#but the whole concept of that exchange in and of itself is so

[stil-lindigo]

the fox god.

a comic about a trickster.

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[electricgg]

Ancient Dreams In A Modern Land

Chapter 5: Get Along With The Voices Inside Of My Head

Masterlist

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 (Here!) / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12 /

Adolescence is a broad concept. 

It is the period of transition between childhood and adulthood. It includes big changes, from the body to how they relate to the outside world. 

It also qualifies as the most painful and awkward stage in somebody’s life, which comes hand in hand with pushing boundaries and breaking scheduled patterns.

Patterns that Timothy Drake had taken years to figure out and were now as broken as the old vase he had hidden from Alfred for the past two years.

He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

Clicking furiously at the wide keyboard of the batcomputer before rolling away in his chair with a frustrated groan, Tim rubbed his face roughly with his still-gloved hands, as if the action itself could take his mind off the subject that has been bothering him for the past four days (not that he would ever admit to himself how much it was bothering him).

That girl.

Jesus, where to even begin?

Not only had she disrupted her assigned schedule, but she had also flipped completely on her behaviour and structured habits. 

(Y/N) Wayne had been an easy person to read. From the very moment her existence was revealed to the public eye. Way before he even became part of the family.

A child who had blocked trauma, shoved into the hands of a man who had just found out was her biological father.

A girl exposed to bloodthirsty reporters and paparazzi, developing a fear of the spotlight, and making her look like a fool in front of cameras.

A kid who got the moniker of ‘The Embarrassment of The Wayne’ and made sure to live up to that name.

There were four falls in water fountains, two dresses ripped off in the middle of galas, five accidental stumbles that injured multiple civilians, and multiple newspaper articles about whether she was truly related to Bruce once Damian took the public's attention with his introduction.

She was a walking hazard and a whole meal for the media vultures.

And that was only for the public, personality was a whole different beast.

She was meek, quiet, and too polite. 

Too polite for Tim’s taste. 

Always picking up his stray coffee cups (even when they were so dirty and he was pretty sure something was alive at the bottom of them). Looking over his shoulder, and asking him if he was getting any rest. Leaving him tea outside his door when he hadn’t left his desk for days. Asking him if he was eating. Asking him if he had taken a bath. Asking if he needed any help with a case.

Asking and asking and asking and asking and asking.

It infuriated him to no end.

It felt as if she was faking it. Nobody could care that much without wanting something in exchange. Not without an ulterior motive.

So he took some drastic measures.

Learning her routine was an easy task. She would wake up around four in the morning on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays to do her extensive morning routine. Tuesdays and Thursdays, she would sleep in until seven in the morning.

 In the early days, she would trim her hair ends and retouch her roots so her natural hair color was never in sight. Keeping the same length and not a hair out of place. She was very precise with it and took her time while doing so.

Next, she would take a shower and lock herself in her room for half an hour or so. He never knew why exactly, but it was something she always did. Without a single miss.

After that, she would wander around the manor until she reached the piano room. She would practice until Alfred came to find her for breakfast and take her to school.

Whenever Tim heard the piano in the morning, he knew it was time to either wake up or go to bed depending on which situation he found himself in.

If she didn’t touch the piano, he wouldn’t know what day it was. And depending on the day, he would know how long he would have to wait in his room so he wouldn’t have to listen to her obnoxious questions and see her wide eyes.

(Y/N) hasn’t touched the piano in the past four days.

And it was driving him mad.

“I just don’t get it! She loves hugs!”

Along with Dick’s pity party.

The older man was doing pull-ups by the training mats, still wearing his suit minus the mask. Grunting as he took deep breaths when his head reached over the metal bar he was hanging off.

“She runs at me the moment I come to visit. Every single time. And now she just doesn’t even look my way?”

Tim sighed, giving Dick a glance from the corner of his eye as hands slid off his face.

“When was the last time you even cared about such things?” he deadpanned, turning his chair to face the acrobat.

Dick had his own place. He didn’t live at the manor anymore, hadn’t for years. Tim could count with just one hand how many times Dick had come to visit them in the past three months.

Why was he acting like he knew her better than Tim himself?

“Since she did a switch on her personality!” he said before letting go of the pole and landing on his feet inside the mat.

Dick grunted as he stretched out his arms upwards, making his way towards the computer and picking up a cold water bottle on a nearby bench.

He shook his head, opening the cap and taking big, loud gulps from the bottle as Tim turned once again toward the computer with a roll of eyes.

“She is a completely different person, and don’t pretend you haven’t noticed too.”

Of course, he had. Because he actually lived with her.

Before he could snap back at him, a deep, gravely voice interrupted their conversation.

“What seems to be the problem here?” Bruce questioned, emerging from the zeta tube and pulling off his cowl. His footsteps echoed against the walls as he reached the two young men.

They didn’t even hear the zeta tubes powering up.

Dick crossed his arms with a glare pointed towards the bat, leaning against the table while Tim gave the man a simple side eye.

That made Bruce lift an eyebrow, not expecting that reaction from the boys.

Everyone had been acting strangely as of late.

And he was getting tired of not knowing why.

“Would any of you care to explain what has you both unfocused and distracted?”

“We’re not distracted…” Tim muttered while tapping on his keyboard, hoping that Bruce would leave the subject alone.

“It’s nothing.” Dick shrugged, moving his gaze to the side.

“If that’s true,” the older man grunted while glancing between the two of them. “Then why are we still trying to figure out the missing kids case?”

That made the boys sigh and grunt under their breaths.

True, they haven’t been able to find any other clues on the case. It was all leading to dead ends. No similarities between. Schools, families, extracurriculars, age, neighborhoods, parents' jobs, and even the locations of disappearances did not link to one another.

There was no way the cases could be linked to one another. Too many differences.

And yet, they couldn’t ignore their gut telling them that they had to be connected.

But what?

“It’s just… You know who.” Dick said while rubbing the back of his neck with an awkard air as Bruce questioning gaze landed on him.

“No, I do not who you are refering to.” his stern and direct tone making Tim and Dick share side glances.

Tim spun around on his chair, facing Bruce with a deadpan expression. “It’s (Y/N). He refers to (Y/N).”

Silence fell between them.

“...What about her?” Bruce dragged the question. Shoulders tense and eyes sharp.

“Jeez, I don’t know?!” Dick snapped back, lifiting himself up and moving his arms around as he talked. “Maybe because she has been acting like a different person, refuses to talk to me, or even look my way, and even curses like a sailor?!”

He whipped his head towards Tim, pointing at him with his index finger.

“How does she even know curse words? She is too young to know those words!”

While Dick continued on his ranting, Tim simply spun back to the computer. He was controlling himself from snapping at Dick, since he was acting as if she was some kind of little kid that he knew everything about.

And also, because he was pissed at Bruce. Since he knew very well that the man was not aware of what had been happening in his own house, with his own kids.

“He wouldn’t know, Dick. Bruce has been out for the past few days.” Too busy with some Justice League business. Kon had mentioned on their last call the other day that it had to do with the ruler of Genosha. Something about an alliance of sorts.

The older boy came to a stop from his rant to look at the too quiet man. He suddenly found himself rubbing the bridge of his nose and looking way older than he was.

“...Bruce.”

The man sighed tiredly, covering his mouth and looking at the floor. A deep hum leaving his throat.

“You have seen her, right?”

Tim smiled smugly to himself at the answering silence behind him.

His family always forgets how petty he can be.

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

“How about this one?”

“ .. / -.. --- -. .----. - / .-.. .. -.- . / .. - “

The young girl groaned as she threw out another old cardigan over the overgrown pile of clothes lying by the bed. It varied from shirts, pants, dresses, and many other clothes that she had been fishing out of the old wardrobe for the past three hours.

Who knew a ghost could be picky with what her old body could and couldn’t wear?

It all started when the only way to communicate with Wayne’s Ghost (whom she was calling from now on until she found a better nickname) was by the flickering of the light from her lamp. 

It was simple at first. One flicker meant yes, and two flickers meant no. But it left her unsatisfied and also limited communication. She wanted to have a real conversation with someone who understood what she was actually going through. Which leads to the next step.

Learning Morse code.

It wasn’t hard! After borrowing a few books from the library about the subject (which she did only after she was sure none of the weird guys were wandering around the manor), and speed-reading through the pages, she had learned Morse code in under five hours of relentless reading.

She was not sure if that was normal, but nothing about her situation was normal.

Looking now at the very empty closet, a sense of sadness began building at the pit of her stomach.

Even with her permission, it felt invasive to take out something so personal just to make space for her own stuff.

Especially after listening to the recordings. 

