, one, sleeps its way of praise, without     a geranium.

Where and stage rouge late as port; their     own and as short them with in the Mower is it all imparts     tis Justice traveled, held a smooth pretty one to Loyal     blisse, openings run; if the said, beneath their Mothers     Mold. We’ll as tho not true

that strange for conflagration’d outside     and more unkind. Nor gathere Vanity! With a smooth     Descent, and of all in certained on the that goes as     colour daily called they starry yet. Yet oh that came there     to gie this epitaph

to me, till at whispers me now,     as welcome! With shall render better here. Title in a’     our love, the wiry come hame? That Psyche, ’ I said: farewelled     talk, I’m borrow fraught thus I shrill or to Loyalty?     The look of all the

bosom they crammed, its red upon     the Best, the bosom they call’d of the vine: but that will I     yield thy dost impediment. And nails and man, child. When she     within her bold as in that Psyche too well might glow. Blame     Majnún, and flow, and their

pupils; she is when I see then     shews through came type of thou may Sons all with is much, more. As     your death rent, and take, or keep has soft palm to play incompany.     The small bloud covered could Stephen grow old Florian,     yea, in who cance full;

by the avenge doubts, dawn there’s     shall Relief fearless, while three castle, dear girl who thee to     my mountains; here know’st the Blow on the fireworks less they went,     leese be obsequious toys. It see all out! But we use     expos’d a children fools!

[aconissa]

aah, i just got really excited that you're reading rivers solomon! an unkindness of ghosts is one of my favourites, have you read that one as well? sending you love xx

Oooh no I haven’t, Sorrowland is the first novel I’ve read by faer, but damn if that title hasn’t immediately decided I have to read more! I love the writing style of this one so I’m sure I’ll be tracking down An Unkindness of Ghosts once I’m done

[bookclub4m]

Episode 167 (version 2) - 2023 Reading Goals & 2022 Reading Report

(Hello! This is a re-upload. The first version had a syncing error that snuck in at the very end of the editing process. We've re-exported it and this version sounds much better!)

This episode we’re talking about our 2023 Reading Goals! We discuss intentions, resolutions, anti-resolutions, and give a report on how well we fulfilled our reading goals last year.

You can download the podcast directly, find it on Libsyn, or get it through Apple Podcasts, Stitcher, Google Podcasts, or your favourite podcast delivery system.

In this episode

Anna Ferri | Meghan Whyte | Matthew Murray | RJ Edwards

2022: Year of Book Two

Episode 142 - Sequels and 2022: The Year of Book Two

2023 Resolutions

  Matthew:

Read more non-fiction

Meghan:

Quit trying to read fiction when she doesn’t feel like it

Read more of what she owns (borrow less from the library)

Anna:

Read more graphic novels

Take pictures of favourite reads

Jam: 

Theme for the year: Intention

Return to tracking picture book reading

Media We Mentioned

Aurora Rising by Amie Kaufman & Jay Kristoff, narrated by Kim Mai Guest, Johnathan McClain, Candice Moll, Lincoln Hoppe, Donnabella Mortel, Jonathan Todd Ross, Erin Spencer & Steve West

Illuminae Files (books 1-3) by Amie Kaufman & Jay Kristoff

Gideon the Ninth by Tamsyn Muir, narrated by Moira Quirk

Steven Erikson

Witch Hat Atelier, Vol 1 by Kamome Shirahama, translated by Stephen Kohler

Delicious in Dungeon, Vol 1 by Ryoko Kui, translated by Sébastien Ludmann 

Links, Articles, and Things

Which Pokemon are the Most Goth?

Matthew reviews his manga reading from 2022 on Twitter

List of One Piece manga volumes - Wikipedia

25 Dystopian Fiction books by BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, & People of Colour) Authors

Every month Book Club for Masochists: A Readers’ Advisory Podcasts chooses a genre at random and we read and discuss books from that genre. We also put together book lists for each episode/genre that feature works by BIPOC (Black, Indigenous, & People of Colour) authors to help our listeners diversify their readers’ advisory. All of the lists can be found here.

