#but in any case i have three more to work on for now- i have those skethed and done at least so i just have to finish em | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starlightxsvt · 2 days ago

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Guilty | sibilance. 3

synopsis ➳ ❝ after months you see Wonwoo at the annual party. lines are crossed, accusations are made and just after, your colleague voices out a crazy proposition.❞

pairing ➳ lawyer fem!reader x rich badboy!wonwoo (ft. Jeonghan)

genre ➳ angst, smut, drama

word count ➳ 4.5k + 900(patreon bonus)

warnings ➳ cursing, toxic ex vibes, slight love triangle, rough sex, unprotected intercourse, dom!wonwoo, big dic!wonwoo, messy makeouts, dirty talk, degradation, cream pie, no aftercare, so much drama.

previous chapter

The weather is misty today. Winter has passed quickly over the past three months, and now spring is starting to ease the chill from the air. Yet, you still feel just as tired, if not more so than before.

A break is an imminent necessity, but you will not be getting any until you wrap up your current case. It is a huge one, viral on social media due to its scandalized nature, but most importantly, your client and his opponent are extremely exhausting. It is like managing toddlers, and you are ever so grateful that Jeonghan is also handling this case with you.

It is a particularly sensitive case because your client is the owner of the biggest textile company in the country and also, Chairman Jeon’s good friend, Mr Kim. Last month, he married his daughter off to another huge chaebol family in the country and the issue began with the catering service for the wedding, owned by Mr Kim’s ex business partner and current rival. The guests all got food poisoning right in the middle of the ceremony and the bride had an allergic reaction, throwing Mr Kim into a fit as he claimed it to be an attempted murder to get revenge on him.

Things have been chaotic since then, keeping you on your toes.

Despite being snowed under your work, a particular rumour floating around the Jeon Corporation caught your attention and has been a constant form of distraction ever since you heard it.

Word on the street says that Chairman Jeon is set to announce a new CEO at the annual party of the company taking place this weekend and apparently, one candidate is his own son and the other is a completely new hire. Six months ago you would have laughed at the rumour of the Chairman’s son, Wonwoo— who you know personally, taking over the company but now, you can say nothing for sure.

It has been nearly three months since you last saw him, partly due to your hectic schedule and also due to the lack of work at Jeon Corporation. Since you have not visited the headquarters recently, you have not been tortured by the sight of that infuriating man but you have to admit that thoughts of Wonwoo have been plaguing your mind. They pop up randomly in your head and you hate your mind for betraying you like that.

You are supposed to move on. And it was not even an actual relationship so why are you still thinking about that stupid, spoiled brat?

“Your drink.” Jeonghan places your coffee on your desk, snapping you out of your reverie. You turn from the window in front of which you were standing and walk back to your desk, taking a sip of your latte with a grateful smile. “I still cannot believe you got my order exactly right on the first try. Thank you.”

It is truly insane. A month ago one day, as your work started piling up, you stopped taking your usual coffee breaks and instead asked Jeonghan to grab you something, forgetting to mention how you like your coffee. Unbelievably, when you tried what he brought for you, you were astounded to the point of silence.

Turns out you and his sister have very similar tastes so he got lucky with that.

“You are most welcome.” Jeonghan smiles, throwing a cheeky wink at you. “Just knock on my door if you need anything.”

“Will do.” You pause for a moment. Just as he is about to close the door behind him, you call, “Jeonghan, you’re attending the party this weekend, right?”

The man steps back into your office. “Yes. Actually, I am glad that you brought it up.”

You wait, looking at him expectantly.

“Would you be my date for the evening?”

You smile. “Gladly.” Everyone you know already has a plus one so you were dreading showing up alone. As always, Jeonghan has come to the rescue.

“I am honoured.” Jeonghan smiles, his eyes crinkling beautifully. “I was worried Mr. Pi would ask me to be his plus one. I mean it was either going to be you or me.”

You snort a burst of laughter. “I know, right? But he will not get off our backs when he figures out we’re coming together. You know he has that weird obsession of pairing us together like a couple.”

Suddenly, Jeonghan’s face grows serious.“That isn’t a bad idea, you know.”

A soft sigh falls from your lips.

“You should move on from him. It has been long enough, don’t you think?”

“I am over him,” you reply, almost defensively. “Listen, if there is one thing I have learned, it is, not to date where you work.”

Jeonghan chuckles softly. “Office romance is quite fun you know.”

You arch a teasing brow. “Someone seems experienced.’’ The man smiles secretively before stepping closer to the door, pulling it open with one hand. “Just giving you a heads up, you haven’t seen me in a suit yet.”

“I see you in a suit every day, Jeonghan.” You sass.

The man rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean. A proper three piece suit. A tuxedo. Prepare to have your mind blown.” He shakes his palms for dramatic effect.

You sip your coffee. “Mhm, stop pestering me now. I have so much work to do.”

The man flashes a smile before pulling the door closed.

You still have a grin lingering on your lips as you open your files and start skimming through them.

—

On Saturday night, Jeonghan is in front of your house sharply at 7.

You rush to the door as you receive his text, putting on your heels and scrambling to get your purse and phone.

You are going to be late but hey, at least you will be fashionably late.

Buying this emerald green dress impulsively six months ago was not a bad idea, you now realize, because you love how the dress fits you. With your hair and makeup done, it is almost a completely new you and you may have taken too long admiring yourself in the mirror.

Jeonghan’s jaw goes slack as he watches you step out of your apartment building. His expression makes you laugh and you cannot help but shake your head at his overexaggeration.

“Wow,” his eyes move up and down as he steps closer to you. “Fucking hell. You look absolutely stunning.”

Shyly you avoid his gaze. “Thank you. You’re not too bad yourself.” You gesture towards him, waving your hand up and down his height. The coffee-coloured three piece suit is truly a fabulous compliment to his brushed back blond hair.

The man shakes his head. “You were the one who should have given me a heads up. I have the prettiest woman in the party as my date.”

This man sure has a way with his words.

“I can see why you are such a successful lawyer, Mr. Yoon.” You saunter past him. “Let’s get going now. We’re already late.”

“Yes madam,” he rushes past you to hold open the car door, making you smile.

—

The venue is crowded when you arrive.

It takes no more than five minutes for your colleagues to spot the two of you and five more minutes later, you are graced by Mr. Pi’s holy presence. He gushes over the two of you and when Jeonghan escapes the conversation by saying he’ll get drinks for you, Mr. Pi corners you.

“Are you sure you are not dating our dear Mr. Yoon?”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. “No, Mr. Pi. Come on now, let it be.”

He hums and then nods thoughtfully, pushing his sunglasses up his nose bridge.

Who knows why he is wearing that indoors and at night.

“I understand,” the man rubs his chin slowly and seriously as if he is pondering the most critical issue of life. “Our chairman’s handsome son left a lasting impression on you.”

Even before you realise it, a soft, almost wistful sigh escapes your lips. “Can we not talk about him? At least not here?”

Mr. Pi looks at you from above his sunglasses, “This is the place to talk about him. Tonight people will talk about him.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see.”

Wait, what?

“Mr. Pi—” You reach out for him but he spots an old colleague and walks over to him, ignoring you with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Right then, Jeonghan is back with two flutes of champagne in his hands. You snatch one from him and immediately gulp it down. Then, you narrow your eyes at him. “Nice job, jerk. Leaving me alone with him.”

The man cheekily shrugs his shoulder, unable to fight off the knowing smile blooming on his lips. Grinning at you, he sips his champagne.

With a shake of your head, you go around the room accompanied by Jeonghan, mingling with old and new faces. The stage is being set up for the upcoming speeches by the top executives of the company. The closing speech will, of course, be Chairman Jeon’s. The grand hall room increasingly grows crowded as you finish two more glasses of champagne while socialising, everyone eager to hear the big announcement.

“I think you have drunk enough for now.” Jeonghan blocks your hand when you reach for the fourth glass as a waiter passes by. You pout, “Oh come on. Socialising takes a lot of energy. I cannot talk to these boring people about boring things on a Saturday night while being sober.”

A scoff of amusement comes from him and he opens his mouth to say something but his vision shifts, focusing on something behind you. His expression changes and you turn your head back to see what he is looking at.

Not what. Who.

Wonwoo stands a few feet behind you, looking unfairly stunning. The contrast of his black blazer against his crisp white shirt is stunning and with sharp features and his hair brushed back, he is a scene stealer.

He, however, seems not to attract attention as he remains on the edge of the hall room, near where the lights are dimmer. As your eyes meet his and the raging beat of your heart loudens, he holds your gaze before taking quick steps towards you.

Within a couple of seconds, he is right in front of you.

“We need to talk. Privately.” He says, his posture slightly rigid, and he looks around the room as if making sure no one sees him.

You don’t have much time to process his words as he ushers you away by tugging your wrist. You look back at Jeonghan almost helplessly and the man gives you an understanding nod. “I’ll be here, don’t worry.”

You are quickly rushed out of the grand room and pulled down a hallway at the end of which there are a few private rooms. Wonwoo pulls you inside and shuts the door behind you.

The room is messy and if you are not wrong, it seems to be his dressing room.

In your mind, an equation starts to form as you take everything in.

Finally, your eyes land on Wonwoo after scouring the room and you find him looking at you attentively.

There is a hard lump in your throat that you have to swallow.

“Hi.” The man says quietly, almost shyly.

“It has been a while,” you murmur as a greeting, trying to keep your voice as flat as possible.

“Way too long,” he replies, his voice much quieter as he enunciates each word slowly and carefully. You wonder if it is your mind playing tricks on you or if the depth of his eyes just increased tenfold.

Whatever, you cannot let yourself get caught up in this again. The tension in the air is thickening by the second.

“Why did you bring me here?” You avoid his eyes, your gaze settling on the skin peeking from underneath his shirt as the two buttons are undone.

“Right.” Wonwoo blinks as if breaking out of a trance. “I wanted to tell you something. I mean…it will be announced later but I thought you out of all people should hear it from me first.”

The way he speaks, his eyes skirting around, his hands fidgety tells you what the news is. You voice it out for him. “You are taking over the company?”

You see his pupils widen. After a moment's pause, he says. “Yes.”

Hm. He is dressed too fancy to attend as a mere employee anyway.

You are proud of him for sure. He has grown as a person since you last saw him. But at the same time, there is dread in the pit of your stomach. With him now taking over the company, there is no escaping him. You will be seeing him, whether you like it or not.

“Congratulations.” You hum. “I appreciate you informing me separately but it wasn’t necessary. We don’t have any personal contact. I am just another employee, Jeon…Chairman Wonwoo.”

Wonwoo looks at you with surprise and you wonder if it is your icy demeanour that makes him frown.

“Still…I have to thank you. You had a huge part to play in getting me here.”

Oh really?

For a brief moment, your mind flashes back to earlier this year when you were seeing each other. The late night talks about his future with the company. You find yourself wondering how he managed to earn his father’s trust so quickly because you remember him telling you his father would never let him take over. Due to his unrefined behaviors, of course. But it seems that he has grown out of them which is good for him.

“I better get going. Jeonghan is probably waiting for me.” You step towards the door but Wonwoo grabs your upper arm, pulling you back with a gentle tug.

“Do you not miss me? Not one bit?” His voice is so thick with emotion that it feels foreign to you. Like his, your throat closes up, and you hate how a few words from him make tears burn in the back of your eyes.

“It doesn’t matter. Just let—”

“It does! There is something else I have to tell you.”

“I don’t care!” You yell, jerking yourself free from his hold. “You can not act all familiar after so long. We are not like that anymore! Why can’t you understand?”

In the semi darkness of the room, you see his eyes glimmer.

The very next moment he is kissing you.

And you are kissing him back.

Just for tonight, you tell yourself as your resolve slips. You are going to give in just tonight. Just one last time. You truly don’t have it in you to turn away from him now, from his warmth, touch, and embrace when this is what you have been longing for the past few months.

Maneuvering your body with his, he pins you against the wall, trapping you with ease. And tonight, there is nowhere you want to escape to.

"I missed you." He whispers like a mantra, devouring your mouth like a starved man. He trails kisses down your jaw as his hands remove your straps from your shoulders, revealing the entire expanse of your shoulder and neck for him to play with. In between heated kisses, his hands explore your breasts, playing with your soft mounds over the fabric of your dress.

No words are exchanged between the two of you.

Your hands move over his chest, feeling the firm muscles under your fingertips before pushing his blazer off his shoulders. The lines are hazy just like your mind as you cannot decipher who pulls whom closer. In the dense cloud of lust, you can only fathom the opening of the buttons of his shirt and his warm body pressing next to yours.

“I need you,” Wonwoo murmurs against your lips. One of his hands moves expertly down your thigh before he grips the back of your knee and places it around his waist. You pull him even closer, smashing your lips against his, hot and heavy as your tongue meets his.

Briefly, you hear the groan of his zipper being undone. You lift your dress, standing at an angle that helps him comfortably slide between your legs, his unrelenting grip on the back of your thigh.

"Put your hands over my shoulders and hold tight. " His whisper is a command as he positions himself at your entrance, pushing your panties to a side.

And before you can blink, he's inside you. The stretch of the intrusion makes you jolt and let out a loud, breathy groan of pleasure that makes you squeeze his shoulders and bite your lip.

This. This is exactly what you wanted. Exactly what you needed.

You feel every delicious inch of him, moving in and out of you, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. making your body shake from the onslaught of pleasure. Your hold on his shoulders tightens as little squeaks escape from your lips and your legs wrap themselves around his body tighter when you start to taste your release.

"Gosh, you're so tight. I missed you.” He grunts with each thrust. “Letting me fuck you against a wall, in my dressing room. Tell me, did you miss this? Did you miss me like I missed you?" Wonwoo demands, a hand reaching up to squeeze your cheeks, forcing you to look into his eyes.

“Look at me and tell me you did not miss me,” he pants, a snarl etched in his tone as he removes his hand from your face and grips the back of your throat, pulling your face closer to his.

"W-Wonwoo," you try to moan. Wonwoo keeps watching you with a darkened gaze, his pace matching the fierceness in his gaze as he continues to drill into you. He shakes after giving you a particular hard thrust, that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll back. “You are still that dirty girl. You're still my filthy slut."

You hate how much you missed his filthy mouth.

"P-please," you pant, breathless trying to grind your clit against his pelvis. One touch on your clit and you're gonna come. "Please, let me come, Wonwoo."