Those words were still rumbling in between her ears.

˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖—》✧《—˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖

Diary Entry: Year 4

“Today, Mister Alfred got me a letter and some gifts from my mom. I don’t know how she got them out of the hospital, but I’m sure Uncle had something to do with it. I’ll write to him and hopefully get Alfred to send it.”

“I’m sure he and Father are not talking to each other yet.”

“I get it. Kinda. He did bad things. But he’s always been nice to me and never fails to send gifts on my birthday. And it’s always expensive stuff too!”

“Sometimes, I wish he were the one to take me in. And it makes me feel bad because I know Father is trying to do the best for me and the family.”

“I wish I weren’t so hard to handle. Maybe, that way, they wouldn’t be so busy all the time and spend time with me.”

“...It’s my tenth birthday today. Alfred got me new pencils and paints. Mom sent me a necklace with a card explaining what it meant, and many of her old clothes, too. And uncle got me a green jacket that’s way too big on me, but it’s cozy at least. I’m sure I can grow into it.”

“Father’s been locked in his office since last night. I knocked a couple of times, but he didn’t answer. He’s probably tired. I’m sure he’ll remember this time.”

“Dick promised to bring ice cream today too, but he hasn’t answered my calls today. He could be stuck on a case, too, so I understand he’s busy.”

“And Jason left some cookies outside my room this morning. I ate them before breakfast, but Alfred doesn’t know it yet, so shhh!!”

“Besides that, this year wasn’t so bad. I got good grades at school and got to visit Mom a couple of times, too. In the last visit, the guards let us talk without the glass window between us. I was happy to be able to hug her again after so long.”

“...I miss her a lot. I miss our old house too. The manor is big and all, but it’s very cold.”

“And lonely.”

“I shouldn’t complain… Father has done everything to give me a good life. But I wish Mom would get better and come back for me.”

“...I want my mom back. I want her back so bad, and it makes me sad, too.”

“I think that could be my wish this year. Wish for my mom to get better soon.”

“I think it’s a good wish for this year, right?”

˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖—》✧《—˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖˖

Yeah, that made her tear up and take a couple of breaks in between listening to the recordings.

Mom was a strong word.

It made her heart tight, and so many overwhelming feelings flooded over her. 

Warmth from tight hugs. Soothing lullabies in a language she could not place. Soft fingers running through her hair. Loving words in a voice she couldn’t put a face to. But she knew who it was. It wasn’t hard to figure it out.

She also wanted her mom back.

The flickering of the lamp on her nightstand made her wipe away any stray tears, sniffling her nose with the back of her hand and taking a deep breath.

“Alright, I’m fine. Totally fine.” She muttered to herself as she looked at the closet once again.

On the far corner, a deep green jacket caught her attention.

She took it out of the closet, holding it by the hanger as she looked at the piece of clothing with a growing smile.

On the tag of the neck, the initials U.H. in a very fancy font stood out. The young girl had the feeling that this was one of the gifts of the recordings had mentioned.

It was a forest green, with two vertical white stripes running down the sleeves until they reached the cuffs. The material was lightweight, with a soft fabric on the inside, but breathable. It had a total of four pockets, two outside and two inside on each side.

Without thinking about it too much, she took it off the hanger and put the jacket on.

When she turned to the mirror, there was a grin on her lips.

It fitted almost perfectly. It was a bit long on the sleeves, but she could roll them a bit, and it would look stylish either way.

As she messed around with the zipper and the neck of the jacket, she rambled to her companion out loud about the look.

“I know it’s a gift from your Uncle, and I’m trying to find my style, so if you don’t want me to keep it on, that’s totally fine by-”

The lights flickered brightly.

“ -.- . . .--. / .. - .-.-.- / .. - / .-.. --- --- -.- ... / .-- .- -.-- / -... . - - . .-. / --- -. / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.- “

She was stunned for a few moments. Then, a soft smile and glassy eyes reflected in the mirror, fingers playing with the hems of the soft fabric.

“Thank you.”

A sharp, cold breeze ruffled her hair, making her laugh and swipe at the empty air around her.

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

“-and I need the report of her latest appointment sent straight to my mail, is that clear?”

When the meek assistant agreed to his demands, Bruce hung up the call with an exasperated exhale. Leaning back on his chair as he calmed down his anger and frustration.

The incompetence of Gotham Central Hospital personnel was something to be studied.

It wasn’t exactly their fault. He hasn’t been in touch about Bianca’s case for about a year now, but he had been expecting that the staff had been taking care of her and keeping up with her mental state.

Especially after the last incident involving her.

And that was another incoming headache.

The boys had been acting out of sorts throughout the week. Dick had been actively coming to the manor so often due to current case in his hands and his sudden need to share some of time with (Y/N). Tim is frustrated over not getting any proper sleep and not finding any sort of shared link in the case. And Damian was… well, he kept mostly to himself, but he could see something was bothering him by how much he was muttering and slamming the training dummies harder than usual.

And then, there was (Y/N).

Bruce could admit he wasn’t a great dad. All of his children could testify and give proof of it.

But he knew he had failed her, especially when it came to being a father.

And it wasn’t her fault at all. It was all on him.

Because he was a coward who couldn’t face a child who bore the face of the people he had failed to help.

It wasn’t an excuse, but it was a reason.

Which was why he always paid for packages of gray contact lenses and expensive black hair dye.

If Bianca were in her right mind, she would have shot him right in the head without hesitation for allowing their girl to change herself simply because he couldn’t look her in the eye.

‘...maybe it isn’t too late to fix this.’

Bruce rubbed his face, feeling the stubble on his jaw since he hadn’t shaved in the past few days. The negotiations with Erik Lehnsherr had been draining, and with lots of conditions on how the Justice League could set foot on the country without getting blown up on the spot.

Even then, they weren’t able to reach an agreement.

A sudden notification made his phone vibrate, taking his mind off his deep thoughts. 

It was from the hospital. Bianca’s current lab tests and consults, attached to the mail. That made him relax a little bit.

Until his sight focused on the sender.

Gotham Central Hospital: Psych Ward

All of the reports for the police and files they had been searching for the case, there wasn’t a single document from the hospitals. Medical issues, birth certificates, laboratory analysis, and vaccines up to date.

They hadn’t searched for medical history yet.

Bruce got up from his chair and quickly made his way back to the cave, a thought hiding in the back of his head as the case took hold of his priorities once again.

She can wait. I will make it right, but she can wait.

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

By the time she was done, it was almost 10:30 PM. 

She wasn’t planning on throwing all the clothes away, even if Wayne had told her she could do it. It would be a waste to do so, and at the moment, she didn’t have a style in mind that would suit her yet. So, for now, she would have to use some of the clothes that Wayne agreed to let her keep.

The pattern of shades of green was pretty obvious, but she wasn’t gonna complain. It felt right to use green.

Which was why she didn’t take off the jacket from the moment she put it on.

Instead of shoving all the discarded clothes into trash bags, she put them into boxes that Alfred got her once he knew what she was doing with the clothes.

“A change of style and removing old things is a sign of new beginnings, my dear. Don’t feel shame for it.”

That old man was easily becoming her favorite person in the world.

After Billy, of course.

And her ghost companion, too.

…and maybe her mom as well-

A sharp knock at the door broke her away from the difficult task of tapping the boxes that were overflowing with clothes. She didn’t move from her spot on the floor, sitting with her legs crossed and fingers with pieces of tape stuck on them.

It was usually Alfred who always knocked and asked to be let in before opening the door. The other guys, thankfully, hadn’t come to look for her at her room in the past few days.

So, whoever knocked at her door wasn’t someone she knew.

“Hell, no,” she muttered while cutting another stripe of tape with her teeth, glaring at the door as if it had offended her. 

“I ain’t talking to anybody. I’m too tired to handle their issues.”

Sticking the stripe over the absolute abstract monstrosity on top of the box (better safe than sorry. Wayne had already told her it was too much tape, but she wasn’t risking the box busting open while taking it to the thrift store tomorrow with Alfred after her follow-up visit with Dr. Vidal.) Curiosity began to creep into the back of her head.

Wayne hadn’t said anything for a while, maybe she was resting. ( Do ghosts go to sleep? Do they even need sleep?)

It wasn’t Alfred, for sure. He would have said something, and a few minutes had already passed by.

The gremlin? (Nah, he was still pissed off about the orange juice thing. His fault for being too slow to reach for it.)

The pale hallway ghost? (Pretty sure he only stuck to his room, judging by the pile of dishes outside a door a few halls down.)

Not Touchy Guy, probably. (Almost biting his finger off yesterday was enough warning unless he was THAT stupid.)

…So who?