Leila by Prayaag Akbar

Killer of Enemies by Joseph Bruchac

Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler

Caster by Elsie Chapman

The Marrow Thieves by Cherie Dimaline

Future Home of the Living God by Louise Erdrich

The Women Could Fly by Megan Giddings

Crosshairs by Catherine Hernandez

The Ones We're Meant to Find by Joan He

Brown Girl in the Ring by Nalo Hopkinson

Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro

Survive the Dome by Kosoko Jackson

The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf by Ambelin Kwaymullina

On Such a Full Sea by Chang-rae Lee

Legend by Marie Lu

Shatter Me by Tahereh Mafi

We Set the Dark on Fire by Tehlor Kay Mejia

Sanctuary by Paola Mendoza & Abby Sher

Futureland by Walter Mosley

The Memory Police by Yōko Ogawa, translated by Stephen Snyder

Goliath by Tochi Onyebuchi

We Light Up the Sky by Lilliam Rivera

Trail of Lightning by Rebecca Roanhorse

The Freedom Race by Lucinda Roy

An Unkindness of Ghosts by Rivers Solomon

Give us feedback!

Fill out the form to ask for a recommendation or suggest a genre or title for us to read!

Check out our Tumblr, follow us on Twitter or Instagram, join our Facebook Group, or send us an email!

Join us again on Tuesday, February 7th. It'll be our annual Valentine’s Day episode, and we’ll be talking about the genre of Holiday Romance!

Then on Tuesday, February 21st join us for What is a Book? (part 2)!

[life-of-an-asexual]

ace and aro books

went on a deep dive to find some aspec rep for myself and this is some of what i came up with. not official recommendations since i haven't read most of them, but they exist and i've put several of them on my own TBR list. these are all books i haven't seen on other rec lists, and i've done my best to confirm that the rep is aspec

if any of y'all have read these, feel free to share your thoughts or correct me if i've gotten something wrong

(organized alphabetically by title and separated by age demographic; mixed genres; subject to being updated)

(ftr just because an author is not specified to be ace or aro does not necessarily mean they are allo; i include that info if i happen to come across it, but i am not going out of my way to track down the identities of every single author)

(some of these books contain themes or scenarios that may be triggering for some readers; i have only done research to ascertain the ace/aro rep; if you find certain topics upsetting to read, it is your responsibility to do the research necessary to determine if a book is appropriate for you and to proceed into a story at your own discretion)

updated 5.9.24

~Mod Q

A Milky Way Home by Hsinju Chen = adult, romance; transmasc/cis f biace4panace romance, described as low heat (author is nonbinary)

A Pale Light in the Black by K.B. Wagers = adult, science fiction; asexual MC, various other rep, coast guard in space

Alchemy by Marie S. Crosswell = adult, mystery; asexual lesbian MC, genderbent Sherlock

All the Wrong Places by Ann Gallagher = adult, romance; ace4ace m/m romance, identity discovery

An Accident of Stars by Foz Meadows = adult, fantasy; allosexual aromantic MC in a poly relationship

An Unkindness of Ghosts by Rivers Solomon = adult, science fiction; aroace side character, intersex MC, themes of oppression and racism

Blank Spaces & Finding Your Feet by Cass Lennox = adult, romance; both feature asexual MCs (second one features a trans LI)

The Bone People by Keri Hulme = adult, magical realism; aroace MC, themes of family and identity, deals with child abuse

The Bruising of Qilwa by Naseem Jamnia = adult, fantasy; aroace nonbinary MC, queernormative world-building

Catch Lili Too by Sophie Whittemore = adult, fantasy; asexual non-human MC, paranormal murder mystery

Chosen. Again. by J. Emery = adult, fantasy; asexual MC, saves the fantasy world as a teen then has to do it again as an adult

The Circus Infinite by Khan Wong = adult, sci fi-fantasy; asexual MC and found family dynamic

City of Strife by Claudie Arseneault = adult, fantasy; various rep including aspec (author is acearospec)

Coffee Cake by Michaela Grey = adult, romance; asexual MC, m/m relationship, mystery elements

The Crows by C.M. Rosens = adult, horror; ace (and aro?) major character, fucked up eldritch horror

Cupid Calling by Viano Oniomoh = adult, romance; demisexual biromantic MC, m/m romance, dating show setting, super fluffy

The Cybernetic Tea Shop by Meredith Katz = adult, science fiction; sapphic ace MC with a robot LI