The man smiles, and it almost appears cruel and cocky as he grabs your wrists in one hand and pins them hard on the wall. He increases his pace, thrusting in and out of you so hard that your back starts aching. However, you are way beyond complaining because the next moment his release is filling you up, triggering yours. Your cry is loud and unceremonious as you cling to him and ride out your high, feeling your release in the deepest fibres of your being

A short moment later, Wonwoo’s grip on you loosens. With a slightly hazy mind, you watch you grab some tissues, cleaning up you and him. With the haze of lust disappearing gradually, you find your head clearing up. The silence in the air now feels suffocating and you find yourself playing a guessing game.

Why is he so quiet? What is he thinking?

As Wonwoo buttons up his shirt and fixes his jacket, his gaze meets yours and you see his eyes fall on your lips. Pressing your fingertips around your lips, you realise your lipstick is smudged. Quietly, he hands you a tissue paper and you walk to the mirror, using it to dab the lipstick stain around your lips.

In the mirror, you watch Wonwoo watching you. All throughout, another strange, suffocating silence persists. As you toss the tissue in the bin, the silence is finally broken by his quiet, somber voice, “My father arranged a marriage for me.”

Your body grows ice cold.

For one long, horrible moment, you stop breathing, thinking, praying that you heard wrong.

“What are you…what— what do you mean?”

“He wants me to marry a chaebol heiress— Yuna Lee, sometime next year.”

Suddenly, you are scrambling to get your thoughts in order. It is always like this with him. One moment it is quiet and the next you are hit by a full speed freight train.

“You should not have done that. We should not have done that. Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“Well, I tried—”

Suddenly, your blood is boiling and you are seeing red.

“What was this, a goodbye fuck?” You hiss, fixing the straps of your dress.

“What?” Wonwoo scoffs. “No! I have been thinking about you for months! Trying to figure out how to approach you—

“With all that thinking you sure did one good job!” You find yourself turning towards the door.

“Oh come on! I…I missed you. You drive me crazy. You know damn well my brain stops working when you are near me.”

“No, Wonwoo. I don’t.” You grit.

The passion, the emotion that you have been holding back all these months comes out in tidal waves. “In case you don’t remember, during our relationship, you were always so nonchalant, so detached. You did not give a shit about me. Not really because I was a fuck buddy to you. A girl getting paid to get your ass out of trouble every time and also someone available for a quick bang!”

Wonwoo’s demeanour shifts. You visibly see him get defensive. “Well, it's not like you professed your love to me! You did not ever hint that you were in love with me.”

Your mouth falls open at the absurdity of his words.

“You… you did not treat me with the minimum respect. You would disappear for weeks, Wonwoo, completely out of the radar only to show up when you needed my help.” You pause. “Never mind, it is pointless to argue with you.” You turn, reaching for the handle of the door.

Wonwoo stops you by roughly tugging on your arm. His grip is iron solid. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to leave without hearing my piece!”

You place a hand on his and use it to remove his fingers from your skin. “The time for speaking was months ago. Not now in a dressing room, minutes before you are about to be announced the new CEO.”

“I finally have my life together!”

“Do you?” You take a step closer to him with a challenge. “Do you really?”

Wonwoo remains silent, his eyes sparkling with thundering storms and clouds of emotions.

You continue. “I was your comfort zone. You used me when you needed me and then forgot about me when you were not in the mood. It would not have mattered if I professed undying love for you. You did not love me, not in the right way. You did not and you don’t right now. This is you trying to find comfort in something familiar…me.”

A twisted, unironical smile appears on his lips. “Oh, so you are what now, a therapist?”

You remain silent, watching him without blinking.

The man shakes his head, scoffing. “If you only knew how I truly felt…” His fingers card through his hair as he takes a step back. “You have no idea how I feel. In fact, right now, I don’t think you even know how you feel!”

Your lips part, ready to interject, but he goes on. “You are right. This was a mistake. I should not have told you about my dad’s plans of getting me married. No, because you would have liked to just straight up receive my wedding invite, huh? I should have just married her and showed up with her one day and introduced you as a special friend, no? Would you have liked that? Would that be the right thing to do?”

Each syllable coming out of his mouth burns like acid. Tears blur your vision but you force yourself not to cry in front of him.

“I fucking hate you.” You breathe, uttering each world slowly. “I hope you have a miserable life with her, you asshole. Never show me your face again.” Gathering your dress with one hand, you march towards the door, not stopping when he calls out your name or tries to hold onto you.

He can go to hell.

Your steps are quick as you pick up pace, running down the long hallway of the private rooms and then down a common corridor before you come to the large foyer in front of the elevator. With your skirt fisted in your hands, you dash for it but a voice makes you pause.

You turn back to find Jeonghan calling your name and jogging after you. As he comes to a stop in front of you, his eyes go up and down the length of your body, taking notice of your dishevelled appearance.

“Are you okay?” His fingers gently touch your arm but you don’t let him pull you closer.

You need to leave.

“I need to go home.” You whisper, voice wobbly.

“Why are you running?” He steps closer to you, a desperation in his voice that matches the look in your eyes. “That bastard keeps hurting you and you keep running from him. Go and fucking… I don’t know— cause a scene! Drag him on stage and smack him once or twice.”

You are not in the mood for this.

“Stop it, Jeonghan,” you grunt turning away but the man steps in front of you.

“No! I won’t stop when I see you repeatedly suffering because of him.”

If you were not so overcome with emotions, you would roll your eyes.

“Just let me go.” You hiss, stepping past the man blocking your way. As you cross him, however, a harsh grip on your wrist forces you to stop.

“Go out with me,” Jeonghan says in the calmest manner, the hold of his fingers on your wrist steadfast like his voice.

You almost make a move to yank yourself free but the diction of those words stops you in your tracks as if a thunderbolt has just struck you. You slowly turn your head back to meet Jeonghan’s eyes, wondering if he really said that. The strength you had moments ago to break your hand free suddenly dissipates as you meet his piercing gaze.

Along with your heartbeat, time stops.

You forget to blink, feeling the subtle tightening of his grip on you. As the silence hangs longer in the air and the depth of his words settles into the empty grand hall and every crevice of your tattered heart, you find yourself motionless, thoughtless, speechless.

“Date me. You know I’ll treat you better.” He states, again.

You feel like you are hyperventilating. A shaky breath comes from your lips and after that, each breath is a struggle.

Suddenly, everything is too much.

Too much light in this hall. Too much noise in the background.

Too much sincerity in his words.

For a moment, you genuinely find yourself considering.

And as your gaze strays from your colleague for the smallest moment, you notice Wonwoo standing a few meters behind him.

The look in his eyes is inexplicable but you feel every emotion radiating off him and you immediately know he heard everything. He doesn’t move, however. As the silence persists, his gaze darkens, watching you like a hawk, almost as if he is waiting to hear your verdict.

At the same time, the longer you look, his gaze appears vulnerable, betrayed.

And you feel…guilty.

Want to know how Jeonghan actually got the reader's order right? Read the special scene here!

series masterliest

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mask131 · 6 hours ago

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Normally I would have reblogged this to my Oz side-blog but I will reblog this here first because somehow there's more Oz fans here than on my Oz sideblog? Tumblr is weird...

Upon seeing this very popular post I have to add my two cents of a thoughts... Because while I agree with half of it, I disagree with another half, and it's mostly a question of nuance.

My main point is: It is not because people dump on Wicked that in return people should dump on Baum's Oz. I am saying that in regard of the "Oz originally doesn't have any continuity". I admit myself I am one of the first people to put forward the fact Baum was a bit of an anti-Tolkien when it came to Oz because at one point he didn't care about logical and coherent worldbuilding and just threw whatever he wanted at the wall... HOWEVER! I realize now how these words might mis-guide people because it doesn't mean Baum didn't care about continuity at all.

The early Oz books are actually trying to form a coherent whole. When Baum wrote "The Marvelous Land of Oz" he was not FORCED to do it because of "popular demand". He wanted to do it. Partially because he wanted to adapt it as a musical once it was over, but when he wrote the novel he still intended it to be a logical, continuing sequel to his Wonderful Wizard of Oz, and he worked to refit elements taken from his musical adaptations (like Pastoria) into the world of Oz as presented in his first novel. Same thing with the third novel, Ozma of Oz - when you read these first three books one after another they are cohesive. Just because later Baum decided to abandon a bit continuity and do massive retcons for the sake of telling new stories doesn't mean he never cared about continuity, and the start of the Oz series was an effort to make one complete world that made sense. Oz first became a series because Baum wanted it to be ; the whole thing of a "sense of duty towards the fandom" (which wasn't actually a sense of duty, his others works just didn't sell while everybody bought his Oz books) came later.

Yes, after the sixth book (which was meant to be the great finale but didn't work to end the series), Baum ended up making a LOT of books that openly contradicted the worldbuilding established in the first novels... But they still were coherent and cohesive in their own right. It is just that Baum chose to retcon and massively shift some worldbuilding rules in order to have a setting perfect for a kid-friendly long-running series where he could include everything and anything - but once he established these new rules, he stuck to it and explored them in various ways (such as the rule of "No living being can die in Oz", which of course contradicts the early books, but becomes a core principle of "later Oz" and is explored in various novels - such as the one introducing the Tin Soldier). Yes Baum contradicted, shifted and retconned, but to say he had no sense of continuity or canon is frankly way too harsh.

We were having a talk with @themousefromfantasyland about Baum's The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus novel, and he did make a point that this books contradicts the "anti-Tolkien" reputation of Baum as in there you have a strong, solid, complex worldbuilding working very well for its own little Christmas epic, self-contained in one sturdy novel. And that's the thing with Baum: outside of his Oz series, each of his individual works had a strong and solid worldbuilding, or nice continuity in the case of mini-eries. Oz was an exception just because it went on for way more than what he already planned, and Baum had to juggle between various media (the Oz franchise he run wasn't just novels, it was also stage musicals, movies, and even early comic books).

My second point is this: I do agree people shouldn't entirely reject Maguire's novel out of it being "non-canon" to Oz. Because it is part of a long series of revisionist works inventing, reinventing or twisting Oz in various ways. The MGM movie was first, but you have so many, from The Wiz to Emerald City, passing by Tin Man, or Lost in Oz, or to have something more akin to Maguire's 90s dark, edgy, sex-and-drugs counter-culture approach to Oz, the Oz Squad comics. HOWEVER! HOWEVER! I do think it is important to remind people Maguire wrote his own thing, on his own side, and that "Wicked" is its own thing.

What do I mean by that? Very simple... I have seen, looked at, chatted and interacted with a concerning number of people who are convinced Wicked (be it the musical or the novels) are "canon" in the sense that... somehow they believe when Maguire named his Wicked Witch of the West Elphaba, it retro-actively baptisez the Witch of the West in Baum's novel. Or that the Wicked musical was actually allowed or produced by the MGM as an "official" complement to their movie, meant to act as a real prequel to it. You should not underestmate how POPULAR Wicked was compared to other Oz revisionist works or adaptations, resulting in a lot of people ending up knowing only the MGM movie and the Wicked franchise, sometimes with Return to Oz, and not knowing anything about the novels. This results in fascinating though very puzzling misconceptions. I have seen people insist that Evillene in The Wiz should be called "Elphaba" because it is the "official" name of the Wicked Witch of the West. I have seen people claiming to adapt the Wizard of Oz by Baum but really just doing adaptations of Wicked the musical, and not realizing they were using tons of stuff that were copyrighted by the musical creators and not in Baum's original novel. I have seen a lot of people claim that Baum intended Glinda to be called "Galinda" and that it is more correct to refer to Glinda by this name...

Yes, Wicked is its own continuity and branch of the large Oz family tree. Just like the MGM movie and its various adaptations. Just like Disney's Oz the Great and Powerful, or Return to Oz. Just like the Wiz. Just like Volkov's Tales of Magic Land (well... cough cough there's a bit of more unclear legal things down there but you know). Just like Tin Man or Emerald City. People should be aware that Oz is a LARGE franchise of many, MANY media.

But there is also a frightening amount of people who take literaly what Maguire wrote: "it is the real story of the Wicked Witch of the West", they take it literaly. Mind you this was more prominent in the 2000s and early 2010s - I think things got better recently because people are getting much more aware of the original books and of other alternate Oz media... But you know, at one point there was a need to point out "Hey guys, you know Maguire invented stuff, right? That he is basically parodying and twisting stuff and creating his own thing not in the public domain? Please stop saying Elphaba is public domain, she is not. This little wrinkled one-eyed hag is."

I've seen a lot of people lately harping about how "Wicked isn't canon to the Oz universe", "it's just glorified fanfiction", etc., and I can't express how silly that is, and how annoyed it makes me every time I hear it, lol. Baum's original Oz books were never meant to be some canonical series — they contradict each other constantly; Baum called it a "fairy story" with loose cohesion at best; and it only became a series at all because the first one got popular enough that Baum felt a duty to the fandom to keep making more (even after he had wanted to end it). And the 1939 film is every bit as much "fanfiction" as Wicked — it changes the story in both major and minor ways, including a complete shift of framing (i.e., making Oz into a dream rather than a real place).

Maguire's great contribution to the overarching legacy and lore of Oz was to harmonize the very weak "canon" of the older works with a different shift in framing: recontextualizing all of the prior Oz material as a revisionist history (going off of Baum's own idea framing of himself as a "Royal Historian of Oz"), and attempting to tell "the true story" behind the other works (fictively of course — we're never meant to literally think Maguire's version preceded Baum's, irl). In literary studies, this is called an urtext. The Wicked Years and its adaptations are as much "fanfiction" as the 1939 film: it's just self-aware of that fact in a way that earlier works weren't, and uses that perspective to deconstruct the material and explore deeper (and darker) themes — not simply adapting or reimagining the original text (as the 1939 movie did), but actively challenging it; interrogating it. It's not meant to be "canon" as such: it asks you to ask whether (and why) there is such a thing, and what that might say about the stories that we are meant to literally believe in, in real life.

#reblog #wicked #l. frank baum #the wizard of oz #elphaba #the land of oz #maguire's wicked

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felassan · 1 day ago

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David Gaider: "It occurs to me, after reading posts getting it spectacularly wrong, that there are a lot of misconceptions over how game studios organize and, in particular, who makes the actual decisions about what ends up in your game. Much of it is by folks who don't *try* to get it... but not all, surely. I'll explain it a bit, but a big caveat: I'm going to talk in generalities and roles. Actual titles vary (a lot) from studio and studio, and the bigger a studio is the more segmented their departments (and thus management) is going to be. Even so, most studios, big and small, kind of work the same. To start, you're going to break your devs up into at least three groups: design (what is the game? how does it work?), art (what will it look like?), and engineering (making it go). There can be a lot of cross-over and some departments that don't fit into a project structure (QA, Marketing, etc.)"

Rest of post under cut due to length.