Before she could think about too much, in the blink of an eye, she stood before the door with a hand already on the handle. A few papers flew off behind her, the gush of wind making the bell wind chime hanging by the window sound off.

Seems like her own body acts before she even finishes the thought.

‘Gotta get a grip on that, too,’ she noted while biting her lips inward, opening the door slowly, and looking into the hallway.

It was empty and dark. Not a person on sight.

Rolling her eyes as she began to close the door once again, her gaze landed on the floor.

Leaning against the wall by her door, on the floor lay a purple backpack. 

She leaned forward and picked it up, noticing how heavy it was with a small grunt. Before going back into her room, she looked back into the hall, waiting for someone to pop by or something.

It didn’t happen.

Once she was back in her room, she climbed on the bed and opened the backpack. It was brand new, the material without a single scratch or dirt on it. And the books inside it as well, the smell of fresh paper and ink emitting from it. In the front pocket, she found something that made her open her mouth in shock.

A phone. A brand new phone.

She quickly turned it on, easily excited over having something like that on her hands.

‘I never had a phone before! Thank you, whoever you are! I owe you big!’

It didn’t have a lot of apps or stuff. The picture roll was still there, judging by the thousands of pics in there. But it had only one contact registered on it.

Jay.

Said contact also had sent a message.

‘Take care of your stuff. You need books to pass your classes.’

‘And stay out of trouble’

That made her snort, scratching her cheek while looking down at the text and at the bag. A smile grew on her lips at the thoughtful gift.

And then it was wiped out when the sudden realization hit her.

“Fuck, I forgot about school!”

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

Author's Note: Hello everyone! Hope everyone is doing amazing and well. My trip was great, I really needed to disconnect for bit before facing finals weeks (which I haven't cried yet so it's a big success!!) Lots of important details in this chapter and I can't wait to see what y'all think about and come up with lol. I'll add on the translation to the morse code later bc I'm posting this at 1:40 in the morning and i got a final presentation in the afternoon, so wish me luck!! Sending lots of hugs and love, GG✨

Morse Code Translation:

( .. / -.. --- -. .----. - / .-.. .. -.- . / .. -) I don't like it.

(-.- . . .--. / .. - .-.-.- / .. - / .-.. --- --- -.- … / .-- .- -.-- / -… . - - . .-. / --- -. / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.-) Keep it. It looks way better on you.

Tag List:

@bat1212 @kneelforloki @1abi @galaxypurplerose @yhin-gg @cxcilla @momentomoribitch @stargirl404 @initial-ari @welpthisisboring @icefox8155 @bunniotomia @alittlelostmoonchild @devotedlyshamelessdetective @shycreatorreview @nirvanaxx1942 @soulsire @ryuushou @rinkydinkythinky @lithiumval @ithoughtthinks @reeyy0-2 @cssammyyarts @lordbugs @ilovecoffe0 @kore-of-the-underworld @fortunatelydifferentqueen

Bonus Memes:

[honourablejester]

A thought I’ve always had with the celestial warlock is that …

So warlocks are mercenaries, right? They make pacts to gain power. They do things for patrons in exchange for magic. I mean, not exclusively, but bargaining is something of a core concept of the class even if you’re not focusing your roleplay on it. Warlocks are mercenaries.

And the thing with that in the context of a celestial warlock. So often I see the concept for the patron as a celestial who rescued you, or who’s trying to redeem you, a hand of good laid upon your soul, a plaintive Jiminy Cricket in your ear.

But the question I always have is not what kind of mercenary makes deals with angels, but what kind of angel hires mercenaries?

I feel like you could do some really cool things and have a really cool and interesting relationship with an angelic patron who is … greyer than the stereotype here. Because. They are a force for good who is perfectly willing to hire agents. Not by seeking a true champion or relying on conscience, but by the simple mercenary inducement of payment. Your morals don’t come into it, your beliefs don’t come into it, the arrangement is simple. You do a service for them, you help the cause of good, and they pay you. There’s a certain amount of pragmatism in that, and subtlety, that I find fascinating to imagine in a holy being.

Also. Celestial warlocks get mostly good-seeming powers from their subclass, healing and the like, but they’re also still getting the whole warlock package from their patron as well. Your eldritch blast and your hunger of hadar are still coming from that source. What kind of angel equips someone with those powers?

What kind of relationship could you have with such a being? Is it rigid and remote, a handler towards their agent? Something more casual, you do some jobs on a freelance basis and they pay you in healing and spell slots? Or something more collegiate, warmer, conscious of the moral greys and the sometimes extremely physical horrors they’re sending you into, but knowing that it needs to be done? Do they trust you enough to let you colour outside the lines a bit, or are their instructions extremely strict? Or do they want to know the details at all? Are they so grey that they give you carte blanche, a need to know that they don’t need to know, so long as there is a net victory for good at the end of it? Or are they extremely conscious, not only of everything you do but everything that is done to you?

I don’t know, I just feel like there’s a lot of room to play around with what sort of being your celestial patron must be to even enter into the relationship you both find yourself in. The kind of celestial that is at least a little bit greyer in nature, by pure implication of the bargain itself. You could do something … very Cold War-ish there, a more pragmatic and sordid sort of relationship.

And, yes, there are also evil gods and evil celestials. But honestly I like the grey celestial idea better, a servant of a genuinely good and holy cause, who’s just that bit more pragmatic about it. Yes, yes, moral champions, but when we’re short on time, or bodies on the ground, or when we need someone to blend in that little bit more … I mean, if the job gets done, does it matter by who? We can just pay someone to go in and do the needful. It doesn’t have to be more complicated than that. And if we save a sordid soul in the process, great, and if not … it’s no overall loss? We can’t lose what we didn’t have in the first place.

Are you expendable to such a being? Are you used to save the truer champions, genuinely good and worthy souls, at least some trials here or there? If so, what does that make such a being, who would use and sacrifice you so? Do the ends justify the means? Do you have opinions on such questions, regarding both yourself and your patron? Do you hate them, as much as any fiend warlock might hate their cruel master?

Or do you live in world where the things that must be done must be done, where principle is all very well but only so long as it does get the job done, and thus you and your patron understand each other quite well. You are a mercenary, after all. So long as the jobs are reasonable and you’re getting paid up front, that’s all any mercenary can ask.

I just really like the idea of a pragmatic angel, a handler with their agents, operating in a more subtle realm than that of crusades and champions. Sometimes, if you need a job done, you just hire someone to do it. No muss, no fuss. Get your bodies on the ground, and work out the rest later.

And the question then is, what’s it like being the poor hired muggins in question?

[thedemoninme141]

Lost Valentine's.

Pairing: Wednesday X Female Reader.

Theme: Angst, Heavy Angst! Wordcount: 8.3k-ish.

Warnings: A bit of confusion? But please read it to the end!

Summary: Can Roses bleed? Wednesday can't remember. Maybe that's why she followed your ridiculous valentine's traditions.

It had been months since you had crept into her life, since you had settled into the spaces between her ribs and refused to leave. Months since she found herself caught in something she never anticipated—never wanted.

Affection. 

The word itself left a bitter taste in her mouth, as if it were something toxic.

She was Wednesday Addams. She did not entertain foolish emotions, she did not indulge in sentimentality. She was meant for darkness, for solitude, for the macabre. And yet, against all reason, against every instinct she had spent years honing, she had found herself ensnared by you.

It had started subtly at first, so subtly she hadn’t even noticed it happening. The way she allowed you to linger at her side when she would have long since dismissed anyone else. The way her sharp retorts softened, just slightly, when they were directed at you. The way she resisted—desperately, vehemently—the urge to let the corner of her mouth twitch upwards whenever you spoke to her.

You had ruined her.

And you didn’t even know it.

She exhaled slowly, pressing down the erratic thrum of her heart, suppressing the way your face kept invading her thoughts, the way her mind kept tracing over every moment spent with you.

You had insisted on celebrating something called "Rose Day," a concept so nauseatingly sentimental that Wednesday had nearly scoffed outright when you first brought it up.

Flowers. Love. The revolting ideals of romance wrapped up in a neat, florally scented package.

Wednesday detested roses.

She detested all flowers, unless they were poisonous, deadly, wilted to ruin.

And again,

She hadn’t been able to refuse you.

Against all odds, all logic, all reason, she had said yes.

Ugh.

You wanted to spend the evening in the greenhouse, of all places. Where the air was thick with the scent of earth and blooming things, where petals unfurled and thrived, where you had planted an entire batch of flowers with your own hands, simply because you liked the idea of growing something.

It was one of the things Wednesday—loathe as she was to admit—admired about you.