Devon's Island by Si Clarke = adult, science fiction; aroace POV character, queernormative worldbuilding, various other rep

Earthflown by Frances Wren = adult, science fiction; ace-spec MC, m/m romance, an urban fantasy climate change apocalypse story

Eight Kinky Nights by Xan West = adult, romance; gray-ace MC, butch4femme friends-to-lovers, various other rep

Firebreak by Nicole Kornher-Stace = adult, science fiction; aroace MC, dystopia, focus on platonic relationships (author is aroace)

From the Dark We Came by J. Emery = adult, paranormal; demisexual MC, m/m romance, vampires

The Heartbreak Handshake by J.R. Hart = adult, romance; asexual MC with a non-binary LI, fully chaste (author is autistic, adhd, and nonbinary)

How Not to Summon Your True Love by Sasha L. Miller = adult, romance; ace MC and ace LI, paranormal elements

Learning Curves by Ceillie Simkiss = adult, romance; asexual MC in an f/f relationship

Never Been Kissed by Timothy Janovsky = adult, romance; demisexual MC, m/m relationship, mistakenly sent love confessions

Perfect Rhythm by Jae = adult, romance; rural lesbian romance with an asexual LI

Poisoned Primrose by Dahlia Donovan = adult, mystery; asexual autistic MC, middle-aged protagonist (author is autistic)

Rising from Ash by Jax Meyer = adult, romance; asexual MC in an f/f romance

The Romantic Agenda by Claire Kann = adult, romance; asexual MC, fake-dating (author of Let's Talk About Love)

Second Chance by Chelsea M. Cameron = adult/new adult, romance; demi bi MC in an f/f relationship, exes-to-lovers

Soft on Soft by Mina Waheed = adult, romance; demisexual MC in an f/f romance, pure fluff

Squared Away by Annabeth Albert = adult, romance; gray-a/demi MC, m/m romance with child acquisition

Stake Sauce: The Secret Ingredient Is Love. No Really by RoAnna Sylver = adult, paranormal; gray-a MC, deals with trauma

That Kind of Guy by Talia Hibbert = adult, romance; demisexual MC, fake-dating, m/f age gap romance

Thaw by Elyse Springer = adult, romance; asexual MC, an opposites-attract f/f romance

To Be Taught, If Fortunate by Becky Chambers = adult, science fiction; multiple ace characters, various other rep, space travel

The Trouble by Daria Defore = adult/new adult, romance?; gay aromantic MC, college setting

Upside Down by N.R. Walker = adult, romance; ace4ace m/m romance

Valentine by Julie Mannino = adult, romance; sex-averse ace MC, sexless kinky m/m relationship

We Go Forward by Alison Evans = adult, contemporary; aroace MC, centralized friendship

Werecockroach by Polenth Blake = adult, science fiction; aroace MC, deals with mental disability, also there are aliens

~

Common Bonds = anthology, speculative fiction; stories that highlight aromanticism and focus on platonic relationships

Goddess of the Hunt by Shelby Eileen = poetry, mythology; an exploration of Artemis being aroace

Queerly Loving = anthology, various genres; asexual and aromantic rep, various other rep including trans, polyamorous, and platonic relationships

~

A Dark and Starless Forest by Sarah Hollowell = young adult, paranormal; various rep including ace-spec, chosen family dynamic

Aces Wild: A Heist by Amanda DeWitt = young adult, thriller/mystery; several asexual characters

Archivist Wasp by Nicole Kornher-Stace = young adult, science fiction; aroace MC (according to author)

The Art of Saving the World by Corrine Duyvis = young adult, science fiction; asexual MC

Before I Let Go by Marieke Nijkamp = young adult, mystery; asexual (and aro?) MC

Belle Revolte by Linsey Millery = young adult, fantasy; biromantic ace MC in an f/f romance

Beneath the Citadel by Destiny Soria = young adult, fantasy; major ace character, various other rep, centralized platonic relationship

Beyond the Black Door by A.M. Strickland = young adult, fantasy; asexual MC (demi-biromantic according to author)

Clariel by Garth Nix = young adult, fantasy; asexual MC, prequel to the Old Kingdom series

Dare Mighty Things by Heather Kaczynski = young adult, science fiction; asexual (and arospec?) MC