"There's going to be someone in charge of these groups - these are usually called "leads" or "senior leads". The actual title varies. The Design Lead could be a Lead Designer, for instance, or it could be a Creative Director and a Lead Designer is what they call someone further down the chain."

"These leads all report to a Project Director, someone who's job it is to manage the project as a whole. Now, this part gets a little dicey. Depending on the studio, this role can be anything from more production-oriented (they control the schedule) to an outright auteur who micro-manages everything."

"More importantly, it's the PD who hands down the project goals to the Leads: the strategic goals, the needed features, the shape of it all, etc. The Leads then figure out how their department is going to tackle those, and work with each other. If the Leads conflict, it's the PD's role to solve it. How much autonomy or ownership those Leads have is, like I said, really up to the individual PD and that studio's culture. Even in the case of a PD who has a lot of authority over the project, however, they still report to the studio leadership (unless it's the same person, like in a small studio)."

"The studio leadership is going to be giving the PD their marching orders, often in the form of those strategic goals. If there's a publisher involved, that's where the studio leadership is likely getting those goals. The PD, then, ends up being the person who has to negotiate with everyone above."

"What does this mean? If the studio or publisher has concerns about the project, they're calling in the PD to explain. If the project needs more time or resources, it's on the PD to explain to them why and how and when. If there are a lot of layers above the PD... yes, it's a looot of meetings. So while the PD is managing up, the Leads are managing down. With big projects, that means managing the "sub-leads"... those in charge of the individual sections of their department. It'd be unmanageable otherwise, and the bigger the project the more of these there are going to be."

"What does this mean? Well, let's look at the way BioWare broke up Design (as of 8 years ago, anyhow). Design consisted of Narrative Design, Level Design, Systems Design, Gameplay Design, and Cinematic Design (who worked in tandem with Cinematic Animation, which actually fell under the Art Lead)."

"The sub-leads are handed their goals by the lead, and work out how they're going to produce their particular corner of the game and also, more importantly, how they're going to work with each other. Conflicts between sub-leads are handled by the lead, as are ANY conflicts with other departments. What conflicts could there be, you ask? Dependencies, for one. "I can't do X until Y is done, but Y is someone else's job". Or scope. "We need 20 doodads but the sub-lead said they only have time to make 10, what now?". Even outright differences in vision. Big projects means room for a LOT of egos. If you think this is easier with a smaller (or indie) project, the answer is "yes, but not really". The roles are still necessary but often get combined into one person. Or outsourced, and someone still needs to manage the outsourcing. Things fall off over-full plates. It's a different kind of hard. Anyhow, the point of all this is: the further you go down the chain, the smaller the box you can play in is. The less you have actual say over, and even then that say is subject to being overridden by ANYONE above... and must still play nicely with the needs and goals of the other departments. You also need to keep in mind that projects are constantly in flux. Problems that were thought solved need re-solving. The team falls behind schedule and scope needs to change. You are constantly in a dance, within your tiny box, trying to figure out sub-optimal solutions that cause the least pain. And there will be pain. Shit rolls downhill, as they say, and when the project encounters big issues that means those high up have the sad job of figuring out how to spread it out and who can afford to take the hardest hit. If you're that one, you take it on the chin and you deal. This is the job. Lastly, I'll re-iterate: not every studio works this way, exactly. The roles exist, sure, but are not divided up so neatly or as easily identifiable. Even so, this should give you an idea what "lead" and "sub-lead" mean... and perhaps help you imagine what it's like existing further down the chain."

[source thread]

#bioware #video games #long post #longpost #dragon age #mass effect

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msschemmenti · 3 days ago

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fun police - 5

The next week came, but as soon as Emily arrived, someone in her office was waiting to meet with her. Then that meeting ran into another meeting somewhere else in the building. And another meeting turned into another– so many meetings that she hadn’t even been in her office for more than 10 minutes. So when Y/n found the sticky note pressed against her office door asking to reschedule for later that evening she was pleasantly surprised. It seemed their last session may have had a more positive influence than she had anticipated. Not only was the older woman taking the initiative to reschedule but she was also willing to meet outside of the typical office job hours. Now if Emily was finally coming around, this was going to make her job a lot easier.

So when evening struck Y/n found herself knocking at Emily’s open doorway with a smile. “Boy, you’re one hard woman to catch.” she teased as she came to a stop in front of Emily’s desk. The older woman ran a hand through her hair and leveled Y/n with an unamused glare. “Oof, tough crowd.” Y/n winced as she watched the older woman carefully.

Emily rolled her eyes and moved to shut down her computer with a sigh, “Thank you for agreeing to meet later, I know it’s not the most convenient but I appreciate it.”

“Of course, I’m just glad you still wanted to meet today. I figured you’d take the opportunity to skip and run with it.” Y/n shrugged. “But either way with the way I imagine your day going, it might be good to have someone help you unwind before heading home for the night.”

Emily scoffs and looks at the case files piled in her inbox, “That’s if I make it home,” she mumbled before looking back to the younger woman wistfully. “But, yes. Yes, that would be very helpful.”

Y/n tsked almost instantly at Emily’s words and circled the desk. “Well that just won’t do.” Emily watched as the woman confidently reached around her body to sift through the files on her desk. “All of these can definitely wait till tomorrow. It’s not like the budget for the next five years is going to implode if you don’t finish it tonight.”

Emily swatted at the younger woman’s hands as she tried to pull the file closer to herself, “That’s confidential.” The older woman pushed the files further up her desk and turned her chair to face Y/n directly. The proximity of their bodies dawned on Emily a little too late. And as quickly as she registered it, it’s all she could think about. Still sitting in her desk chair, her eyes were level with the wellness counselor’s hips and she fought hard to move her eyes to a more appropriate place. But the further her eyes rose, the more distracted she became. Her mouth dried and the heat seemed to kick in and her hands subconsciously pulled her collar away from her neck. Y/n’s hands came down in Emily’s peripheral and settled on her hips. And if Emily was looking at her face, she’s positive she could see the attitude working it’s way across her forehead. After three sessions, observing the younger woman around the office, and all she’d heard from the team– she knew a witty quip was coming her way. With that in mind, she finally settled her eyes on Y/n’s face. Furrowed eyebrows and quirked lips. She kissed her teeth and rolled her eyes and gazed down at Emily.

“Bold of you to assume that would have any effect on me. So what if I see a bunch of nonsensical numbers, what would I even do with that?”

“Well it should,” Emily grumbled. “This is the FBI after all.”

“It’s not like you’d turn me in.” Y/n challenged bending at the waist to bring her eyes level with Emily’s. “You won’t admit it, but you like me far too much to do that.”

“Well that’s absurd. And bold of you to believe.”

“Well, yes. Bold and correct.”

Emily glared and moved to respond but her desk phone ringing had her clamping her mouth shut. She held a finger up and answered the call and she could see Y/n heading to sit on the couch with her arms crossed. As soon as the receiver was back on the hook Y/n was reprimanding.

“See this is your problem— why are you answering your phone after hours? Who could possibly want something from you right now?”

Emily’s cheeks blazed under the scrutiny but she rolled her shoulders back and tried to speak confidently, “That was Gary from the lobby. I figured the least I could do after holding you hostage tonight would be to buy you dinner.”

“Huh,” Y/n sounded, resting on her knees thoughtfully.“How kind of you Agent Prentiss.” The younger woman replied fighting down the urge to giggle nervously as her cheeks reddened.

“Well thank you for dinner, that was very sweet of you.” Y/n smiled at Emily as they walked through the parking garage. Emily nodded and rubbed at the nape of her neck self-consciously. This session had definitely been different from her others and as they came to a halt in front of a car Emily couldn’t ignore how romantic the night was feeling.

“Of course, it’s the least I could do after keeping you here well past your typical hours.”

“Well I appreciate it,” Y/n said, sweeping her eyes over the older woman to assess her. “And despite the bickering in the beginning, I feel like this session was a successful one for us.”

Emily scoffed, “And how’d you get that?”

“Well I got you out of the door for the night, didn’t I? Keep this up and you might even get to move to bi-weekly meetings or maybe even monthly!” y/n smirked triumphantly.

“Yeah yeah yeah, you got lucky.” Emily rebuffed with a roll of her eyes. She fought the frown that started to take form at the mention of less sessions. Had she really changed enough that Y/n thought she didn’t need the weekly session?

“Well maybe I should go buy a lottery ticket then,” Y/n teased Emily, frowning all the same. She leaned closer, placing her hand on the outside of Emily’s arm. She squeezed at her bicep softly and let her hand trail her arm before stepping toward her car. “Alright, I’ll leave you be. Thank you again and Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” Emily watched as the younger woman disappeared behind the wheel of her car and then turned to climb into her own vehicle. Her arm was tingling beneath her coat and her eyes were trained on the car across the lot. And as the car left she still sat. And suddenly the urge to be bad at wellness seemed oddly appealing.

#emily prentiss x reader #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #emily prentiss #fun police #msschemmenti

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siddyyyyyyyy · 5 hours ago

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Hello! How are you? Can I lose for a reader with chronic leg pain? After an accident they chose not to amputate their leg and they feel very strong pain and were recommended by doctors to use marijuana and the reader kind of doesn't tell Jason? 🌸🌸🌸🌸

You smoke?

Jason Todd x Reader

wc: 0.6 K summary: Jason finds you smoking weed for medical purposes warnings: use of weeds, fluff, mentions of chronic pain a/n: I'm good, thank you!!! I won't put any pretty pictures in here because I'm afraid of it getting taken down😭😭😭but the divider is really pretty (here): @animatedglittergraphics-n-more, also sorry this came out so short, enjoy!!

After moving in with Jason, you didn‘t think of telling him about the weed. It was necessary, so you feel sure that he won‘t mind if you get to tell him one day. As usual, you build a joint on a peaceful evening, and settle yourself on the balcony. You watch as the busy streets of Gotham fill with hundreds of cars, passing by under your balcony and create a rather relaxing atmosphere. Finally, you take a drag and exhale slowly, waiting for the drug to work.

The first drag feels like a relief, feeling light tingles across your body for a moment before you relax into the chair. You take the moment to calm down and close your eyes, to forget about everything around you. The rough back pain that was lingering on you, slowly fades into the background, finally starting to enjoy the light breeze around you.

It works, after a few more drags, however you jump up at the big figure beside you, not having noticed it before. You act on instinct and throw the lit joint at it, seeing how it falls to the floor after hitting its chest.

Jason keeps his eyes on you behind his mask, staying as still as possible. He doesn‘t know how to react, thousands of thoughts racing through his mind, many of them being possible worst case scenarios.

Before he could think of something to say, you exhale and speak up, realising who it is.

»Jesus, don‘t scare me like that… I was just taking some drags, no need to give me a bad trip.« You mumble out and get off the chair with a low groan, suddenly not as relaxed as before. Jason keeps standing in front of you, finally gathering his thoughts.

»Since when… why do you smoke that?«

You pay attention to him, realising you still haven‘t told him about it. Sure, he knows all about your chronic back pain and how it came to that, but he doesn‘t seem to connect the dots.

So, you try to explain as best as you can, while being high.

»I, uh… you know, my back? The pain? I have to… to smoke because of that. Doctor told me, I have two doctors, one to give advice for the best weed and the other—«

»The best weed? What, is he a drug dealer or something?« Jason interrupts, gently guiding you back inside with his hand on your lower back.

His retort made you chuckle, resulting into a brief giggle-fit before being serious again.

»No… maybe. I don‘t know, but it works. Really, I‘m not joking, I tried to tell you before, but… never came to that.« You shrug and slowly sit down on the couch. He follows suit.

»And how long have you been doing this? How many times a week?«

You think briefly before answering him, easing his nerves at the same time.

»Only when the pain becomes unbereable, like now. So… probably, like, about every three months. Once, I mean.« He nods in thought and sighs out in relief, finally taking his mask off after hearing your reply. Jason was genuinenly afraid this was something you struggled with and was a serious problem he somehow didn‘t take notice of before.

Seems like there‘s nothing to worry about after all. He carries you to bed and gets out of his suit before joining you in bed and caressing his hands over your back soothingly. You end up falling asleep in no time, curled up against his chest and dreaming about whatever your high brain comes up with.

a/n: i think he would be really scared when he catches you smoking, but he is an understanding man, so there's nothing much to worry about. maybe he'll try to sneak in 'healthier' methods whenever you're in pain

←MASTERLIST

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boundinparchment · 2 days ago

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IN POWER WE ENTRUST THE LOVE ADVOCATED

Celestia fell and the future remains uncertain, preventing you from finalizing the gift intended to convey what mere words alone could not. Zandik, in turn, struggles with his own creations. A trip to Remuria, now uncovered by the sea, provides some clarity for you both. Official (or unofficial) sequel to 'Dream a Little Dream of Me'. Rated Mature to be safe, minors DNI. TW: pregnancy. 10,154 words. Available on AO3 here. Reblogs, kudos, and comments appreciated. Note: This was on my Fics For Gaza donation list and I ran with the idea. Donations were low but this was a story I wanted to tell regardless.

You rearranged the sheets across the stand, shuffling them until the first page was showing again and then staring at the notes so carefully written. This was the third draft, as marked by the linear strikes in the top left, your way of keeping track of which version was the latest. The first three pages in particular were disarming at a glance. Their notes were meticulously inked and set in stone. You were happy with each note’s placement, the rhythm and cadence and melody.

A strong beginning would carry through the rest. That’s how it always worked.

After massaging your bow hand and testing your fingers, the joints less than agreeable today, you pulled the pendulum on the metronome and began again.

The first bars were practically woven in your very essence, a scattering of rests and triplets that attempted to capture exciting youth. Closing your eyes, you allowed memory to carry you through the first dozen and a half bars. The octave dropped, flowing notes giving way again to staccato frustration and shifting sands before they bled into crisp tundra and warm hearths.

It led right into the second movement, legato curves that mimicked the way Fontaine’s water seemed to stretch on forever. Hope, passion, dulled for a time by low notes and shuddering breaths, before a promise twinkled in the tide. A journey, more notes stretching into eternity, disrupted again, only this time, an echo of earlier bars in a different octave, certain and slow.

This would have made a better duet and could have been arranged as such; the thought crossed your mind more than you cared to admit. The recording of it would have been easy to achieve but you didn’t want that. This was your work and you wanted to play it in a single performance because otherwise…

Your fingers found the familiar patterns, an amalgamation that you hoped sounded like a push-and-pull. They brought back such vivid memories for you but would that be the case for your audience? A motif from a god’s request, a flurry of emotion as destructive as its cause, and then a closing bar that mimicked the first, long and full of hope in the flickering light of a burning tree.