Your hands were made for creating, not destroying. You nurtured life where she sought to end it.

It was infuriating. It was endearing. Stupid heart.

Her fingers tapped against the desk, her expression tightening.

Was she supposed to bring you something? The thought had only just occurred to her. The whole purpose of this absurd holiday was to exchange roses, was it not?

The idea was ridiculous. You wouldn’t like that. You hated killing flowers.

Wednesday still remembered the way you had frowned when she absentmindedly stepped on a daisy weeks ago, your lips pressing into a thin line before you gently picked it up, cradling it like something fragile, something sacred.

She had been fascinated by you then.

She was still fascinated now.

A deep sigh slipped through her lips as she straightened, smoothing out the fabric of her uniform, willing away the disquieting warmth in her chest.

This was insufferable.

She needed to get out of here before she allowed her thoughts to spiral any further.

“Where are you going?”

The sudden voice shattered her thoughts like glass, and Wednesday turned, her dark gaze settling on Enid, who stood beside her bed, arms folded across her chest.

The werewolf’s usual vibrance was absent, her features drawn tight, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Strange.

Enid was always prying. Always teasing.

“I am meeting Y/n,” she answered evenly. “She insisted on spending the evening in the greenhouse.”

A pause.

“Oh.”

That was all Enid said. No teasing remark. No suggestive smirk. Just… that.

Wednesday frowned.

Something wasn’t right.

Enid was acting strangely, but Wednesday had little patience to unravel the reasoning behind it.

She glanced towards the door, then back to her roommate, waiting for whatever usual nonsense was sure to follow.

It never came.

“Umm,” Enid hesitated, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. “When will you be back?”

“I am not sure.”

Another pause. Another unreadable look.

Then, just as quickly, Enid nodded and turned away, fingers tightening around the hem of her sweater.

Wednesday didn’t question it. Didn’t linger. She had somewhere to be.

With one final glance at her roommate, Wednesday strode towards the door, pushing aside whatever strange feeling settled at the back of her mind.

She had more important things to focus on.

Like the fact that you were waiting for her.

And that, for some unfathomable reason, she actually wanted to see you.

How revolting.

She found you lying in the grass, arms stretched out, gaze turned upwards at—what, exactly? The ceiling? The world beyond it? The way the light refracted through the glass?

It didn’t matter.

Wednesday stopped in her tracks, the air catching in her throat, something unfamiliar curling inside her ribcage as she took you in.

You looked completely at peace, as if the very weight of the world had melted away, as if the walls of Nevermore had dissolved and left only this moment, only this space, only the soft, lush grass beneath you and the warmth of the lamps above.

There was something infuriatingly fascinating about the way you existed.

So gentle. So utterly alive.

And yet, somehow, you had chosen her.

Wednesday stood motionless, watching you, letting her dark gaze trace over every little detail—your slow, steady breathing, the way your fingers absentmindedly curled through the blades of grass, the way your lips parted just slightly as if lost in thought.

She hated this.

She hated the way her chest ached when she looked at you.

Hated the way you made her feel as if something inside her was slipping through her fingers, something she had never asked for, never wanted.

But she hated even more the idea of leaving.

So she moved forward.

Your head tilted slightly at the sound of her boots against the stone path, your lips curving upwards before you had even turned to look at her, as if you had known she was there before she had spoken a single word.

And then you sat up, eyes warm, expression bright—

And then the cursed thing,

Your smile.

The one thing Wednesday still hadn’t quite learned how to endure.

She felt it then—the ridiculous, unbearable urge to smile back.

She resisted.

Barely.

"You're here." The words were soft, threaded with something Wednesday couldn’t quite place, something she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

"Of course I am," she replied simply, "I found you, didn't I?" her voice as even as ever, as if her pulse hadn’t just tripped over itself.

Your lips twitched, amusement flickering in your gaze.

"That you did."

A quiet sigh left her lips as she moved toward you, but she didn’t deny it.

"I planted a new batch of roses," you murmured after a moment, eyes flickering toward the far side of the greenhouse.

Wednesday followed your gaze.

Rows of fresh roses stood among the other plants, petals still delicate, still growing, their leaves dark against the rich soil.

Roses.

She almost scoffed.

But then you turned to look at her, and the words dissolved before they could reach her tongue.

"I just… I like watching things grow," you said, voice soft, quiet, as if this was something sacred, something not often spoken aloud. "Helping things live."

Wednesday studied you, the way your fingers toyed with the hem of your sleeve, the way your eyes held something distant, something wistful.

She didn’t understand.

And yet, at the same time, she did.

You stood then, waiting only a second before moving toward the roses, glancing back expectantly when she didn’t immediately follow.

She let out a sigh and followed.

The roses were different from the others.

They stood side by side, carefully planted, one deep black and the other a striking red, their petals unfurling as if reaching for one another.

You crouched down beside them, fingers grazing over their stems without touching, careful, reverent.

"I planted these as a symbol," you murmured, your voice just above a whisper. "Of you and me."

Wednesday stiffened.

"As long as we’re together," you continued, brushing a strand of hair from your face, "these roses will be too."

Something inside her twisted. Tightened.

Wednesday Addams did not entertain sentimentality.

She did not allow herself to be softened by such things.

And yet, she found herself staring at the roses, at the way the black and red bled into one another, and she felt it— That slow, quiet ache beneath her ribs.

You reached for something beside the flowers, lifting it with both hands before turning to face her, expression sheepish.

A watering can.

"You’re probably going to hate this," you admitted, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at your lips. "But I want us to take care of them together."

Wednesday stared at you.

Then at the watering can.

Then back at you.

This was absurd. Truly, completely absurd.

And yet, against all reason, against every fiber of her being, she found herself reaching forward, hesitantly, carefully, taking the handle from your grasp.

Your fingers brushed hers in the exchange.

Her breath caught, almost imperceptibly.

This was ridiculous. And yet, she tilted the can forward, the water slipping past the spout, soaking into the dark earth.

And then—

You giggled.

Soft, warm, unguarded.

A sound she had heard before.

A sound that had never made her feel like this.

Wednesday clenched her jaw, tightening her grip around the handle, as if that might somehow steady her.

Perhaps…

Perhaps her distaste for flowers wasn’t entirely justified.

Lunch at Nevermore was always an assault on Wednesday’s senses. The noise, the clatter of trays against tables, the constant hum of voices overlapping, filling every available space. It grated on her nerves, but she tolerated it. Barely.

To her right, you were curled slightly inward, sitting at the very edge of the table, as you always did.

Across from her, Enid was chattering away, her voice bright and full of energy as she animatedly waved her hands, trying to explain something to Yoko and Bianca.

"And I swear, I almost got it! But then the stupid equation was like, ‘nah, girl, you thought,’ and now my grade is in literal shambles," Enid groaned, dragging a hand through her hair. "I swear, my math teacher has it out for me," she groaned, dramatically slumping forward. "Like, I am genuinely incapable of understanding calculus, and instead of helping, she just stares at me like I’m an insult to the entire concept of numbers."

Yoko snorted, shaking her head. "Maybe you are."

Bianca smirked. "Yeah, Enid, you’re a lost cause. I’d be concerned if I were your teacher too."

Enid gasped, shaking her head at them. "Wow, thanks for the moral support, guys."

Wednesday barely paid attention to them. Their conversations were predictable, nothing that required her participation.

But then— "I can help you with math if you want," your words were quiet, soft, hesitant, careful in the way you said it, as if you already expected to be ignored.

And you were.

The conversation continued as if you had said nothing at all.

Enid was still laughing, Yoko and Bianca still smirking.

Not a single one of them acknowledged your words.

Wednesday felt something cold coil inside her.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But she watched.

She watched as your gaze flickered downward, watched as your fingers curled just a little tighter against the wood, watched as the faintest trace of sadness passed over your face before you carefully schooled your expression back into something neutral.

You didn’t say anything else.

Something cold and sharp coiled inside Wednesday’s chest.

“She said something.” Her voice cut through the conversation like a blade, sharp and deliberate.

The table stilled.

Enid blinked at her. “Huh?”

Wednesday’s jaw was tight, teeth pressed together as she repeated herself, slower this time. “Y/N offered to help you with your math problem.” She shifted her gaze, dark and unyielding, to all three of them. “And you blatantly ignored her.”

Yoko, Bianca, and Enid exchanged glances, an awkward silence settling over them.

Finally, Enid laughed, but it was different this time—forced, unsure. "Oh, um, yeah, sure, Y/N, I’m, uh…" She trailed off, searching for something to say.

Bianca cut in smoothly. "Don’t worry about it, Y/N. I’m actually tutoring Enid, so she’s covered." She offered a practiced smile, tilting her head. "Sorry for not noticing what you said. You know how loud Enid can be."

