#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"Odd-mannered, obsessive, withdrawn, Aster has little to offer folks in the way of rebuttal when they call her ogre and freak.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."

[betweenstorms]

Ghost never used your callsign.

Not once outside of a mission.

Everyone else did, of course. On the comms, in the field, even in the rare moments of downtime. They called you Snaps, quick as the crack of a match, sharp as the sound of fingers breaking the quiet, edged with the understanding that some fires were meant to burn, not to warm. You were a role to fill, a name to answer to. You were your rank, your title, your purpose, stitched to your chest, something impersonal and replaceable.

But not to him.

Ghost used your name instead, your real name, the one buried beneath the weight of duty and protocol. It wasn’t obvious at first. Your lieutenant wasn’t careless. Not with his movements, not with his silences. Not with you.

The way he said it—it was different.

He never said it like Johnny’s name, thrown out with familiarity, with ease and sometimes with warning. No, when Simon Riley spoke your name, it was as if he was testing it. Like it didn’t belong to him, but he wanted to know how it felt in his mouth anyway. He said it like he wasn’t supposed to, like it was something personal lodged in his throat, heavy enough to keep there, dangerous enough to let slip.

“Why don’t you use my callsign, sir?”

A shift. Barely there.

Ghost kept his head forward, kept his hands steady as he checked the strap on his vest during your team's usual mission preparation. His balaclava hid everything, but you knew his eyes had gone sharp, calculating. Measuring the weight of your question before deciding what it was worth.

“Don’t see the point.”

Flat. Blunt. Dismissive in the way only he could be. But his voice was lower than usual. A fraction softer, like a thread had come loose in all that careful restraint.

“You do with everyone else.”

“You ain’t everyone else.”

The answer came too quickly. Too easily.

Like it had been there all along, waiting.

You opened your mouth to press further, but his eyes flicked to yours, cutting through the air like a warning. Not unkind, just final. Like a door being shut. You blinked, but he didn’t offer anything more. Just finished adjusting his gear and straightened, towering over you in the dim light. But then, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders loosened. He tilted his head, his attention drifting to the entrance of the hangar, to the night outside. “I call people what they are,” he muttered, almost to himself. “And you’re not just that.”

That was all he gave you.

And yet, somehow, it was enough.

And the worst part? You didn’t know if he was talking about your name on his tongue or the fact that you liked it there.

Because you did.

He was never a man of many words, his intentions lived in the spaces between them, woven into subtle actions, in the careful precision with which he spoke. He never wasted breath on unnecessary sentiment, yet somehow, you always understood him. Whatever his reasons, you found yourself drawn to it, to him.

And you liked it—God, you liked it.

Just as much as you liked the weight of his stolen glances, the sharp edge of his wit, the quiet cruelty of his humor, dark as the depths that called to him. You liked the way his deep voice carried, low and steady, a storm before the crash. You liked his bravery, the way he walked through danger like it was nothing but an inconvenience.

And if you were honest, you liked everything about him, really.

More than you should. More than was safe.

Maybe that’s why you never corrected him.

Why you never asked him to stop.

Because you loved everything about him.

Even the things you shouldn’t.

betweenstorms (next) (masterlist)

[the-reader-insert-gazette]

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

[doomed-era]

very quickly speedrunning hi can i ask about the return alt chapter the ghosts gboh chapter and the unreleased the devil went down to gerogia fic devil voice okk byyeeeee

HEHEHHO UH I can actually tell you more about the return it's not. actually spoilers it's just throwing a lot of things at you with no context. And it's set like, four years before ALT proper starts. I gotta leave for work in a few so this will be a while in the making

the return here is a very literal title again, it's about blasse returning home from. Something. It also alludes to the origin of the scar he has on his face

As for what I enjoy about it, I really like the buildup to an exchange Blasse has with Lance.

He would have been home by now. Lance would be in his study-turned-room, brooding over a poem he had been stuck on for a month or writing in his journal, and the captain would have burst through the door. Every other day he tried to get fish from the market, claiming he had caught it from the river himself. The younger soldier would groan at his stupid, repetitive joke, then they'd make dinner.

"Now I've really caught something," a familiar voice said. "Not as scaly as I'd like." The captain put away his sword, and removed his hood, grinning impishly.

Lance and his not-dad are so silly and I love them smh. I. MIGHT post it soon but only after I get through a good portion of Chapter 4 and finish something I want to write to give more context about Lance and Blasse's relationship.

Just a Ghost is also fairly straightforward. It's a chapter dealing with Link's feelings about Mipha, and the chapter title references that. I really enjoyed writing Link having some good moments with Hylia here, too. In both the story itself and in regard to her purpose in the story, she's not *just* there to torment him, technically.

We also have that one flashback scene with Paya. Yeah the mysterious person is her!! That whole scene was to establish what happened to Link and why he is Like That about Mipha, but it's also partially because I haven't really liked fics that handle trauma very much. Honestly if that's not your main focus, that's completely okay, not everyone is gonna talk about how the big adventure will affect the protagonist in very negative ways, and not every person will even be affected at all. Still, I see a lot of people treat trauma like it's something you can kinda just slap onto a character to make them cry for a scene and remove once it's convenient, which I loathe, since I've been treated like I should just get over stuff before I was ready to, and I've seen people treat others this way too. It's an unkind mentality, and I don't want to see it in fiction where I'm supposed to accept it and see it as good!

Sorry I have feelings about that. uhh. yeah that was a major driving force behind this chapter.

Okay now for the devil went down to georgia :) I am shameless this is a song title and i loveee this song please listen to it. I am somewhat tentative about the title because I'm afraid people are gonna think "the devil" is in reference to ganondorf when he's actually more like the other character in the song lol. also to be fair the "devil" in this situation isn't even evil she's just chilling. Title is also in reference to this:

For one moment, just one, Ganondorf felt his will slip, and he did as all ghosts do. He sank.

I really haven't written much of it it's more of an outline in my head but he meets the goddess of decay here and she eventually promises to help him get a new body :)

[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.

[clarissajaneen]

Today is the last day of 2024! As my final year of classes before I go to thesis, I did a lot of reading. And thanks to audiobooks, I was able to consume several books over the summer break as well. In all the reading for my classes, I’ve rediscovered a love of getting cosy on my couch with a good book and it’s something I hope to keep up after graduation.

What were some favorite books you read this year?

___

[image description: 2024 Reading Roundup with the covers of 15 titles- Exit West, One of Us Is Lying, The Stolen Heir, The Very Secret Society of Irregular Witches, The Girl Who Drank the Moon, Stardust, Lore of the Wilds, The Prisoner’s Throne, A Study in Drowning, A Deadly Education, Like a Sister, A Scanner Darkly, An Unkindness of Ghosts, Every Heart a Doorway, and The Ballad of Black Tom. END.]

[toohardtosummarize]

4, 5, 16? 👀

4. Did you discover any new authors that you love this year? I really enjoyed both of the books I read by Rivers Solomon (An Unkindness of Ghosts and Sorrowland).

5. What genre did you read the most of? Fantasy of one description or another, especially gaslamp fantasy. Among other titles, this was the year I finally read Jonathan Strange & Mister Norrell.

16. What is the most overhyped book you read this year? Listen: I liked This Is How You Lose the Time War, but not as much as I think I expected to. Most of what I read this year was good and/or not especially hyped, so this is really only the answer by default.

Ask me about my reading this year!

[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