Inhaling shakily, you pulled the next paper to the left and followed your latest addition, pencil marks harder to read between the erasures and the smudging. You carried through the first five bars, certain of their arrangement and then felt out the rest, fingers slower than your mind as your thoughts raced forward, unease and trepidation taking hold.

A burning ache ran through your knuckles and up to your elbow and you pulled your bow away, a wolf tone coming with it.

You swallowed the scream clawing at your throat and instead let out a shuddering breath through your teeth.

It shouldn’t be this hard.

A sonata was something you could write in your sleep, backwards, and upside-down. Especially given your source material.

The world might have changed but your love hadn’t.

Dreams were little more than solitary moments of brain activity with Celestia gone. And while that meant having to more consciously work on your relationship, it didn’t make it any less organic.

Maybe this was all pointless.

He had to know by now. His power of observation knew no bounds. He would not have missed the fact that you had been gone longer than usual the other day to obtain proper evidence in black and white. Especially the day after a visit from Tsaritsa where she asked to speak to you privately.

This entire idea was a waste, absolutely insane. It would have been easier to just…

You settled your cello back into its stand and rose, idly smoothing out your sleeves as you tried to pull yourself together. The arrangement would come to you. It always did, in the end. There was time. For now, walking away was best. You didn’t want to restring either your instrument or your bow all because you’d tried to force what instead needed coaxing.

Gathering up the tray on which you’d brought in the small pot of coffee and a pitcher of water, you left your study and headed back into the kitchen. There was already a fresh pot percolating on the counter, the smell enticing and yet stomach-churning all at once. This was a new blend from Puspa Cafe, one you had picked out yourself weeks ago.

Well, at least he could enjoy it properly. For now, you basked in the scent, the unease in your gut settling as you rinsed your dishes and settled them into the device on the counter. You hooked up one hose to the faucet and put the other near the sink’s drain, as Zandik showed you, and turned it on. The motor whirred and you watched water splash on the glass door until suds began to rise.

Your home was full of such little devices. Dishes were a waste of time for both of you when your minds were better equipped for other things, he had said. That, and you’d been unable to hold anything for more than a few seconds for months at a time as your hand healed. He used extra parts for a clothes laundering machine and a special typewriter for your sheet music and even a special percolator to extract the most out of coffee grounds and tea leaves.

And that didn’t begin to cover the little wind-up creatures you displayed on the windowsills or the hand-crafted ring with a new stone in place resting in your jewelry box. The swimming otter was your favorite reminder of Fontaine.

The layout and design was different from what you had conceived in the dreamscape, save one decision. A proper basement, reinforced and deeper than the standard to allow for most of Zandik’s larger projects. Whatever was too unsafe for the house was kept in another workshop nearby. So far, nothing ever caught on fire or caused an explosion. The only things that both of you agreed to keep were the tall windows, this time attached to a small glass sunroom where you loved to lounge when the mood struck.

Today, however, was gray and heavy with the promise of rain. While you didn’t put much stock into such things, the weather was not a help to your mood nor your creativity.

The steaming pot on the counter clicked and you poured some into a handmade clay cup, the glaze matte and rough against your calloused fingers. You held it tight in your good hand, your other supporting the bottom, and savored the warmth as you brought it down into the basement workshop.

Distractions rarely ever helped but you were running out of steam; maybe seeing Zandik busy would reinvigorate you.

Zandik frowned as he heard the wolf tone; the sound itself was faint but it spoke volumes of your frustration. They were more common lately. Despite the stone foundation and the insulation, your studio was not entirely soundproof and therefore he could still make out faint melodies if he listened hard enough. Your footsteps, too. You paced sometimes, occasionally stepping in time with the signature you were working in. Breakthroughs were a flurry of steps, sometimes the vibrations of the piano to compare, over and over, only one change applied at a time.

He did his best to tune out what he could, for your sake. Questions were only met with a harried shuffle of papers and an attempt to be nonchalant.

You were a terrible liar, the skill worn down from a lack of practice, but he would not press. After all, you’d made it clear that if something was wrong , you would tell him. So he could only conclude that whatever you were working on was for him and it was intended to be a surprise.

But why did you always stumble over the same section? Was the composition too difficult, did your tendons seize up?

Zandik tightened the bolt harder, wrench slipping when its target would move no further in the same way his thoughts ran from him. He tested the joint, and, satisfied with the range of motion, stepped back to assess the whole picture.

Which was a whole jumbled mess of…

What was this meant to be, anyway?

Pierro had offered a stash of blueprints, barely legible and all of the missing crucial details. Briefly, Zandik wondered if the old man was considering a trip to the depths of the Abyss for one final battle with the way the conversation went. The entire encounter was as bizarre as their initial meeting in the desert, perhaps more so with the glimmer of pride that exuded from his former superior.

He’d been unable to stop the curling of a sneer for the better part of several hours afterwards.

Faintly, Zandik heard your footsteps in the kitchen, the rush of water, and then a beeline for the basement door. Usually, weather-permitting, you were outside or at least closing your eyes in the lavish warmth of the sun. You were tired as of late, even if you smiled through the daze of fatigue.

He counted each steady beat of your steps as you descended, the familiar bitter and smooth scent wafting down along with you. It was the closest roast to what he had in the desert all those centuries ago and now that supply was finally beginning to even out, he did not mind indulging in occasional memories. It was a shame, however, you were only carrying one mug.

Every time you were around the scent, you were tense and he could practically smell the acid on your breath. You began abstaining, even from the decaffeinated blends, and avoided being around it for too long, otherwise you were liable to be sick.

Another adjustment you waved away.

And on top of it all, your mind was clearly burdened, otherwise you would not be struggling as you were.

“I thought you’d like it fresh,” you said, offering the mug as you drew closer.

White knuckles on one hand, your grip tight: overcompensating. Your other hand cradled the bottom, fingertips grazing the unfinished ring, trembling with weakness. The very last thing he wanted was you burdening yourself over something so trivial when your hands had much better purposes to serve.

“I was going to come upstairs, rooh’ albi ,” Zandik said. “There was no need to trouble yourself.”

Something flickered across your face that he couldn’t name, gone before he could identify itself, lips pulled between your teeth in thought. He took a sip, savoring the bright bitterness, pleased with how the adjustments in temperature and the efficient filters brought out the Ajilenakh nut subtleties.

You stepped further into the workshop and dragged your eyes over the workbench and the metal arm, Pierro’s blueprint pinned on the wall above as a guide. Between the burns and the flaking of the material itself, Zandik was surprised he’d made it this far, just assembling a series of moving arms.

“It’s not ‘trouble’, Zandik. I needed the break, as I’m sure you heard,” you replied wryly. “No use pretending you didn’t hear me banging on the piano yesterday; I’m almost certain Sumeru City heard me.”

Your voice wavered ever so slightly, a warble that anyone else would have passed off as simple frustration. This block went deeper for you than a mere lack of inspiration and it was beginning to seep into your very bones. No wonder you were always exhausted. He was painfully familiar with the other end of the spectrum, one that often kept one of his younger Segments in cycles of ennui and despair because he happened to take the portion of his life during which he was bored by the Akademiya’s authority and illogical rules. Not all ideas could be pushed through as if they were little more than a target for your claymore.

But you knew this. Of course you did.

You held up a finger and turned your gaze back to him. The circles were fading but your eyes were still a little puffy.

“Before you suggest that I work on something else, I’ve tried . I attempted working from the end but that requires having an ending in mind. Other pieces feel as if they’re just standing in for the rest, hollow shells that are perfectly adequate compositions but empty arrangements. It’s all up here,” you gestured to your head, “but it won’t work its way down into my hands and put my fingers in the right places.”

Zandik placed his cup down out of range of the workbench and took your hands in his after removing his gloves. Nothing was more infuriating than when the connection between one’s heart and mind was lost, severed entirely. There were several projects over the years too ambitious for him to endeavor as a student or even in the early years as a Harbinger. He’d scribbled them down in vain and his Segments came across them decades later, finally equipped with the experiences necessary. Usually they all fell to Omega.

The words forming themselves on his lips were not what most wanted to hear but he was never one for empty platitudes. What good was comfort if all of it was a lie?

Your hands were warm still from holding the mug,

“Perhaps this particular piece isn’t ready for you, yet,” he said at last. “Continue to force it and you’ll hate your craft entirely.”

“I don’t have that luxury, Zandik,” you murmured. “This is the only way I know how to…”

You squeezed his hands, the tightest he felt in years that no doubt hurt you in the process. There it was again, that nameless apparition gliding across your brow and the color of your cheeks. Ever since that visit from the Tsaritsa (he knew not what to call her now, old habits died hard) and a subsequent trip from Pierro, you were acting as if you were…

But if you were , he would know . Because you would tell him and there would be signs and he would be able to research and mitigate and stop it from taking you from him. The world changed with Celestia’s downfall but the event had not taken his intelligence and all that came with it.

“It’s important to me that I express what I need to through my composition. I know it doesn’t make sense to you to do that—“

A spark flared in his chest and he inhaled through his nose. He kept his tone even, for he wasn’t angry, but did you not see how hypocritical and illogical this was? Wasn’t this a repeat of the very situation that gave you a physical traumatic response over playing?

“Do consider the consequences when I tried to keep something from you thinking it was a clever and romantic idea. What can’t you express in words, rooh’ albi ?”

“It’s a gift , Zandik. The whole thing is a gift for you, speaking defeats the purpose when I’m trying to invoke particular emotions and memories.”

“But you feel stuck .”

You shook your head.

“Less stuck and more foggy. Uncertain.”

“About?”

You pulled your hands away and threw your arms up, gesturing all around as you paced. “Everything before was always a given. We could dream and build and the world we knew stayed as it was with little changes and the rules were static and the stars never shifted. The average person knew the world was safe and steady and I can assume that here , too, but the rules changed . The future is a foreign land for everyone and here we are, continuing on as if…”

Strange. You never expressed that before, not with such animation and intensity. And you saw enough of Teyvat away from Celestia’s rule to know that although Visions and Archons and leylines were no longer present, the landscape didn’t change entirely. Most nations stayed the same, except for where the Abyssal corrosion struck hard and had already eaten away at the land.

Change was different for everyone, he reminded himself. To talk about it and know it occurred were merely conceptual in nature; to see it meant living through it, which in turn shook the equilibrium, and it took time for it to set in. A scarce few years of this compared to one’s life in a couple of decades or so was still a shock to the system.

What scared you so? What needed to instead be translated first and foremost in such a manner rather than simply spoken aloud?

You were hardly this obtuse before and he was beginning to understand why his previous decisions were so infuriating for you and so many others.

Zandik let out a slow breath, the love he held for you winning out against the rising flare of annoyance. He didn’t agree with it but on the other hand, if you were truly dying , you wouldn’t have the strength to continue essentially running head-first into a brick wall every day.

You met his eyes and a silent plea marred your features, begging him not to press.

Maybe that was precisely the problem. You were pressing yourself too hard with no alternatives as of late. The weather was too poor and he was only using Pierro’s pile of Khaenri’ahn blueprints as a distraction away from a solution to further slow the Abyssal corrosion that was slowly eating at him. Ironic that Celestia was the very thing that kept the balance of the burden of immortality and slowed it down as punishment for daring to survive. Both of you were too far in your own heads.

A curse of its own, really.

He stilled his brow and instead held his arms open, beckoning you back to him. Your warmth was instant, curling around him like a well-tended hearth. He nuzzled the crown of your head as you burrowed into him. Amid the scent of your shampoo and soap, sweet and fresh, was a note that he couldn’t figure out and yet drew him closer to you all the same.

“A change of scenery might be beneficial,” Zandik murmured, idly rubbing his nose against your hair. “There’s only so much to do when one’s environment is the same.”

You nodded, turning your head to brush your cheek against his. Per your request, he’d attempted to keep the facial hair you found so enticing, but a recent trim left it shorter than usual and a little scratchy. It didn’t prevent you from touching it, either with your own face or a traveling hand. He would figure out a preferred style, given time.

“You’re more of a field researcher than a classroom scholar, I’m sure you’ve been feeling rather stifled too,” you replied. “Hard to figure out possible options when you’re cooped up in here.”

“I haven’t been—”

“But you haven’t exactly left Sumeru since we settled here, either. Not without me or at least not without a very specific purpose.”

He huffed against your ear.

“You can’t not explore this world, Zandik, that’s like asking a fish not to swim.”

“And you never asked me not to. It’s my own doing.”

Deep down, he knew could you manage without him if he chose to disappear for weeks at a time to explore and study the changes in this world. Hell, he could find a way to travel to the fractured moon in the sky and you would be perfectly fine in his absence. That was part of the driving force behind so many of the devices around the house. If your hands hurt, then you had a means to do dishes or cut up vegetables or restring your cello with ease.

The frown that tugged at your mouth any time the weakness in your hands struck or the wound flared up was enough to revitalize a second life’s purpose in finding ways to make tasks accessible to you again.

But what good was seeing any part of this world without you by his side? At least dreaming provided a means to close the distance, as Natlan had proven.

This time it was your turn to shift and burrow your head under his chin, no doubt in an attempt to stop craning your neck to reach him. There it was again, that faint scent that was so familiar and rooted to you , sticking out like a thorn, enticing nonetheless. His chest constricted, stomach dropping as he felt the familiar fire beginning to creep up on him. Had you laced yourself with an aphrodisiac?

If you were down here any longer, he was liable to sweep off the workbench’s contents and replace them with you. And while both of you enjoyed spontaneity, something in your body language told him you would not be up to it right now. Perhaps after lunch, nestled on the chaise, listening to the rain, little more than closing distance. Yearning settled itself into the pit of his stomach and every cell in his body just wanted to be near you.

“Consider it, rooh’ albi . You don’t need to answer immediately,” Zandik murmured. “We’ll discuss it further when I come upstairs for lunch.”

Zandik felt your nod against his chin and your hold on him eased as you stepped away. You looked better, a little more lively, and your departure kiss was petal soft and full of conviction. As it always was.

Nonetheless, when the door upstairs closed, he couldn’t help but wonder: what had you, his unwavering and steadfast soulmate, so terrified and uncertain?

You hadn’t expected the company after lunch but it was welcome nonetheless. He settled behind you, finding the perfect spot on your neck. Your body responded instantly and neither of you bothered to fully undress before he rocked into you, slow and languid. Just when either of you drifted off, the other moved or twitched, starting up a series of thrusts all over again.

The goal wasn’t pleasure but you both came easily in tiny gasps and choked groans. Neither of you moved after that, uncaring about the rest as sleep crept up on you.

It had taken everything in you not to ask why, of all things, Zandik had chosen that blueprint. It was obvious what it was from the picture alone. Pierro was to blame, really, for even passing it along. No doubt the Tsaritsa confided in him about her finding, both of them under the impression that Zandik was already privy.