Lies.

Wednesday saw through them instantly, saw the way Bianca avoided direct eye contact, the way Yoko shifted uncomfortably, the way Enid fidgeted with the sleeve of her jacket.

You smiled, small and tired, nodding as if you believed them. “Right. No worries.”

Then you stood, grabbing your tray, and left without another word.

Wednesday’s glare darkened as she shot one last look at them before pushing her own chair back and following you.

The hallway was quieter, the echoes of distant chatter fading into the background as 

Wednesday caught up to you.

You didn’t turn to her, your footsteps steady, your gaze fixed ahead.

"You shouldn’t have done that," you murmured after a moment.

"Shouldn’t have done what?"

"Called them out like that."

Wednesday scoffed. "They deserved it."

A bitter chuckle left your lips, but there was no humor in it. "They hate me," you said, voice quiet, but steady.

Wednesday frowned.

"They don’t even acknowledge me most of the time," you continued, finally stopping, finally turning to look at her. "You saw it, Wednesday. You always see it. They act like I don’t exist."

She stared at you, taking in the way your jaw tensed, the way your hands clenched at your sides.

It was infuriating.

And for the first time, Wednesday didn’t know if her anger was directed at them—

Or at herself.

"They don’t hate you," she said, measured, careful.

You laughed, shaking your head. "Then what do you call it?"

"They’re self-centered," Wednesday said simply. "Thoughtless. Ignorant. But they do not hate you."

"Does it matter?"

Wednesday felt something stir inside her, something she didn’t have a name for.

Because it did matter.

It mattered far more than it should have.

She exhaled through her nose, shifting her weight slightly.

"I do not care for most people," she admitted. "They are fickle. Inconsistent. Disappointing."

You tilted your head slightly, listening.

"I am not like them," she continued, voice quieter now, more deliberate. "I do not say things I do not mean. I do not offer what I do not intend to give."

Your brows furrowed slightly.

"Wednesday—"

"You matter."

The words were out before she could stop them. And she didn’t want to stop them. Your lips parted, eyes widening just slightly.

"I have spent much of my life detesting the very concept of… attachment," Wednesday said, her voice unwavering despite the tightness in her chest. "It is unpredictable. Irrational. A weakness."

You swallowed, fingers twitching at your sides.

"But then you—" she stopped, the faintest trace of something raw, something unguarded.

The silence stretched, heavy, thick with everything unsaid. And then Wednesday exhaled, slow, deliberate.

"Be mine." she said.

Your brows furrowed slightly.

"What?"

Wednesday exhaled again, as if the words themselves had pained her.

"I lo—"

She stopped.

Her throat tightened.

She exhaled again, slower this time.

"I have… an undeniable preference for you," she tried.

You blinked.

Then let out a quiet, breathless laugh.

"Wednesday Addams, are you trying to say you love me?"

Wednesday’s face didn’t change. But her hands twitched at her sides.

She did not look away. Did not falter.

"I’m saying that you are mine," she corrected, her voice quiet but firm.

Your breath hitched.

Then, slowly, carefully, you stepped forward, closing the space between you.

"That was a very Addams way of saying it," you murmured.

Wednesday didn’t reply.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Then—

You reached forward, hesitantly, carefully, fingers brushing against hers.

She didn’t pull away.

"You’re mine too, then," you whispered.

And Wednesday—

She didn’t resist the small, fleeting twitch at the corner of her lips.

Enid was at her own desk, digging through her drawers, occasionally glancing at the mirror, adjusting her hair as she pulled on a jacket. She was getting ready to go somewhere.

Wednesday watched her for a moment.

"Where are you going?"

Enid stiffened.

It was subtle, but Wednesday noticed it immediately.

A small, fleeting tension in her shoulders before she turned around, smiling a little too quickly.

"Oh! Um—nowhere important. Just heading out with some people."

Wednesday narrowed her eyes slightly.

"Where."

Enid hesitated, then sighed, rubbing the back of her neck.

"The Weathervane theme park," she admitted, avoiding Wednesday’s gaze.

Wednesday tilted her head slightly.

"With whom?"

Enid chewed on her lip.

"Uh, just—Ajax, Bianca, Yoko, Eugene and some others."

Wednesday frowned.

That was… odd.

Normally, any sort of group outing like this would come with an excruciatingly long, overly enthusiastic attempt from Enid to convince her to join.

There would be pleading, bargaining, annoyingly bright smiles and hopeful eyes.

There would be insistence, over and over, until Wednesday either shut it down completely or relented just to make it stop.

Yet this time, there had been nothing.

No mention of it.

No attempts to persuade her.

And for some reason, that bothered her.

"Why didn’t you ask me to come?"

Enid blinked. The question seemed to catch her off guard, her mouth opening and closing for a moment before she laughed awkwardly.

"Uh, well, I mean—" She shifted slightly. "I just figured you’d say no anyway, so I didn’t bother."

Lie.

It wasn’t an outright lie, but there was something wrong with it, something forced in the way she said it, something in the way she wouldn’t quite meet Wednesday’s gaze.

And Wednesday—

She could push it. Could demand the truth.

But she didn’t need to.

Because whatever the reason was, it didn’t matter.

This wasn’t about Enid.

This wasn’t about her.

It was about you.

Ever since yesterday’s lunch, Wednesday had been analyzing everything, dissecting every detail of how people treated you, how they disregarded you, how they seemed so utterly indifferent to your existence despite you being right there.

It made no logical sense.

Wednesday didn’t like that. She wants you to be close to other people too, to have other friends too.

And so, before she could think too much about it, she spoke again.

"I want to join," she said, her voice steady.

Enid blinked again, startled.

Wednesday’s expression didn’t waver.

"Me and Y/N," she clarified.

For a brief moment, Enid just stared at her. Then, slowly, she smiled, though there was something awkward about it, something hesitant.

"Yeah, sure," she said, "It’ll be fun." nodding a little too quickly though her voice carried the same awkward note as before.

Wednesday studied her.

There was hesitation in her movements, tension in her shoulders.

She was hiding something.

Wednesday straightened, her dark eyes unwavering.

"Is there something I don’t know?" she asked.

Enid stiffened. "What?"

"Between Y/N and the others, did anything happen that I do not know of?" Wednesday pressed, voice carefully measured.

Something flickered across Enid’s face. Her eyes widened, too much, too quick.

"No!"

Wednesday’s stare was cold, unrelenting.

Enid fumbled, forcing a laugh.

"I mean—no, of course not! Y/N’s great! Fun! Amazing, really!" she babbled, her voice too high, too rushed. "She is my best friend, I love her! You know me, I’m just silly, ha-ha!"

Wednesday’s lips pressed into a thin line. She did not believe her.

But she also knew Enid would not willingly say more.

Not yet.

Enid cleared her throat. "Listen, we’re leaving in an hour," she said, shifting the conversation as quickly as she could. "You can get Y/N and meet us outside the school, okay?"

Wednesday gave a single nod. "Very well."

Enid hesitated for half a second longer, then turned back to her mirror, fixing her hair again, though there was something off in the way she was moving, something stiff.

But Wednesday didn’t linger on it.

She turned, grabbing her coat from the hook by the door.

She had something more important to do.

She had to find you.

She wasn’t walking away from something.

She was walking toward it.

Wednesday stole a glance at you.

You looked… happy.

Genuinely happy.

And it was because of a lie.

Wednesday had never been one for dishonesty—she found it tedious, unnecessary.

But when she had seen the way your expression lit up upon hearing that Enid had specifically asked her to bring you along, the lie felt... worth it. And she hated that she didn’t regret it.

You walked a little closer, your fingers brushing hers—not enough to hold, but enough to be felt. “I’m gonna get you something,” you said suddenly.

Wednesday arched a brow. “How unfortunate.”

You laughed. She pretended not to like the sound.

“It’s Chocolate Day,” you continued, nudging her lightly. “And you know what that means.”

Wednesday sighed. “It means I’m about to be forced into yet another pointless tradition.”

You hummed, tilting your head in thought. “I was thinking of getting you dark chocolate.”

Wednesday paused. Her gaze flickered to you, analyzing. She had never told you that dark chocolate was the only exception to her disdain for sweets. She had never mentioned it, never given any indication of preference. And yet—You had known.

“Fine,” she relented. “But if it’s disgusting, I reserve the right to throw it away in front of you.”

You giggled, looping your arm through hers before she could protest. “I’ll take my chances.”

Wednesday looked away. She was losing this battle.

And she did not know whether she wanted to win it at all.