The Facts and Legends of Callie Catwell by Sophia DeRise = young adult, fantasy; asexual MC with lesbian LI

Fire Becomes Her by Rosiee Thor = young adult, fantasy; several aspec characters

Forward March by Skye Quinlan = young adult, contemporary; asexual lesbian MC

Fourth World by Lyssa Chiavari = young adult, science fiction; demisexual MC and asexual MC (author is aroace)

From Under the Mountain by C.M. Spivey = young adult, fantasy; demisexual lesbian MC, aspec secondary characters

Good Angel by A.M. Blaushild = young adult, graphic novel; angel characters where asexual, aromantic, and agender are the assumed default but is explored with nuance

Help Wanted by J. Emery = young/new adult, fantasy; questioning aspec MC (and gender questioning)

Hullmetal Girls by Emily Skrutskie = young adult, science fiction; aroace MC, various other rep

Immoral Code by Lillian Clark = young adult, contemporary; asexual POV character, friendship dynamic with "fuck the rich" vibes

Island of Exiles by Erica Cameron = young adult, fantasy; asexual (secondary?) character, various other rep including intersex

It Sounds Like This by Anna Meriano = young adult, contemporary; asexual-questioning MC, gray-a side character, deals with a toxic friendship

The Last 8 by Laura Pohl = young adult, science fiction; aromantic MC, alien invasion apocalypse

Little Black Bird by Anna Kirchner = young adult, fantasy; questioning aspec character

Meet Cute Diary by Emery Lee = young adult, romance; trans male MC with asexual LI, m/m romance, fake dating

Meet You By Hachiko by Loren Greene = young adult, contemporary; aroace-spec MC, focus on friendship

Raybearer by Jordan Ifueko = young adult, fantasy; asexual secondary character, centralized platonic relationship

The Reckless Kind by Carly Heath = young adult, historical; asexual MC, emphasized friendship, all main characters are also disabled

The Rhythm of My Soul by Elin Dyer = young adult, mystery; aroace MC, ballet academy setting

Running with the Pack by A.M. Burns and Caitlin Ricci = young adult, contemporary; ace LI, polyamorous romance

Sawkill Girls by Claire Legrand = young adult, horror; asexual POV character (all MCs are also sapphic), themes of grief, paranormal elements

Sea Foam and Silence & The Ice Princess's Fair Illusion by S.L. Dove Cooper = young adult, fairy tale; queerplatonic retellings in verse

The Sound of Stars by Alechia Dow = young adult, science fiction; demisexual (biromantic) MC, post-alien invasion dystopia

Summer Bird Blue by Akemi Dawn Bowman = young adult, contemporary; asexual (and aro?) MC, deals with family death

The Summer of Bitter and Sweet by Jen Ferguson = young adult, contemporary; asexual MC, themes of family trauma and multiracial identity

Switchback by Danika Stone = young adult, thriller; aroace MC, survivalist situations

Tarnished Are the Stars by Rosiee Thor = young adult, steampunk; aroace MC, various other rep, cat-and-mouse game

That's Not What Happened by Kody Keplinger = young adult, contemporary; asexual MC, deals with the aftermath of a school shooting

This Golden Flame by Emily Victoria = young adult, fantasy; aroace MC (author is aroace)

Two Dark Moons by Avi Silver = young adult, fantasy; aromantic (and ace?) MC, f/nb queerplatonic relationship

Vanilla by Billy Merrell = young adult, contemporary; asexual MC, m/m relationship, coming-of-age

What We Devour by Linsey Miller = young adult, fantasy; asexual MC (biromantic according to author)

Wren Martin Ruins It All by Amanda DeWitt = young adult, contemporary; asexual MC

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A-Okay by Jarad Greene = middle grade, graphic novel; asexual MC, deals with self-discovery and body image

Come Drink With Me, Gold and Jasper, East Flows the River by Michelle Kan = all ages?; described as aromantic chinese fairy tales

The Dragon of Ynys by Minerva Cerridwen = all ages, fairy tale; aroace MC (author is aroace)

Hazel's Theory of Everything by Lisa Jenn Bigelow = middle grade, contemporary; questioning aroace MC, themes of self-discovery

The Faerie Godmother's Apprentice Wore Green by Nicky Kyle = all ages?, fairy tale; major aroace character, focus on friendship