No wonder he, too, was having a block of some kind. He was creating something from an ancient blueprint that, to him, was utterly useless. All to keep himself occupied while his brain idly attempted a remedy for something that…

You rubbed your face against the pillow for a second, willing yourself to relax.

Zandik was right. A vacation was needed. More than.

So much of Sumeru was an adjustment, both in the temperature and the culture. You hadn’t even seen the desert yet, despite asking, but Zandik was adamant about never stepping foot out there again if he could help it. You’d taken to everything just fine, except for the brief stop at the top of the Tree, where a little spout saw fit to mock.

But when you pushed through the fog, you felt your heart tugging towards home. Or rather, your old home. Arguably, it could be said that you were home as long as the man next to you was there, but the sentiment didn’t quite fit at present.

Fontaine. It had been so long since you left, you’d lost track. After burning Irminsul, you found yourself in Sumeru and never quite managed to go beyond the reaches of the land of Wisdom. You heard numerous discoveries through letters and reports, from chatter in the city and from Zandik himself when he did, in fact, venture out for days at a time. What was it the Tsaritsa mentioned on her last visit? Something about Remuria, Petrichor’s successful growth now that old ruins surfaced again, visible from even Chenyun Vale?

Maybe a trip to the mainland could fit, too, if either of you wanted. You would have to inquire about the Opera’s schedule of events. Zandik had probably been to Fontaine, or a Segment had, but perhaps some remnants of the Research Institute would pique his interest. This wasn’t just for you, after all.

And it might be the last excursion for a while, depending.

You pushed away the faint thought that came with a memory of a young sleeping boy in your lap years prior.

When Zandik finally stirred, you tangled your foot with his and pulled him back, earning yourself a hot gasp against your ear.

“There’s too much of a good thing, rooh’ albi ,” he teased.

You bit back a laugh, agreeing silently for a different reason.

“I was thinking,” you began, Zandik’s form enveloping you again.

“Always a good place to start.”

You shifted just so and the hand on your hip gripped tighter, squeezing you in silent warning.

“What if we went to Fontaine for a bit? Perhaps to Petrichor, see the ruins of Rumeria?”

“You truly wish to see what the myth was like, whether it measures up to the tales? It might be far less grand than what you grew up hearing,” Zandik countered.

“That’s not a proper reason not to see it,” you replied, turning your head to look at him out of the corner of your eye. “In fact, I would argue that would be precisely the point. It’s silly to not expand my knowledge of where I was born, even if that means it might not match the expectations set by millenia of epic tales.”

Zandik pulled you closer and settled back against you, burying his nose in your hair. He’d been doing that every chance he had ever since that morning. You’d done nothing to change your routine but the increased physical affection only managed to give way to doubt that perhaps you did a poor job hiding these last few weeks.

His lips found your earlobe, teeth grazing the soft flesh just enough to extract a sharp exhale from you. Against your skin, he whispered, “Fontaine it is, then.”

Without the leylines, traveling from deep within Sumeru’s forests was half a day’s journey in and of itself. You passed a grand palace on your way to Bayda Harbor, a hidden jewel that resembled something you might have once attempted in the dreamscape.

You heard the harbor before you saw it, a soft swelling of shouts and the hum of crane motors amid the usual bustle of port activity. Over the hill, you caught a glimpse of colorful houses, their chimneys smoking, and the scent of cooked fish and fresh fruit wafted across the landscape. Sparkling water came into view as the dirt path gave way to flagstone, iron railings sweeping down the curve of the path, guiding travelers down towards the main thoroughfare.

“Exponential growth since I was last here,” Zandik said, leaning close to be heard over the noise. “Half of these buildings are new. I remember when this had nothing more than the port authority and a three boat pier.”

He pointed to the sweeping curves of the building to your immediate left, one of the only buildings in pure Sumerian style.

The rest of the buildings were a jumbled array of styles, plaster and brick painted in soft colors with tiled roofs, a maze of stairs and outlooks carved into the very hills. You got the impression that, no matter where one stood, they were privy to a unique and stunning view of the water and the land beyond.

Newly invigorated, you began to climb, mindful of your path as to remember the way down. With all of your belongings packed neatly and only a hand’s wave away along with your weapons (Zandik determined that the void used was a pocket of the abyss and therefore unconnected to Irminsul), neither of you had to lug cases to the dock first and backtrack. Some rules remained, regardless of Celestia, and you were thankful for their convenience.

Once you reached the top, where a white plaster building was perched and the scent of spiced meat trickled out through the open doorway, you finally dared let your eyes skim past the coastline.

Petrichor had been little more than a small remote island when you were a child. Your last visit was short, a curated walk around the buildings and the festival square, with a history lesson about the power of music. The cats were friendly and your entire class took turns trying to earn their favor when the tour guide’s back was turned. Last you heard, the Traveler followed some keen treasure hunters and uncovered the entrance to the long-forgotten world trapped beneath the waves.

Nothing prepared you for the swelling aqueducts, rising spires, and the amphitheater that spanned most of the basin beneath the plateau. An entire civilization built on music, determined to defy the fate laid before them, exposed to the world once more. Its very essence glittered under the late morning sun and all you could do was stare.

Fairytales held their grains of truth after all.

“I imagine this is what it felt like to lay eyes on that Ruin Golem for the first time and clamoring inside,” you said. “All of the paintings about the myths were so very wrong .”

“It was said that no true civilizations were built in Fontaine for millenia; Gurabad grew and fell all before Remus’ arrival from Sumeru,” Zandik replied. “Always a shocking perspective, how advanced some areas of the world became while others struggled with their environment.”

“Gurabad?”

“A story for another time. I prefer not to discuss those expeditions when we are about to board a vessel upon which my inner ear will be displeased for most of the journey.”

You swallowed your own wave of nausea, a normality now, wishing you could commiserate properly.

Instead of returning the way you came, Zandik led you through the rest of the cliffside, through terraces and up and down small flights of stairs. You came upon a better view of the amphitheater, which, from this angle, looked more akin to a large…transmitter. There weren’t any seats, from what you could make out.

When you said as much to Zandik, he agreed and said, “It would not surprise me, given it was a land where music was central to its culture.”

Eventually, you made your way back down and boarded the small ferry to Petrichor, packed with people. Zandik, of course, selected a secluded spot towards the back where there was relative privacy. You weren’t certain if your nausea was aggravated by the smell of the fuel, or the boat’s movements, but you emptied your stomach in the first ten minutes of rocking waves. Zandik was green in the face, quiet and leaning his forearms on the railing to focus on his breathing; you felt his eyes on you as you took a swig from your canteen to rinse your mouth, ridding yourself of the acrid taste.

“Small boats and I never agreed,” you said. “Too little surface area.”

He stared at you a second longer than necessary, relenting only when you joked about getting sick so he didn’t have to. You could see the gears turning in his mind out of the corner of your eye. He knew. There was no way he didn’t by now. Even if the boat made for a good cover, he must have put all of the pieces together himself.

All of this was so silly. He’d made the arrangements himself over the last week, determined to plan a trip that was bound to at least spark a chance for both inspiration and new memories. Ambitious in its scope, you knew he put every forethought and afterthought into each choice from the length of time to the destination. Your Zandik loved to plan, after all. He’d muttered about needing to account for spontaneous variables but if he was nothing if not thorough.

For the rest of the short trip, the two of you discussed your itinerary in short fragments, distracting one another with the prospect of being on land again. You would spend the rest of the day exploring Petrichor, getting a lay of the land, do Remuria’s ruins tomorrow (and the next, if it was needed), have one more day on the island, and then take the aquabus into Fontaine proper if you still needed time away.

The ride concluded sooner than expected and the newly-constructed wooden pier gave way to a winding stone path up through Petrichor’s streets. You couldn’t help but pause and stare. The trees were the same, if a little weathered, the flowers and the grass seemingly frozen in time. A once-grand Statue of the Seven laid not toppled but modified, Lady Focalors seated on the ground while Sir Neuvillette rose from a splash of waves behind her. In comparison, Sumeru’s statues were toppled entirely at the behest of Kusanali herself, who no longer wanted to be separate from her people as an idolized leader.

Your eye tracked a few more buildings towards the coast, bigger and a little flashy. It all paled in comparison to the ruins visible from the beach, their scale on par with Fontaine City itself. Here, the very air seemed to hum with notes, like windchimes nudged by a breeze. The longer you looked at the rising spires and sweeping aqueducts, the more prevalent the sounds became. They were trying to form a song but when it was this disjointed, it was difficult to—

A hand on your waist and a whisper of your name snapped you out of your reverie. Zandik’s garnet eyes searched your face before boring into your own for a second.

“Need I worry about you sleepwalking into the sea at the correct note wafting through the air?” he asked, sardonic.

“No. It’s unusual, is all. You hear it too?”

“Everyone can. If you look, the spires are all different sizes, as if they’re—”

“Tuning forks,” you concluded.

Zandik nodded. “We’ll adjust and our brains will likely sort out the sound in a few hours. People would not be living here if it was that much of a nuisance.”

You could tell by the twitch of his lip that he had more he wanted to say but instead, he settled one hand on the small of your back, silently ushering you onwards.

It must have been the memories stirring up all of your energy; in the last few weeks, you never seemed as lively as you did now. Every time your eyes laid on a building, you were full of tales of childhood fun and nostalgia. You could seemingly trace a single brick with your eyes and have an entire moment come back to you with striking clarity.

Zandik wished he could say the same but perhaps it was for the best that his home village was no longer on any map. As much as he wanted to reciprocate, he much more enjoyed the warm swelling in his chest at your smile and the way every cat you encountered bumped its head against your palm. One went so far as to weave itself between his legs and yours, slowly blinking before it settled down for a nap near a flowerbed.

You were so often hidden behind a veil as of late. Such moments were common for most, some temporary and others not, but his skin itched at the notion that something was amiss. It had to be. Even if it was a matter of neglecting your mental health as of late, at least it would be an answer.

But then there was the matter of the boat.

On the trip from Sumeru to Snezhnaya all those years ago, you had the smallest bout of nausea but quickly acclimated. Like most, you adjusted perfectly fine; by comparison, the crystals in his inner ears never quite found the right angle and he suffered every time.

His second lamentation of burning Irminsul was the lack of leylines through which to travel freely. An act he took for granted for centuries.

That you were compelled to be sick on such a small boat so quickly…

Unusual, to say the least. Were you nauseous prior, he wondered. If so, why? You’d eaten nothing out of the ordinary and already long overcame the agony of caffeine withdrawal.

Zandik listened and watched your expression as you regalled him with a story about the bakery you were stopped in front of. All the while, he felt the pressure around his ankles as another cat wove between them, purring so loudly he wondered if it was mechanical. His trousers would be covered in fur by the time you reached the rented cottage and he made a mental note to acquire a lint roller as soon as convenient.

He watched you, bathed in the late afternoon sunlight, your eyes focused on the golden interior and drinking it all in again.

“We’ll have to stop by first thing in the morning, when everything is warm,” you said, turning back to him. “I had the best brioche here. There was a pâtisserie not too far, unless they moved…best desserts outside of Fontaine City…”

You continued to lead the way to the town square, small but full of garlands of flowers, where musical motifs were carved into stone pillars around the stage. A gaggle of children ran past, one of them claiming to be God-King Remus in a theatre mask, another pretending to be Chief Justice Neuvillette, Melusine plushie in hand. From what Zandik gathered, they were fighting over who was the rightful ruler of all of Fontaine. They took to the miniscule stage, gesturing and making sound effects, captivating their entire audience.

A white cat with mismatching eyes presided over the performance, tail flicking occasionally. It laid its eyes on you, blinking slowly once, before turning its attention back to the children.

He never had the time for such antics growing up. Or rather, whenever he did try, he was too logical for the rest of his peers and supposedly ruined the fun. That was before, of course, he grew smart enough to know how to build counter-arguments. He had not yet returned to his parents with bruises and welts from stones at that point.

An experience he would never relate to.

But it was why Celestia’s downfall was so important. No one would be subjected to a fate tied to a name, to a constellation, born to suffer. All were equal.

Even the shy ones on the sidelines were included in the play-acting, less an audience and more stagehands and storytellers.

Zandik’s eyes fell to you, your gaze lost again for the briefest moment before you blinked. The expression differed little from your time overseeing your students at the House of the Hearth, with a little fragment that escaped him. Did you miss teaching? Perhaps it was worthwhile to reach out to the Zubayr Theatre upon your return, to see if they needed an extra hand.

After all, you needed to have something else to call your own, not just your music.

“There were hardly any people here before,” you said as you left the square. “Let alone children. School visits were really the only time this place was filled with anything other than desolate silence, except for the cats.”

“They’re akin to their brethren from Sumeru, well-tended to and beloved by most,” Zandik observed.

The two of you finally reached the small house, nestled closer to the beach at the foot of the small rock formation. At one end, a view of the glowing Harvisptokhm beyond the high mountains; the other bore a glittering view of bygone eras, gaps in the aqueducts glowing with strings of what the locals referred to as Ichor.

Late into the night, you watched the strings, waving a hand over them in mimicry of plucking them as you drifted off, humming a new motif to yourself.

Some of his worries began to slip off of his shoulders as he held you tight, a sliver of your brightness finally within your grasp again.

The only thing keeping your fatigue at bay the next morning was the excitement to trek up the partial aqueduct to the Clivus Capitolinus, the entryway into the Domus Aurea and Sacellum Requietis. It was there that the God King Remus gave his final orders and the Grand Symphony self-destructed, taking everyone with it. Little survived the shattering of several sub-level-bubbles within Teyvat itself. That Remuria rose from the sea was, perhaps, a final usurpation of the prophecy Remus fought so hard to defy.

Or so the tour guide said. You were still recovering from your trip to the viennoiserie for breakfast. Your eyes were bigger than your stomach and you’d openly stared at Zandik’s coffee with intense longing.

The air here was fresh and cool, kissing your bare arms with a faint breeze. You’d missed this. In the deep jungles, the air was so moist and heavy, leaving you sticky on particularly humid days. But here, you felt as if every breath was easy and clear.

You gave a side glance at Zandik. He shrugged, letting go of your hand just enough to shake his own in a so-so gesture. The guide wasn’t wrong, then, just inaccurate.

The bronze aqueduct was full, it turned out, of the Golden Ichor that made up its harp-like strings. It was only when the role the Ichor played was brought into the narrative by the guide that you paused and properly looked at the shimmering liquid.

Putting memories and souls into bodies of metal was part of the legend but the Ichor was thought to have been long since lost or merely a mechanism for the tale. Seeing it now, before you, only managed to ground the dawning realization that others achieved a system not unlike the one Zandik had. And Remus had done it long before Celestia’s rule.