The theme park was exactly as Wednesday had predicted.

Loud. Chaotic. A breeding ground for idiocy.

Yet, with you beside her, something about it didn’t seem quite as unbearable.

Enid was unusually insistent throughout the night, always rushing ahead, always the first to purchase the tickets before Wednesday could so much as reach for her wallet.

Every time Wednesday attempted to intervene, Enid waved her off, claiming it was “her treat.” so, Wednesday let it go.

For now.

Eugene, on the other hand, seemed to be having the time of his life, camera in hand, clicking away at anything and everything that caught his eye.

"Hey," you said, turning to Wednesday, a thoughtful expression crossing your face. "Do you want a picture of us?" you asked.

Wednesday blinked.

You smiled.

"Just you and me," you clarified. "You should have one of us. Just us."

And Wednesday— She did not understand why she felt that small, inexplicable pang in her chest. But she found herself turning to Eugene anyway.

"Eugene," she said, drawing his attention.

The boy perked up, lowering his camera slightly.

"Yeah?"

"Take a photo," she instructed.

Eugene hesitated for only a moment before giving a small smile.

"Of course!"

He lifted the camera, adjusting the focus.

Wednesday stood still.

You stepped closer.

Your arm brushed against hers.

Her fingers twitched.

The flash went off.

Eugene lowered the camera, beaming.

"Got it!"

You turned to Wednesday, smiling.

That ridiculous urge.

That stupid, utterly nonsensical pull to return the expression.

She swallowed it down.

The night carried on, but something had shifted.

Wednesday felt it.

Felt it in the way she found herself watching you more often than necessary.

Felt it in the way she could not bring herself to pull away when you stood just a little too close.

This was dangerous.

She knew that.

She had always known that.

But she was beginning to wonder—

Had she already lost?

Wednesday’s mood was dark.

Then again, when was it not?

Everything was dull.

Everything was predictable.

Everything was exactly as it always was.

And then—

There were you...

Damn you.

It was infuriating, how easily you shifted her world, how something as simple as your presence sent a ripple through the void she had spent years cultivating.

“You’re late,” you said, teasing.

Wednesday scoffed. “I am not late. You are simply too eager.”

You grinned and without warning, you slipped your hand into hers.

Wednesday nearly flinched, not from the touch itself, but from the way it sent an unfamiliar jolt through her veins.

"Let’s sit somewhere else today," you said, tugging her toward the farther end of the courtyard.

She let you. Gladly.

The day passed in a blur of you.

You and your endless chatter, your soft laughter, your ridiculous stories that she pretended not to find amusing.

She let herself indulge in your company, allowed herself this moment of peace.

Just you and her.

Nothing else.

Just silence when she wanted silence.

Just your voice when she wanted to hear it.

Just you.

"I have something for you," you had said when you pulled her towards your dorm.

And sitting on your bed was— Oh no.

No, absolutely not.

You picked it up with a smile, cradling it in your hands like it was some great treasure before turning to her with the brightest expression.

"It’s for you," you said, holding it out. "Today is Teddy Day."

Wednesday stared.

At the scorpion plush toy in your hands.

She folded her arms. "I do not collect foolish, sentimental objects," she stated flatly. “I refuse to accept this.”

Your face fell, and something in her chest tightened, an invisible fist curling around something delicate and fragile.

She hated that expression.

Hated it more than anything.

Then you spoke, voice softer this time. “You don’t have to keep it. I just… I saw it, and I thought of you.”

Damn you.

Wednesday clenched her jaw.

She could not allow herself to care.

She could not allow herself to be weak.

But your eyes—

Your eyes.

With an exasperated huff, she stuffed the plushie into her bag, shoving it deep inside as though trying to erase the evidence of her own surrender.

And your face—

Lit up.

You beamed at her, eyes shining with something warm and unbearable, something Wednesday did not have the capacity to name.

And she—

She did not regret it.

Back in her dorm, the plushie sat at the foot of her bed.

Wednesday stared at it.

It was mocking her.

That ridiculous, soft-bodied thing with its beady, lifeless eyes.

A cruel joke. Mocking her of her surrender, of her growing vulnerability.

She was still staring at it when the door opened.

"Wednesday?... Did Y/N give it to you?"

Wednesday turned to her, brow furrowing slightly.

"What kind of question is that?"

Enid shifted on her feet, fingers fidgeting with the hem of her sweater.

"Who else would have the audacity to give me something like this?" Wednesday added, crossing her arms.

Enid’s lips pressed together.

"And even if someone else did, do you truly believe I would accept something this absurd from anyone other than Y/N?"

A pause.

A long, suffocating pause.

Then—

Enid forced a small smile.

"Yeah… yeah, you’re right."

She glanced at the plushie once more, an unreadable look flickering across her face before she sighed.

"I'm sleeping in Yoko's room tonight," she said suddenly. "Um… call me if you need anything, okay?"

Wednesday tilted her head slightly.

"Why?"

Enid hesitated. Then, she shook her head.

"No reason. Just… I think I should."

She turned to leave.

Wednesday watched her go, something unsettling curling in her stomach.

The door clicked shut. Wednesday turned her gaze back to the plushie.

It sat there, unmoving.

She narrowed her eyes at it.

Then, slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing against the fabric.

Soft.

She scowled.

And yet, she did not move it.

She wasn’t sure she ever would.

Wednesday awoke to the feeling of something watching her.

For a brief second, her instincts sharpened, body stiffening against the mattress as her mind prepared for an unseen threat. Her eyes snapped open right to the source of the threat.

The scorpion plushie.

It looked… smug.

Wednesday scowled. "What?" she almost asked, but she bit her tongue, pressing her lips into a thin line.

She wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t about to speak to an inanimate object.

With a slow exhale, she sat up. She knew what day it was.

Not because she had been keeping track of the dates, but because of you. Because whatever ridiculous Valentine’s tradition was set for today, she knew without a doubt that you would follow it.

And she—

She would not be able to refuse you.

And worst of all?

She didn't want to refuse you.

And now, sitting beside you, on the wooden bench tucked away near the greenhouse, she had to ask "What tradition do you have today?"

You blinked, taken aback, before breaking into soft laughter.

"You’re seriously asking that?"

Wednesday rolled her eyes.

"I suppose I should prepare myself before it hits me out of nowhere."

You giggled again, "Promise Day. Today is Promise Day."

Wednesday hummed. That seemed… easy enough. She could not recall a single promise she had made in her lifetime, but if that was the tradition for today, surely there was nothing too outrageous you had in store.

"So," she asked, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. "What do you have planned?"

You smiled.

But this time—

This time, Wednesday saw it.

The sadness behind it.

"Hmm," you hummed, looking down at your hands. "I did have it planned, to promise you—" your voice softened, "to be yours forever, to be with you forever, to love your darkness and all, to die for you and all, but I think you would puke from that, so…"

You looked up at her again, eyes gentle, expression unreadable.

"I promise to… live for you."

Wednesday stared.

"Live for me?" she echoed, voice quieter than she intended.

You nodded, a small, knowing smile playing at your lips.

"Yeah. I probably would."

Wednesday didn’t know what to say.

Live for her.

It was a statement she didn’t fully understand.

Dying for someone had always been the more poetic sentiment, had it not? The ultimate sacrifice, the ultimate declaration of devotion. But living for someone?

That was… heavier. More... terrifying.

"You haven’t made any promises to anyone before, have you?" you asked, tilting your head slightly, studying her with those eyes that always saw too much.

Wednesday shook her head.

"Promises feel… vulnerable," she admitted.

She never liked owing people anything.

"I’ll make it easy for you, then."

You turned fully to her, your eyes searching hers, locking onto them in a way that made her feel trapped yet unwilling to break free.

"Just promise me one thing," you said.

She inhaled, steady, controlled.

"What is it?"

Your voice was quiet when you spoke again.

"Promise to remember me forever."

Wednesday’s breath caught in her throat.

It was such a simple request.

So simple, and yet—

Something about it unsettled her.

Remember you forever?

She already knew she would.

Even if she had never promised it, even if you had never asked, even if the years passed and you drifted away, Wednesday knew—

She would remember you.

For the rest of her days.

She looked at you then, really looked at you, and for the first time, she felt as though she could not move, could not breathe, could not think— all she could do... was nod.

"I promise."

Wednesday had endured many things in her life—pain, loss, the unrelenting presence of insipid social interactions.

But nothing tested her patience quite like the traditions you insisted on following this week.

Not that she was complaining. Not that she would ever complain about you.

Hug Day had been unnecessary.