He must have sensed your train of thought, for he chuckled softly upon seeing your fixated gaze.

“It’s little more than Primordial Water mixed with what other legends call a Philosopher’s Stone. Pierro would call it something else but it’s the very pinnacle of alchemic achievements,” Zandik murmured. “Both materials are archaic and do not take erosion into account.”

The Segments were a part of the past, long gone. He rarely, if ever, spoke about them beyond a longing for more hands.

“Is that your way of saying you did it better?” you teased.

He shot you a warning smirk. “How foolish, rooh’ albi. My work speaks for itself.”

You continued on, ears perking up at the description of Capitolium as a paradise overflowing with beautiful melodies. When you reached the summit, your eyes traced a soaring and sweeping structure reaching for the sky; Domus Aurea, King Remus’ palace. You wondered briefly if pipe organs were based on what little Fontainians knew of their predecessors. The towering copper pillars glinted in the sun, winking at those who stared up at them.

The interior made the Library of Daena back in the Akademiya seem like a playpen. Copper everywhere, except the stone floors, Ichor flowing through every free inch and only adding to the majesty. The acoustics were impeccable, providing a means by which a speaker could address an audience with ease and shapes for soundwaves to flow and encapsulate listeners.

You came across a small crossroads on the way down to the Sacellum Requietis and grabbed Zandik’s arm when the tour guide glossed over the perfect tiles on the ceiling. Your soulmate paused and he, too, began to look around, wondering just what caught your eye.

“Go stand over there,” you whispered, pointing to a corner diagonally from you.

Zandik’s red eyes lingered on you, narrow in their curiosity. You nudged him gently before he complied and stood in the corner, facing you.

You gestured for him to turn around, and when he did, you shifted and whispered into the corner in front of you. What you said was of little consequence but when you heard Zandik’s reply as clear as day, you felt a wild surge of satisfaction.

“The low arches and the curve here allow the sound to travel and follow the arches perfectly,” you whispered. “This entire crossway could be packed but two people would be able to get messages to each other easily as if they were right next to each other.”

“Exceptional eyes. The material must matter, though. And the distance. Too close and the individuals might as well just turn around.”

You grinned and whispered one last message that left Zandik’s cheeks burning as you returned to his side. It earned you a graze of his teeth on the shell of your ear and a threat he intended to make good on later. He would, you had no doubt.

Continuing along, you caught up with the rest of the group. As you reached the Sacellum Requietis ,all sound immediately perished. A beautiful amphitheater, silent as a grave, you imagined ancient performances in honor of the Grand Symphony, of Phobos. The tragedy of the very harmony that glued Remuria together was not only in its attempt to subvert the fate written for its people but that in order to do so, it needed to absorb their souls in the process. Its corruption came from those it was meant to save.

Acoustically, the structure was undoubtedly perfect for containing and enveloping audiences in waves upon waves of sweet notes. You strained in the silence, trying to hear anything other than the hushed whispers of the fellow tour-goers and the guide. Distantly, you could make out a faint ringing, its pitch changing as the breeze whispered by.

As you descended into the center, your eyes trailed up towards the spires surrounding the arena. If you turned your head, the ringing seemed to have an origin point in one direction or another. Somehow, though, you doubted they were only tuning forks. They were too tall, too narrow to do more than provide a faint hint of a note. Not quite a transistor in function, either.

You stepped up to the podium, where the God King would have given his final command, and closed your eyes.

Like every leader that came before, Remus only wanted to protect his people, you mused. All it took was one dissonant note amid the harmony he intended for it to all go wrong…

You swallowed, hands gripping the stone stand where the sheetmusics made of souls would have once made its home. In the depths of your heart, you heard an agonizing dirge, felt the pressure of the sea beginning to encroach, ready to swallow an entire era and its mistakes along with it.

Change was a constant and perfection was the antithesis of it. Did Remus realize that, in the end? Was he terrified of failing his people?

What was it Zandik had said all those years ago? And we must change, mustn’t we? Otherwise we give in to what is laid before us.

Your hand pulsed. Opening your eyes, you blinked slowly before you craned your neck back and shielded your gaze. A flock of seagulls soared nearby and the clouds still floated, crisp against the bright blue sky. You turned your attention back to the stage to find Zandik examining the remnants of golden bees, completely enamored with the prospect of a creature no longer in existence.

Regardless of whether Celestia still loomed overhead or not, you would feel the same, suffer the same block. This wasn’t just about you, what your body would endure, but everything that laid between you and Zandik. What was the point of building it all, if not to face a curve in the road together ?

Already, you felt the notes beginning to weave themselves together, a marriage of the first two acts culminating in the creation of a brand new tune. Slow, tentative, and then picking up the tempo again…

You scribbled notations on napkins at lunch and tried to keep yourself from humming. Inevitably, you let a few notes slip before the day was out, earning you a quizzical stare before bed. It took everything in you not to blurt out your breakthrough but to do so would ruin everything. He so often graced you with creations and you wanted to do the same.

“I missed hearing you captivated,” was all Zandik said.

It held more weight in your heart than he knew.

The gnawing frustration in the pit of his stomach was beginning to wear him down. His patience would hold until you returned home but by then, he would have a comprehensive methodology in place to test for various illnesses. Zandik was never one to settle and leave an issue be, not when it came to your wellbeing.

He could forgive your desire to curb caffeine, considering the rebound and withdrawal migraines were agony. Your fatigue could be mental as much as physical. Same could be said for some of the dietary changes you made recently.

But when you leaned over to kiss him the morning after the visit to the ruins, Zandik could not get his mind off of the way you smelled . Just…in general. Beneath the scent of the new soap during the stay and the hint of salt water, there was a shift in your own chemical composition. Similar to the fluctuations you normally endured yet stronger, more potent. It stirred a strange visceral reaction in the recesses of himself he was still trying to unravel and he couldn’t get enough of it.

It was the only logical thing that stood between him and the conclusion you were not disastrously ill. He knew the smell of death and disease. Neither came close to you.

Today, you decided, was best spent in Petrichor itself and among the people. Already, you seemed to have more color in your cheeks and life in your eyes, although your attention seemed almost wistful at times when you thought he wasn’t looking. Previously, such an expression had an edge of sorrow in it, but whatever resonated with you in Remuria had done its job: you were hard at work, thinking of combinations and patterns that were invisible and silent to all but you.

The first stop of the morning after breakfast was the bookshop near the square, specializing specifically in sheet music, history of various instruments and musical theory, with the smallest section of general interest. Zandik browsed the theory section after pressing a kiss to your forehead and wishing you a successful journey; your smile might as well have bundled the sun itself and tucked it into his gut, the way excitement exuded from you.

Zandik picked a few tomes and settled into the cafe nook towards the front of the store. He knew the rush of a new idea and the fixation that came with it all too well. But too much, too fast, and you might burn yourself out before it was finished. After everything that happened, you did not deserve to flicker out like a dying star.

Although he tried to delve into a collection of various theaters and performance halls, and a comparison of their layouts for acoustics and which provided the richest sound, your joyous exclamation tore his attention away.

“A full collection of recreated compositions!” you held up your find like a hunter with a prized rabbit as you approached. “All of these are based on the music box the Traveler found!”

Your eyes practically glittered with stardust, the way excitement illuminated your face. How long had it been since you last looked at him, at anyone, like that, Zandik mused. What plagued your soul in such a fashion that made these moments rare occurrences as of late?

He watched as you returned to the bookseller charged with opening shift, your enthusiasm met with understanding nods and additional questions. From here, the sun hit your hair perfectly but it wasn’t the star in the sky that made your entire being exude such brilliance. There was, of course, something to be said about the return of one’s demeanor and true capacity, but this…

It was as if you had a renewed lease on life itself, unfettered, your mind having worked through something in the Sacellum Requietis. Zandik leaned back in his chair, thoughtful.

Possible. It was always a possibility, although not necessarily probable . Besides, everyone exhibited differently. Would explain most of your symptoms. And the enigmatic smile the Tsaritsa had given on her visit. Surely you trusted a physician in addition to a mere Archon’s sentiments?

If that was the cause. Speculation would do little good without further evidence and a proper blood test.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t entertain the thought, though. From that perspective, he allowed the train of logic to continue, and envisioned the blueprint tacked to his workshop wall, faded and illegible. What would a collection of thin metal arms be good for? Not strong enough to function as a claw, too light for a set of windchimes to dangle. But there was a motor, and a little soundbox attached…Pierro’s stilted slap on the shoulder made far more sense in this context…

By the time you were finished, and paid for the large armful of bound compositions, Zandik was already used to the notion of laughter and shouts in the background, wide eyes and an excitement for the world, all a layer to your music while he worked.

You would tell him when you were ready, he knew. Just as you would anything else. He couldn’t help but let his gaze rest on you periodically after he took your purchases and tucked them under one arm, your hand safely in his free one. Mindlessly, he brushed his thumb over your knuckles, the size and pattern of them memorized long ago.

“What, do I have something on my face?” you asked, catching his gaze.

Zandik took the time to trace his eyes over your brows, your eyes and cheeks, the tip of your nose, and your welcoming lips. Not a detail out of place. He let go of your hand long enough to brush away stray hairs, which were immediately taken by the morning breeze.

“Let’s keep going, shall we?��

The rest of the trip was a complete blur wrapped up in sunny days and relaxing evenings, productive even if it meant lounging on the hotel balcony and watching the remains of the Research Institute from a distance.

In the end, you settled on visiting the mainland, too; you were already halfway there, after all. It was Zandik’s turn to fill your luggage with more blueprints and parts and you watched as he disassembled a wind-up frog powered by a tiny Pneuma cell. Both of you spent a whole evening craned over a table of gears and tiny arms as he put it back together as if by memory.

He was never far from reach.

And your resolve only settled further.

You were filled with what you could only describe as a new sense of self, cradling the fear that once gripped you the same way one might hold a baby boarshroom: tender and with care. It found company amid excitement and happiness and hope. Although movement was still a long while off, your stomach flipped itself into tangles as you returned home and began assembling all of the sections you created while away.

Once or twice, you spotted Zandik out of his workshop, ears stuffed with cotton on the days you were playing; when you questioned him, he gave some answer about the air pressure difference getting to him and that he would hear your music when you intended to share it. In turn, he was equally cagey about keeping his workbench covered and asked you to flick the lights at the top of the stairs first if you insisted on coming down. He had been practically vibrating all the way back from Fontaine after a visit to a mechanical artisan and, much like yourself, could not wait to channel renewed energy.

You completed the final bar in the early hours of the afternoon within a week of your return, more than satisfied. Zandik, in turn, proclaimed his finishing touches were done some hours later that very day. If fate were still a presence in the world you knew now, you would have allowed it to lay claim to the coincidence once upon a time. He forbid you from entering one of the few extra rooms, distracting you with teasing kisses until you all but forgot about the possibility of what laid beyond.

That evening after dinner, you handed an envelope to Zandik, its edges flattened to oblivion from running your nails along them. You half-expected his nimble fingers to pull out the top flap but he merely examined it and then gave you his undivided attention as you settled in and took up your usual position. The Cryo panels of your cello’s body were a familiar form against your knees, a solid comfort you could rely on to help convey the sentiments words could not.

With your back to the large pane of windows and sunset providing you light, you dove through the first two movements. The third began as it always had, the beginning of the end that circled around and offered a clean slate for all. Slow and tenuous, plucks of curiosity and drags of uncertainty, winding themselves into a motif that pulled from the first movement, and then the second, forming a new pattern that made your rib cage rattle every time you played it. The approach was literal, too on the nose perhaps, but it was accurate. You had allowed yourself to delve into the slow and stilted structure from before the trip and proceeded to drag it out, mold it, and bring in some of the bars from a recovered Remurian symphony. Upon first hearing it, you imagined the lapping of waves and desire for a future safe from destruction, where more than just life itself could prosper.

You allowed the last note to hang, counting before you pressed your hand to the strings to still them.

Your audience of one had tucked the envelope into his shirt pocket and closed his garnet eyes. He wasn’t sleeping, although his breathing was steady; an idle hand played at the air above his knee, his mind seeking the patterns you presented and working to unravel them. Quietly, you settled your cello into its stand and padded over to him. You took his other hand, still and resting in his lap, and laid it flat against your abdomen, the heat of his palm searing through your clothing.

Slowly, Zandik opened his eyes, blinked, and then flexed his fingers.

“Quite a gift,” he whispered.

“One that warrants a lengthy discussion and decisions.”

His hand, once tracing your composition, found your bow hand and pressed it to his lips, his breath kissing every inch of your scars.

“I already have mine. Come.”

Legs trembling, you followed him through the living room and upstairs to the door he previously barred your entry from. Words failed and instead you swallowed, silently staring at him, your question heavy in the air. Zandik merely leaned forward to unlatch the door and push it open, nodding his head to direct you inside.

This room was always sparse, little more than an obligatory guest room used occasionally for storage. It never held more than a bed to begin with but your heart lurched at the device hanging from the ceiling. Charms and trinkets spun idly, a star and a music note among them. You stepped into the room and brushed your fingers over the arms, watching it spin.

You turned back to Zandik, lips quivering and eyes burning. He closed the distance between you and reached up, finding a winding key with ease and twisting it thrice before he nudged you back. You watched as the arms slowly spun, all the while, a familiar tune played softly. As the rest of the music played out, you nestled yourself against Zandik, the final scratches of anxiety falling away.

“We did not come this far only to not see what laid outside of a fated existence,” he murmured. “I have my own trepidations but I am intrigued by the possibilities presented. However, if you feel—”

“I knew that day standing on the conductor’s podium that I wanted this. Us,” you replied. “And I can think of nothing more worthy of the future we’ve carved for ourselves.”

Zandik buried his face in the crook of your neck. Once again, you pulled one of his hands and pressed it to your lower stomach, intertwining your fingers over his in a new, silent promise.

#dottore #il dottore #dottore x reader #il dottore x reader #dottore x female reader #il dottore x female reader #fic: dream a little dream of me #pregnancy #dottore gets a happy ending after all #soulmate au #angst with a happy ending as always #no why would these two communicate effectively lmao

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04thz · 3 days ago

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Migraines - an Analogical oneshot

Logan's had issues with migraines for a long time, but never told the other sides about it. During a particularly bad one, Virgil comes to check on him.

Mild TW for mentioned vomit/throwing up - this is based on my own experience with migraines, and I basically always end up puking so Logan does now too lmao

Word count: 2444

Also! Just a quick FYI, I have an AO3 now! This one and the two NaruMitsu fics I made recently have been posted there. Will potentially move my older fics there as well, so in case anyone wants to read more of my writing without having to scroll through the wall of random that is my blog, I am 04thz on there as well. Anyways, enjoy the fluff lol

It was just one of those days. Hardly the first Logan had dealt with, but they never got any easier. He squeezed his eyes shut as another jolt of pain went through his skull and rolled over in bed to face the wall, where less of the light creeping in under the door could reach him. The movement caused a swell of nausea, and he forced himself to take a few deep breaths to suppress the urge to vomit, pulling the marine blue duvet up to further cover himself.

God, he hated migraines. Tension headaches weren’t all that uncommon for the logical side, nor were caffeine headaches, but those were usually manageable with water and a couple painkillers, and if nothing else he could at least work through the more subdued pain. Whenever he felt a migraine coming on, that was it for the rest of the day, he would most likely not be getting anything else done until it was over. If he was lucky, the pain would be gone within a few hours and/or after a quick nap, but sometimes – like today – he’d wake up with a dull ache radiating out from one or both temples, which would steadily worsen over the course of the day, until it felt like one side of his head was being repeatedly wacked with a sledgehammer. And as if the throbbing pain weren’t bad enough, it was more often than not accompanied by crippling sensitivity to both light and sound, full-body chills, and such intense nausea it was nearly impossible to move without throwing up.

Logan never told any of the other sides about his problem. Not only did he not want to appear weak, but also as long as he kept up with his work it was unlikely they’d think it odd that he'd stay couped up in his room for a day or two every once in a while; that was hardly unusual for him anyhow. Besides, it’s not like they could help with his predicament, actually there was all likelihood they’d make it worse. When he felt the aura of an oncoming migraine, he’d simply excuse himself from any social situation and bunker down in his room with a water bottle, painkillers, and a large bucket, in case he’d fail to quash the relentless waves of nausea. This time there hadn’t been any social situations to excuse himself from; he never even made it out of bed, much less out of the room. After trying and failing to go back to sleep to avoid the issue all together, he’d simply taken a pill and steeled himself for the dreadful day ahead.

He’d managed to eat a couple bites of the breakfast he summoned for himself, and even done some reading before the gnawing ache became too intense to focus on anything else. But when it came time for lunch, he’d barely gotten the first mouthful down before it violently came back up, along with his breakfast. With throat burning and eyes running, Logan was forced to admit defeat, and he’d spent the next few hours subsisting on small sips of water, while trying to block out what little light seeped into the room and willing the day to just be over already.

It was in this state that Virgil found him that afternoon. The alarm clock on Logan’s nightstand read 17:15 when he heard soft footsteps in the corridor outside. The three quick knocks on the door weren’t loud, but nonetheless agonizing, and Logan had to grit his teeth to suppress a pitiful whimper that threatened to escape his still sore throat.

“L? You in there?”

Logan sighed and tried his best to keep his voice steady.

“Yes, Virge, I’m here. What is it?”

The brief reply had sounded more abrasive than intended, and a minute passed in silence before a hesitant question came through.

“Can I come in?”

Logan took a deep breath and weighed for and against before turning back towards the door.

“Yes, you may, just... please keep your voice down.”

The door was slowly pushed open and Logan had to put his hands up to cover his eyes as the room was suddenly illuminated by the bright light spilling in from the hallway. Virgil stepped into the room, hands buried deeply in the pockets of his hoodie and shoulders pulled up; Logan’s blunt manner had clearly put him a bit on edge. Logan pressed his hands against his face.

“Shut the door, please...”

Virgil used his foot to push the door shut and Logan sighed with relief as the room was once again shrouded in blissful darkness. He lowered his hands and pulled the covers tighter around himself. Virgil leaned against the door, looking at him uncertainly as his eyes quickly adjusted to the dark.

“Everything okay? Haven’t heard from you all day, and you don’t look so good.”, he said quietly.

‘Not so good’ was rather an understatement. Logan had caught glances of himself in mirrors on better days and knew all too well he must look terrible; pale and shivering, hair a mess, eyes hazy, these kinds of days typically made him look like he was half-way to the grave. Not to mention his pajamas – consisting of indigo flannel bottoms and an old, faded Doctor Who t-shirt – were in desperate need of a wash. Reluctantly he reached for his glasses, sliding them on and looking at Virgil tiredly, though he could hardly make out more than a silhouette.

“I have a migraine. Nothing to worry about, just... highly unpleasant.”

The last two words came out as a sigh. Virgil tilted his head, taking a step towards the bed.

“Oh, I see.”

He slowly made his way over, pausing for a second and wrinkling his nose as he was hit by the rancid smell from the bucket on the floor. He looked at Logan, who wearily motioned for him to sit down on the bed. Virgil carefully sat down at the edge of the bed and started fidgeting with the drawstrings on his hoodie. They sat in silence for a while, until Virgil started finding it intolerable and softly spoke up.

“Do you uh... need anything? Like an ice pack or something?”

Logan went to decline the offer, mostly wanting to be left alone, but stopped himself.

“That... would be great actually.”

Virgil nodded, summoning an ice pack and a small towel, handing them to Logan.

“Thank you, Virgil.”

He gingerly placed his glasses back on the nightstand before laying the towel over his forehead and placing the ice pack on the side of his head that was throbbing the worst. He exhaled slowly, finally feeling some blessed relief as the chill of the ice somewhat dulled the burning pain. Virgil watched him, a small smile creeping onto his face.

“Did that help?”

Logan nodded ever so slightly, gently shutting his eyes underneath the towel.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Virgil looked around, having no problem seeing in the very faint light from the door, though he’d know the room like the back of his hand even if he couldn’t see it. Out of all the other sides’ rooms, Logan’s was probably the one the anxious side had spent the most time in. If he’d had a nightmare or just couldn’t sleep, it wasn’t unusual for him to make his way over, and Logan was typically happy enough to let him in. For all he harped on about circadian rhythms and healthy sleep schedules, it was not uncommon to find the logical side sitting by his desk or reading late into the night. Sometimes, if he was feeling especially anxious, like after a bad nightmare, Virgil would ask Logan to read aloud to him from whatever book he was currently working his way through. Many nights he’d fallen asleep listening to various detective stories and scientific theories, curled up under the large, galaxy print blanket on Logan’s bed. Logan was a constant, a steady presence in Virgil’s life, even more so than the other sides, and seeing the normally - at least outwardly- unshakeable man in his current state was honestly a bit unnerving.

“... Do you get migraines like this often?” Virgil asked softly, turning to look at Logan’s half-covered face.

“Once or twice a month at most. They aren’t always this bad.” Logan replied tiredly.

The anxious side chuckled quietly, mostly to himself.

“Just bad luck today huh?”

He could just about make out the slight movement of Logan furrowing his brows under the towel.

“Wouldn’t call it ‘bad luck’ exactly. I have admittedly exceeded my own limitations by quite a large margin over the past couple weeks, it’s hardly surprising it would end like this.”

Logan wasn’t sure if it was the pain, the drowsiness or just the fact that it happened to be Virgil sitting on the bed with him that made him inclined to share “unfavorable” information like that so freely, but he had to confess it was rather nice to not keep it all to himself for once. He was aware he was working on an unsustainable schedule, despite his best efforts to keep Thomas and his fellow sides from doing the same, and it felt – yes, felt – good to say so out loud. Like giving the thought some sort of external presence was a step in the right direction towards amending the issue. Virgil returned to fidgeting with his hoodie strings, watching Logan’s chest slowly rise and fall for what seemed like an eternally long minute before breaking the silence:

“You haven’t been taking care of yourself?” he said, concern apparent in his voice.

Logan sighed and moved the ice pack slightly to the left, before he let his hand fall to his side

“I suppose not, no. There’s been so much work to do lately, everything else sort of got left by the wayside, so to speak.”

“L, you can’t do that. You have needs too, you can’t just work and work and ignore them. That’s not healthy.”

Virgil moved a bit closer to Logan, turning his body so his knee just barely touched Logan’s outer calf. The latter shifted slightly, somewhat unused to physical contact of any sort.

“I know that, Virge. I am trying to find a better balance, but it’s easier said than done.”

Virgil placed a hand on Logan’s knee, resting it lightly so that the other man may move away from his touch if he so pleased. Logan didn’t move his leg away, instead he slowly lifted a corner of the towel off his face, looking at Virgil questioningly, though the anxious side knew he probably couldn’t actually see him in the dark and without his glasses. Virgil bit his lip softly and ran the fingers of his free hand through his bangs.

“I care about you, Logan. I know you hate the feelingsy stuff and all, but I really care about you, and I don’t want you pushing yourself like that. I’m worried about you, dude.”

Logan drew in a breath, slightly taken aback. Virgil usually wasn’t much more forward about this sort of thing than himself. And that word; Worried. Virgil was worried about him. He noticed that Logan didn’t leave his room that day, he cared enough to come check on him and at least attempt to help with his splitting headache. None of the others typically even noticed he wasn’t present unless it happened to be for an extended period of time. As much as he hated to admit it, that hurt, and the fact that Virgil had sought him out and expressed concern for his wellbeing meant more to him than he knew how to properly verbalize.

“Thank you, Virgil. I... appreciate that.” was all he could muster up through suddenly knotted vocal cords.

Virgil gently rubbed Logan’s knee. There was, as always, an implicit understanding between them. Even if Logan didn’t know how to say it, Virgil understood that his concern was important to him.

“I mean it. Just... I’m here for you, okay? You can always talk to me if something’s going on.”

He was half expecting the conversation to be over at that point, and was just about to leave Logan alone to sleep off his headache, when the logical side spoke up again:

“Virge? Could you maybe... read to me?”

Virgil stopped in the middle of getting up, sinking back down on the mattress. Logan shifted the towel back over his eyes and continued:

“I was reading Murder on the Orient Express earlier, but I didn’t get past the first few chapters before my migraine got the better of me.”

Virgil smirked playfully.

“Again? Don’t you have it memorized by now?”

Logan scoffed, rolling his eyes despite the agony it caused.

“I am too tired for musical references right now.”

“Sorry, couldn’t resist.”

Virgil snickered and reached for the book on the nightstand.

“Can I lie down?”

Logan nodded ever so slightly, and Virgil carefully nestled himself in between him and the wall, leafing through the book until he came across the ornate bookmark Roman had gotten for Logan’s appreciation day a few years previous. He smiled; half convinced Logan would have gotten rid of it by now. He cleared his throat and began reading. Though he wasn’t as big a fan as Logan, Virgil did enjoy Agatha Christie’s writing, having heard both Murder on the Orient Express and a couple of her other books read out multiple times, and he did find some pleasure in being able to return the favor after being read to restful sleep so many times. A few chapters in, he glanced over at Logan and noticed that he’d drifted off. He put the bookmark in place and carefully returned the book to its spot on the nightstand before removing the thawing ice pack and wrapping it up in the towel. Propping himself up on his elbow, Virgil watched his companion’s relaxed face with an adoring smile, and soon found himself dozing off to the slow, almost hypnotic rhythm of his breathing.

When Logan woke up in the morning, finally free of the excruciating migraine, and found Virgil sleeping with his hand resting on Logan’s chest, he couldn’t help but smile to himself. Careful not to wake the other man, he got out of bed and put on his glasses. Before leaving for a much-needed shower, he made sure to tuck Virgil in properly and – much to his own surprise – gently stroked his cheek with the back of his hand. Virgil smiled contently in his sleep, and Logan quietly left the room with a warm, pleasant feeling in his chest.

#sanders sides #virgil sanders #logan sanders #sanders sides ships #ts analogical #analogical fanfiction #analogical fluff #analogical hurt/comfort #logan x virgil #tss fanfic #sanders sides fanfiction #not beta read

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riiverdancer · 2 days ago

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toji x fem!orthodox!reader, THE LONG AWAITED SEQUEL!

to whoever is reading this as of now: please do not sexualize my work as it was not written for that purpose and i worked quite hard on this piece alone. i would find that course of action extremely disrespectful on your part. also, if themes of religion make you feel uncomfortable, DO NOT READ THIS.

to anyone interested, you can find this work on my ao3 @/riiverdancer under the title "moths in my abdomen" !

synopsis: toji doesn't know how neither how to pray, nor how to sleep, so it gets awkward.

contents: events set in 2008, toji being timid around reader, toji is not familiar with his surroundings, post gege clarity, bare with me everyone.

Toji was used to keeping watch during the night while his companions slept in the tent and curses and curse users were always lurking around their campsite. In those moments, he would risk his arm going limp just by gripping onto his heavenly inverted spear in case an enemy was close by. He did not play games. Toji however, was not used to having to keep watch over nothing in the middle of the night. He was becoming less cautious and more fearful of the dark, almost like a child. His heavy heart pounded in his chest moderately faster the more he refused the offer of a good night's sleep, he was getting dizzy from staring at the hallway light that peered through the bedroom door in a single vertical line. He was going mad and he knew it. He saw that light as a string of hope saving him from his suppressed childish fears, which he blamed on his son for always asking to come over to his and his late wife's bed to sleep with them while his fear faded. Now another woman lies in his bed. A beautiful soul that is in so many ways more than Toji's. The love she had left to give poured onto him like lava and hardening so imperfectly, his heart could only beat in slow intervals, just not to crack the obsidian forming around it. But within those borders, his heart was begging for guidance of any kind. A thump at a time made the gold lightweight crucifix bounce on and off of his chest. It was the peak of his anxiety, he was beginning to choke.

This was the very same sensation he felt when he went to church, the guilt he had was seeping through the tip of his tongue, mumbling away his remorse, behind him, he knew he could feel the Devil himself creeping up behind him and in a moment of weakness, he wept. A whisper scream, if you will.

"I can't do it. I can't do it. I can't do it. I can't do it. I can't do it." He was genuinely spilling tears, pulling his hair by the handful, too stressed to even think about going back to bed.

This woke up his partner, who rolled from her side and groaned rubbing her eyes: "Jiji...mmh. What's wrong?"

"Ugh, forget it. I feel like a piece of shit already." Toji scoffed.

"No, don't say that." She lightly placed a hand on his chest, still sleepy. "Hold my hand."

His large hand wrapped around hers, covering it entirely and he sighed, still tired of the mental baggage.

He did the cross with his right hand and moved her curls covering the side of her face to kiss her warm cheek, a stray strand of hair getting caught in his lips. He smiled and looked at her as her head was stuffed knee deep in the pillows.

"Lord Jesus Christ have mercy on me, a sinner." She muffled, her head on the pillows, somehow urging Toji gently to repeat her words, soon becoming a coeval prayer of three times, that made Toji drop the weights he already beared.

"I'm gonna marry you someday." His heart throbbed in place as he looked at pale moon pouring over his skin. "By God, I'm gonna marry you someday." He covered himself in their shared duvet, almost instantly going to sleep after he closed his eyes.