You had hugged her before—more than once. The first time had been abrupt, unexpected, and Wednesday had frozen like a marble statue, uncertain of what to do with herself. Since then, you had learned not to expect reciprocation, but that never stopped you from wrapping your arms around her. It was infuriating how you always found an excuse—whether it was a casual farewell, a moment of comfort, or simply because you felt like it.

So, Wednesday dismissed Hug Day as redundant.

But then?

There was "Kiss day".

Your lips were on hers.

The graveyard was silent, save for the whisper of the wind through the skeletal branches of nearby trees.

You had kissed before too, albeit rarely. Once, when emotions had overwhelmed you both. Another time, when you had stolen one on impulse, grinning against her lips before pulling away. Wednesday had tolerated it, even if her pulse had betrayed her each time.

But today?

It was reckless.

It was utterly inappropriate.

And that's why, it was perfect.

Wednesday had never imagined herself indulging in such foolishness, but if there was ever a way to win her over, you had found it. Grave digging to set the mood? You understood her in ways others never could.

The ghosts of this graveyard were probably awkwardly witnessing the entire ordeal.

Wednesday didn’t care.

She wasn’t going to stop.

Your lips tasted like roses and vanilla.

How was that even possible?

She didn’t know, and she didn’t care. Because whatever it was, it was addicting. When you pulled back, your breath ghosting against her lips, you giggled, and the sound shot straight through her.

“We should probably run before security comes in,” you whispered, amusement laced in your voice.

You didn’t wait for her response.

You simply took her hand, fingers lacing through hers, and ran.

And, God help her, she let you.

It was nearly 3 a.m. She and you had barely made it back inside undetected, skillfully avoiding any patrolling staff or wandering students, especially with you by her side, suppressing your giggles. She had ignored your teasing, had merely shot you a sharp look before slipping through the entrance, not bothering to check if you followed because she already knew you did. You always did.

When she finally reached her dorm, she was careful as she turned the knob, pushing the door open just enough to slip inside without a sound. But the moment she stepped in, she halted.

Enid was awake.

She was standing on her side of the room, her arms crossed, her eyes wide and glassy. She looked… angry. Or maybe distressed. Wednesday couldn't quite tell.

“Where the hell have you been?” There was no teasing lilt, no dramatic flair, no usual exaggeration Enid often used when scolding her. It was raw. Unfiltered. Desperate.

Wednesday narrowed her eyes, “I was with Y/n.”

She thought that would be enough.

It wasn’t.

Enid sighed, the kind of sigh that came from deep within, like she had been holding something in for too long and now it was spilling out in a single breath. Wednesday didn’t like it. Not one bit.

But Enid didn’t say anything else.

She just turned away, muttering a quiet “Goodnight,” before climbing into bed, pulling the blankets over herself without another word.

For a long moment, Wednesday stood there, staring at the lump of her roommate beneath the sheets, her mind working through a hundred different possibilities. But Enid had already curled away from her, body tense, and Wednesday had no patience for dealing with that now.

Something about the whole exchange sat wrong with her.

But she was too tired to push for answers.

The next morning, she awoke with an excruciating pounding in her skull.

Her first thought was to blame you.

After all, this was your fault. If you hadn’t dragged her into that entire graveyard escapade, she wouldn’t be in this state. But the moment that thought crossed her mind, she dismissed it. Because, realistically, she had let herself go with you.

She had let herself kiss you.

She had let herself enjoy it.

And now here she was, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, her temples throbbing, her body weighed down by exhaustion, her head filled with thoughts she didn't have the patience to analyze.

She groaned, pressing her fingers to her forehead.

This headache needed to be dealt with.

She sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed, glancing around the room. Enid’s bed was empty.

Weird.

Enid was rarely up before her. The girl had a terrible habit of sleeping in, only dragging herself out of bed when absolutely necessary. But this morning, she was already gone.

Wednesday didn’t dwell on it.

She had other priorities.

Today was the cursed day.

Valentine’s Day.

She wasn’t sure what you had planned, but she knew you had something planned. You wouldn’t let this day pass by without doing something ridiculous, without showering her in affection she never asked for but didn’t hate.

Once dressed, she stepped out, making her way toward the infirmary.

Pain wasn’t something she feared. She had endured worse things than a simple headache. But headaches were bothersome and if there was one thing she despised, it was being in a bad mood and unintentionally taking it out on you. And today was special to you. She didn’t want to taint it with unnecessary irritability.

The school was already bustling with activity. Students roamed the corridors, their chatter laced with excitement, their hands holding flowers, chocolates, small wrapped gifts. Decorations had been put up—heart-shaped banners, pink and red ribbons, utterly nauseating displays of romance.

Wednesday ignored it all, making her way toward the infirmary, her mind already calculating the fastest way to get what she needed and leave before anyone attempted to drag her into their mindless festivities.

She turned the corner, reaching the infirmary doors—

And then she stopped.

Through the small gap in the door, she saw them.

Her parents.

Standing inside the infirmary.

Her stomach twisted, something sharp and cold curling in her chest.

What the hell were they doing here?

They never visited without warning, without reason.

And they weren’t alone.

Principal Weems was there, Eugene was there too, his expression tense. Bianca stood near him, her usual confident and smug expression absent.

And then there was Enid.

She had been crying.

Wednesday’s stomach twisted at the sight.

“—she’s been like this for too long,” Principal Weems said, her voice softer than usual. “We ignored it at first, thinking it would pass, but clearly, it hasn’t.”

“She’s always been prone to obsession,” Morticia’s voice followed, carrying the usual elegance, but beneath it was something else. Concern. Worry. “We thought it was just her nature, but…”

“This is different,” Weems murmured. “It’s unhealthy.”

Unhealthy? Wednesday’s brows furrowed.

"Not surprising," Bianca added, arms crossing over her chest. "Have you ever tried reasoning with Wednesday? She doesn’t let go of things. Even when she should.”

Something in her tone made Wednesday's stomach twist unpleasantly.

“She doesn’t remember,” Eugene spoke up, his voice softer than the others, hesitant.

“She won’t remember unless she chooses to,” the doctor’s voice chimed in, steady and clinical. “It was the pain’s doing—not the physical pain, but the mental one. Trauma can manifest in many ways, but in her case… she rewrote the narrative entirely.”

Rewrote?

“We should have intervened earlier,” Weems admitted “I saw the signs, but I thought—”

“None of us knew how bad it would get,” Bianca interjected. “We all thought… she just needed time."

Time for what?

Morticia let out a quiet sigh, “My poor raven…”

“What do we do?” Enid’s voice felt like she was about to break down. “She’s my best friend, but I can’t keep watching her like this. I just can’t.”

“She needs to understand the truth,” Weems said. “She needs to accept it.”

There was a long silence, then Gomez spoke, his voice heavier than she had ever heard it.

“She won’t be able to,” he said. “Not when it comes to Y/n.”

Something inside Wednesday snapped.

She pushed the door open with more force than necessary, the sudden intrusion making everyone jump.

“What on earth are you talking about?” she demanded, her dark eyes narrowing as she took in every guilty, startled expression. “What about Y/n?”

Morticia stepped forward instinctively, her features soft with something resembling sympathy. “Cara mia, you need to—”

“I will slaughter every single person in this room without any remorse if you don’t tell me right now what the hell you’re talking about.”

The room fell silent.

Enid let out a sharp, broken breath before her face crumpled. Her tears fell freely now as she shook her head, her hands balled into fists.

"Why, Wednesday?" her voice cracked. “Why don’t you get it? Why can't you move on?! She was my best friend too!" She sucked in a breath, her voice shaking. "It hurts me too! Just as much as it hurts you. I try to move on, I try so hard, but you—” Her voice broke, her whole body trembling. "You keep bringing it back..."

Move on?

Wednesday’s head throbbed, the pain behind her skull intensifying.

“What are you blabbering about, Sinclair?” she snapped, taking a step forward, but Enid didn't step back.

Wednesday’s vision blurred for a second, a sharp pain stabbing through her skull. Her hands flew to her temples, trying to steady herself.

“Stop,” she gritted out, but Enid wasn’t done. She moved to Eugene, snatching a piece of paper from his trembling hands before shoving it into Wednesday’s grip.

“Then look,” Enid whispered.

Wednesday stared at the paper in her hands. Slowly, hesitantly, she turned it over.

It was a picture.

Wednesday stared at it.

The room around her didn’t exist anymore.

A picture taken on Chocolate Day, the day they had all gone to the theme park. She remembered asking Eugene to take it. She remembered standing beside you, close enough to feel your warmth, your presence.

But—

You weren’t in it.

Wednesday’s breath caught.

You had been there. She knew you had.

She remembered your laughter, the way you had smiled at her just before the picture was taken.