#doro's posts #doro's thoughts #orthodoxgeto #christian blog #jjk #orthodox christianity #jjk headcanons #toji fushiguro #toji x reader #toji drabbles #toji x reader fluff #toji fluff #jjk toji #toji x you

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canmom · 3 days ago

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jackie bringing the excellent analysis as usual <3

want to add some extra bits from the POV of a pro-piracy game dev

as a brief aside, the form of copyright (and in general 'intellectual property') we ended up with by the late 20th century is very historically contingent, the result of a lot of arbitrary decisions to expand the domain of copyright, or not. the authors of the book who owns this sentence, which I highly recommend pirating off libgen, do an excellent job of fleshing out this history, and how flawed so many of the arguments for copyright are.

should you pirate my game? (sure)

as someone who presently makes her living from game dev, and also pirates a lot of shit and believes quite strongly in the work of pirates being a good thing, I would be a huge hypocrite to say you shouldn't pirate my upcoming game when it comes out. you have no moral obligation to me to buy it, pirate it if you like!

if you do nevertheless buy my game I appreciate it of course, this makes it 0.x% more likely that my company will continue to employ me so I can keep this job, but if you don't, whether you pirate it or not makes little difference to me. hell, if you pirate the game and have a great time and tell me about it, I'd appreciate that a lot! if you pirate the game and write a review which causes three other people to buy it who otherwise wouldn't, the company does better than if you bought it and never said a word.

does that benefit me? well, sorta. I get paid a fixed salary by the company. the value of that salary is something I negotiate with my boss. if the company is doing well they might very well be likely to pay me more, but there isn't a direct line from 'copies of game sold' to 'euros in the pocket of bryn and the other ~10 devs'. right now my salary is being paid from the revenue of sales of the studio's other games, from before I joined the company. indeed, since my game hasn't released yet, I actually have yet to earn any dollars at all for the company, despite working here for a year and a half. that's before you get any distributors or whatever involved, it's just how capitalism works. (marx would say, in the ideal abstract, the capitalist buys from me a commodity called labour-power, whose value is determined by the cost of reproducing bryns.)

in some industries, the line from 'sale' to 'artist benefits' is even thinner. in anime, it is normal for studios to be paid a fixed price by the production committee. if the studio isn't on the production committee (and they usually aren't), that is all they will ever see from BD sales or whatever. this limits what they can pay their animators, who are typically paid by the cut, or by the drawing. for this reason, anime is largely used to promote other more profitable industries, like manga, music or figurines. about the best you can say is that buying anime BDs makes it more likely that more anime will be made in the future.

a similar case is streaming services, who sell access to a basket of assorted shows, and then spend money on new shows based on their statistics of what people watch, and how likely it will be that a given show will help them retain or gain subscribers. (similar subscription models, called things like a 'game pass', are being introduced into the games industry, as yet unclear whether they'll catch on.)

outside of books and very small-scale production (solo indie dev scale of stuff) it's honestly quite rare for artists to directly receive most of their compensation per sale (i.e. as royalties) instead of a one-time salary.

a pirate's autoethnology, or some shit

to get on my own soapbox, the problem with many discussions about piracy is they conflate a bunch of different questions. assuming 'people work full-time on creating artworks without starving for it' is a good we want to promote, creating artificial scarcity by prohibiting certain types of copying is a mechanism that attempts to achieve that end. we can evaluate whether it's fit for purpose from a sort of floating, society-eye view. personally I think it's not fit for purpose and should be abolished in favour of some other model.

we can also ask on the individual level, given the society we ended up with is not changing in a hurry, should you pirate stuff as a personal, moral question? after all, generally speaking the people who create the artworks I enjoy are people who I think well of, and even if I never meet them, I hope they will be able to live comfortably and (selfishly) continue to do make that unique thing. however, I only have limited resources. I give away a significant amount of money to friends, or people in desperate need who I encounter. so you could say, that if I spent £10 on a movie, perhaps that's £10 less for a homeless person I meet on the street, or Peter in South Sudan, who arguably needs it more.

but. I also spend a reasonable amount of money acquiring things that make me happy which I can't easily pirate, like physical artbooks, or meals at restaurants. (these things are, unlike copies of artworks, intrinsically scarce. they're a much better fit for being a commodity.) however, it's not like I made a decision at some point that I value printed books or travel more than I value movies or anime. in fact, I probably spend more time talking and thinking about movies. I will pay for a movie at the cinema, but I will prefer to pirate it rather than own it on BD, or download it from a VOD site.

most things I pirate I never would have bought. however, sometimes if I can't find a thing on any pirate sources, I might just buy a copy. so we can say the option of piracy represents a lost sale with some small probability. if torrenting became less reliable, maybe I would spend more money on movies, and by the same token, less money on other things. (though I would definitely watch far fewer movies.)

however, I would spend that money either way. the result would be, money would flow through the economy slightly differently, boosting x kind of production and reducing y kind of production.

since it is in fact not very difficult or dangerous to pirate stuff, the main reason selling copies of things is still profitable is 1. it is sometimes more convenient to buy it (steam is super convenient to use for example, even with trusted sources like fitgirl existing; not everyone is as comfortable as I am with the tech), 2. fear of violence (not necessarily credible) and 3. there is a moral norm against piracy so most people choose not to even if they are confident they can get away with it, or don't consider it in the first place. I don't really know what the weighting on these three factors is!

in this sense, the current model turns 'supporting the artists whose art we want to continue to exist' into a collective-action problem. if any given individual pirates instead of buying, the effects of that decision are lost in the noise. but if the norm shifted towards piracy, that can shift the industry. maybe f2p games-as-a-service become more dominant (though piracy is only one of a bevy* of reasons for this).

*haha game engine jokes

anyway, as far as a norm to follow, there really are all kinds of strategies you can adopt given the lay of the land here. for me? if something is 'small' and 'indie', like a solo creator on itch.io, i'm more likely to buy it for example - their margins are probably thinner and they are more directly dependent on sales. if someone is a personal friend I'm also more likely to buy their creations (you already mentioned Charity, so let me mention another example: after meeting director Louise Weard at a festival and getting on very well with her, I bought her movies on gumroad, rather than searching for them on pirate sites) - even though, ironically, they are the most likely people to straight up give me things for free.

but I can't claim to apply this principle in anything like a rational way. it's pretty much entirely feelings-driven, and shaped by social norms. this is probably just fine, like, before it is an economic activity, art is just culture, making and sharing art is a game we play together. spending money on things is a move in that game, but it's far from the only meaningful move. thank the gods we aren't Homo economicus, that guy sounds like a bore!!

really all I ask, as someone who makes stuff, is that if you engage with my things, you do it in a way that feels true to you. if that moves you to spend money, thanks!! - obviously I quietly hope my game does in fact sell, because the number going up would feel like a pat on the back that says 'good job, you game developed well', and it might lead to me getting paid more which lets me do more nice things for people. today I bought a book of photos after discussing it with the artist for a good little while, because that felt like a nice way to express that I liked what she was doing. but it's never really been about the money. money is such a stupid and ugly abstraction, a very crude mechanism for directing social production and structuring human relationships.

and if you'd rather pirate my game and spend your money on, idk, drugs, like go for it man. (but tell your drug dealer about my game, maybe they'll buy it instead :p)

tirade on pirating software. 1.7k words.

i recently read a post by someone who is anti-piracy (better: against making copies of software). they said that if you can't afford something you should wait for a sale or find a free alternative. and then they said that the only time that they find piracy (better: finding a copy online) acceptable is for games that are so old that you cannot buy them from a licensed vendor, but only from resellers, because in that case the developer doesn't get the money anyway.

i feel like i could make a sort of loophole argument in this framework, which is that i can watch ebay until the game is listed by a reseller, and then pirate it, because i'm no longer making a choice between paying the developer or not paying, but paying a reseller and not paying, and i've decided not paying a reseller is morally permissable.

but i think it can go a little further. they specified developer. i should pay the developer. even though i don't buy directly from the developer, but a licensed vendor. but the vendor's surcharge is not worth bringing up.

this is because we don't believe in following the law, exactly, and thus you should follow all copyright laws for that reason. it's because of, usually, one of two reasons: developers deserve to be compensated, or that we have a moral obligation to support the developer.

on the first view, the "just deserts argument", it's not clear to me that the moral obligation to not pirate is watertight in this case (when i said "pirate" before, i made a silly gesture, meant to indicate that i'll say that for brevity, but am not acquiescing). a developer deserves to be compensated for their work; but what do they deserve exactly?

does every developer deserve to become as rich from their game as Notch, and every time they don't there's been an injustice? you probably don't think that.

do they deserve some particular amount that we would say is 'fair'?—it isn't unjust if they do better (although you might think so, and complain about how much of the spotlight they take up compared to others just as deserving), but we only require that much success of them. this might be dependent on the kind of game that it is, for example, a better game deserves more success. if that's the case, then we've exonerated at least some pirates; so long as the developer is as successful on the market as they deserve to be, we've done nothing wrong.

you might say that it's wrong to pirate games that haven't yet reached the threshold of just success, because you place them in jeoprady of never achieving the success they deserve. further, you might say that this threshold is epistemologically unknowable to human beings (see: click), and therefore in practice you can never justify piracy, because you never know if a game has reached the threshold of justice. pirates, therefore, gamble with justice, and only Minos will pay their winnings.

i think this would be a good argument, except that i don't understand why i, as someone who wants to download a copy of the game, am the one who bears the moral responsibility. if the success of this developer is a matter of justice, then surely we all bear that responsibility, even people who don't play videogames. therefore we should all purchase and promote every game, and so forth.

this isn't what any anti-piracy advocate believes, even if they seem to take a deserts line. instead they restrict our obligations to participating in ordinary market mechanisms. the game is being sold as a commodity; therefore people should buy that commodity from a point of sale apporved by the producer, and so forth. it's taken for granted that the anarchy of the market is the right way to guarantee justice, and other possibilities are never explored. ultimately, the deserts argument naturalizes capitalist relations. once you remove these blinders, the mechanism for delivering justice it actually proposes seems obviously unreliable and unsatisfactory (in fact, i believe this criticism applies to all deserts arguments).

here i will quickly add my complaint against the second argument, that we should support the developer. the argument runs: if you like a developer, you should support their work by purchasing their products. i am a lot more sympathetic to this argument and so i won't spend much of the post attacking it. it's enough to say that it suffers from the same problem we just mentioned: why is participating in ordinary market mechanisms the best way to support the developer? capitalism is likewise naturalized by this case when it is advanced as a moral argument against piracy. therefore we can run the same argument: if we have a moral obligation to support game developers, then it's not clear to me why only potential players have that obligation, and so forth (but this time the criticism doesn't apply to all similar arguments, just this one).

however, it often isn't advanced that way, and as a pragmatic argument i tend to agree with it. in fact sometimes they actually have a case for participating in normal market mechanisms: DMC fans want you to buy DMC games because then Capcom will look at their sales figures and decide it's worth making another game. you could argue that they still have capitalist blinkers on because they only advocate you buy one copy, the one you'll play, which is how the game is sold. maybe they should be asking you to buy a hundred copies or whatever. but we don't want them to do that, LOL. and the feeling is usually that there are limits of what you can ask out of someone; when one DMC youtuber was spending quadruple digits on a DMC-themed gacha, his viewers expressed concern and encouraged him to stop. so cheers to DMC players.

in fact, there might be ethical reasons to only ask someone to purchase a copy of something in the normal way: when i try to get you to buy one of Xraftstar / Charity / Porpentine's games, i am doing it because i personally want my friend to succeed, and i want to see their art recognized. this is a kind of moral motivation, but it's the morality of rendering personal obligations; you are not likewise obligated. however, i of course feel there are limits on what i can ask of you, and so, unlike when i make donation posts for my friends who are struggling, i'm only comfortable encouraging you to purchase a copy of something i think will actually render a use-value to you (even if you could still obtain it in other ways and get the same use-value).

but anyway, why specify the developer in the first place? the work put in by the publisher, the developers and maintainers of the platform its sold on, the bandwidth of the payment processor, and so forth, all get left out of the question, even though they are all more or less necessary parts of the normal market mechanisms we're encouraging you to participate in.

i think it's obvious that the anti-piracy advocate of this kind doesn't actually want to advocate for participation in the market economy, like Bush during the recession. they want to be just by the developer because they see the developer as a fellow individual like themselves; they actually want to cut through the market alienation and simply do right by another person. therefore all of the other capitalists who make money off the sale—publisher, platform, payment processor—are just more big companies, perhaps even leeches we'd be better off without.

it's funny, because historically this view was used to support piracy when it came to music. you used to see a lot of charts like this:

how much of a CD goes to the label, manufacturers and distributors, to show how little really goes to an artist, to shut down people who said you should buy the CD to support them. there's a sort of naive anarchism underlying this: i want to help the individual who made the music i love, who needs manufacturers and distributors anyway?

in this kind of simple moral reasoning, resellers really get shafted. they're seen as scalpers, taking money without producing any value. no one says: 'make sure to support resellers!' thus we never ask who the individual behind all of the market alienation the resller is. whoever they are they don't deserve the money. then, when you are poor and struggling, and cannot afford to buy things for yourself, what do people tell you to do? sell your games, CDs...

but i don't want to be too sarcastic here, because there is nothing funny about this impulse to reach through market alienation and connect morally with another individual. it is the essence of emancipation. but hear my argument: purchasing commodities from them is an unsatisfactory way to realize it. it's true that you can certainly help someone by buying what they sell; many of us rely on this to a greater or lesser extent, and, pragmatically, i hope we'll all buy Nadia Nova's next game and put food in her belly. but systematically, not in this or that case, but as a general moral principle, the commodity form, the exchange of cash for things or copies of things—this is the very thing that reproduces these conditions of alienation in the first place. and these relations—their predictability as a feature of the market, or even their scarcity as a part of a volatile and impermanent system—is what habitually places the developer in a condition of alienation from their labour, coaxing them to give up their so-called intellectual "property", then forbidding them from using the games they made; or by seducing them into placing their music on a platform, then offering them increasingly small margins and less control; or to post their content (qua sex workers) on a paywall platform, which then imposes complex payout structures to keep them from claiming their earnings. and so forth. the desire to reach through all of the noise and support the individual is inevitably captured, redirected, and fed upon in as many ways as it can be, until the whole thing crashes down and the cycle starts again.

therefore, should you purchase or pirate the next game you want to play? Remember Ptahhotep: "The noble who sitteth before food divideth it as his soul moveth him; he giveth unto him that he would favour."

#computer games #piracy #copyright

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