But in the photo, there was only her.

She was standing there, alone.

Her hands started shaking.

A sharp, white-hot pain struck her head, forcing her to clutch her temple, her vision blurring at the edges. And then—

A flash.

Your smile.

Your touch.

Your hands in hers.

And then—

Blood.

So much blood.

You.

Bleeding.

On the road.

No

No

She was just with you last night.

You kissed her.

She felt you.

Her breathing hitched, uneven, ragged.

Wednesday gasped, her knees nearly buckling as she clutched at her head.

"Ugh," she hissed, squeezing her eyes shut.

Memories.

They were flooding in too fast, unraveling, slipping through her fingers like grains of sand.

This wasn’t right.

None of this was right.

Someone reached for her—Morticia, maybe—but Wednesday staggered back.

No.

No, she couldn’t be here.

She needed—

She needed to find you.

Without another word, she turned and ran.

Wednesday ran.

The corridors of Nevermore stretched endlessly before her, dark and empty, but she didn't care. Her breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, but she didn't slow down. She couldn't.

You were waiting for her.

Somewhere in this cursed school, you were there.

The Weathervane. The scent of coffee and rain hanging in the air. Your hand in hers, fingers curled so delicately, so warmly around her own. You had smiled, eyes glimmering with something soft, something she never understood back then.

"Promise me something?" you had said.

She could hear her own voice, steady, unwavering, always so sure. "That depends on what you ask."

"Just remember me. Forever."

Wednesday had scoffed, rolling her eyes. "As if I could ever forget you."

The pain in her skull, the way her vision blurred at the edges—none of it mattered. She just had to get to you. She had to see you.

You, standing beside her at the crosswalk. It was late. The street was empty, save for the occasional flicker of headlights in the distance. She had been looking at you instead of watching the road. You were looking back, smiling at her.

The walking signal turned green.

You took a step forward. She took a step forward.

Your fingers tightened in hers. The light breeze had ruffled your hair, and the city lights reflected in your eyes. You looked—

Beautiful.

Headlights.

She saw it coming from the corner of her eye, but you didn’t.

Wednesday felt her heart lurch, felt the impossible, horrifying force of something being torn from her grasp.

Your hand wrenched out of hers.

The sound of flesh hitting metal. The sickening crunch of bone.

And then—

Flowers.

So many flowers.

Crimson seeping into the petals, staining the sidewalk in a bloom of red.

Wednesday gasped, her knees nearly buckling as she turned the corner, her body screaming at her to stop, to slow down, to breathe.

But she couldn’t.

No.

No, you were here.

You had to be here.

She would find you.

The greenhouse came into view.

The door was already slightly ajar, a soft golden glow spilling out into the night.

Her pulse pounded.

She stepped inside.

And there you were.

You were kneeling beside the roses you planted for her, fingertips grazing over the petals with the same delicate care you had always possessed. Your lips curled into a small smile as you glanced up at her, as if nothing had changed, as if nothing had ever happened.

"Help me water the roses, Wednesday," you said, tilting your head.

Her throat tightened.

She didn't speak, didn't ask, didn't demand an explanation—she simply moved.

She picked up the watering can, stepping beside you. She poured. Water spilled over the petals of a black and red rose, dark like ink, deep like blood.

Finally, you dusted your hands against your skirt and looked at her.

And she—

She looked at you.

Her throat ached. “You’re here.”

“Of course I am,” you said. “You found me, didn’t you?”

Wednesday exhaled slowly, carefully. “I always do.”

"Even when I’m gone?"

Something twisted in Wednesday’s stomach. "You’re not gone."

You exhaled softly. "Wednesday…"

"You’re here," she cut in, her jaw tightening. "You’re right here."

Your expression softened, something unbearably sad settling into your features. "I’m sorry."

She hated that.

Hated the way you said it like this was your fault, like you had done something wrong.

"Don’t apologize."

You let out a small, hollow laugh. "Still stubborn as ever, huh?"

"You always liked that about me." She said.

"I still do." There was something about the way you looked at her that made her feel—

Like the world had stopped spinning.

Like time had folded in on itself, just to give her these few stolen moments with you.

Like nothing outside of this greenhouse mattered.

And yet—

Something inside her twisted.

She clenched her jaw, trying to steady herself. “Why?”

Your eyes softened. “Why what?”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Why do you keep leaving me?”

Silence stretched between you for a moment. You hesitated, then reached out, your fingers ghosting over her wrist before pulling back, like you weren’t sure if she would let you.

She hated that.

She caught your hand, gripping it tightly.

You looked at her, something unreadable flashing across your face.

“I never wanted to leave,” you whispered.

Wednesday swallowed.

“You—” she exhaled sharply, her voice unsteady, weak. She hated it. “You made a promise to me.”

“I did.”

“To stay.”

“I know.”

Wednesday’s chest ached. “You broke it.”

You were quiet.

Her grip on your hand tightened. “You left me.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“That doesn’t matter,” she snapped. “You did.”

"Wednesday…"

She refused to look away.

If she looked away, you might disappear.

You took a step forward.

She stayed perfectly still.

"You’ve always been so strong," you whispered. "Stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. But even the strongest people need to let go sometimes."

Her throat tightened. "I don’t want to let go."

"I know." You smiled, but it was laced with sadness. "But you have to."

"No."

"Wednesday…"

"No!" Her voice cracked, her fingers twitching at her sides. "I don’t— I don’t want to move on. I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and have you be gone—"

"You won’t forget me," you interrupted, reaching up, your fingers brushing lightly against her cheek. "You’ll never forget me. 

She shuddered under your touch, something inside her cracking open.

She had spent weeks—months—pretending, denying, refusing to see what had been in front of her all along. She had forced herself to hold onto you so tightly that she never realized—

You were never really there.

Not anymore.

She clenched her jaw. “Are you—” her voice wavered, breaking before she could stop it. “Are you real?”

You smiled.

“I am real, as long as you want me to be.”

Your hand was warm against her skin. She closed her eyes and leaned into the touch before she could stop herself.

She didn’t want to stop herself.

The warmth of your touch.

The soft press of your fingertips.

The headache that had been suffocating her, dulled into nothingness.

The ache in her chest, the suffocating weight—gone.

She had been drowning for so long.

But now, just for a moment, she felt like she could breathe.

Wednesday inhaled sharply, eyes locking onto yours.

You were still smiling at her. Still looking at her like she was something precious, something worth remembering.

And for the first time in what felt like forever—

She let herself smile back.

“So,” you murmured, your voice soft, teasing, familiar. “How do you want to spend Valentine’s Day, Woe?

[Author's note: Yeah, I know, don't hate me for this. The first version had an even sadder ending than this lol, Sooo, how was this Valentine's angst?]

Taglist: @rqizzu @sevyscoven @kingoftheracoons @kingofthings2 @masterofpuppets-10 @alexkolax @ognenniyvolk@mally-ka@protozoario@machyishere@freakshow2501@101rizzlrr @casbrawel @jinxslapdog @just-zy @gray-cheese @hellenheaven @blue-because-no-yellow @thyhooligans

(I kinda lost which taglist was for which sorryyyy. If you guys don't wanna be tagged in one-shots, inform me, I don't mind. I am gonna make another post for the a better taglist based on your preferences in the future.)

[fuckyeahisawthat]

who decides the future of hextech?

Hot take: I don't think Hextech functions like a scrappy tech startup at all. I know the Arcane writers have made this comparison themselves, but it doesn't really track with what we see in the show.

It's made pretty clear that Jayce and Viktor have at best limited control over what direction Hextech goes in. In a city that's hostile to and suspicious of magic, they need the continued goodwill of the Council, and the wealthy families who sit on the Council, for their work to continue to exist at all. And that shapes how Hextech develops.

For the first 6-10 years of its existence (however long you think the S1 timeskip is), Hextech consists of one (1) project: the Hexgates. A major piece of international transit infrastructure, utilizing a brand-new technology that no one knew was even possible a few years earlier, and requiring a massive financial outlay for construction years before seeing any profits. Frankly, taking that from the very first shaky proof of concept to a fully functioning piece of infrastructure in less than 10 years is astonishing. This isn't like inventing Facebook; this is equivalent to creating the internet itself.

An infrastructure project on the scale of the Hexgates could be entirely state-funded (and therefore state-controlled, answering to the Council). But from the dialogue and visual storytelling, I think it's reasonable to infer that Hextech functions more like a public-private partnership.

In the modern era, PPPs have come to be associated with privatization and neoliberal capitalism. But funding infrastructure development this way was common in the 19th century too, closer to the time period from which Arcane draws its steampunk-ish inspiration.

So who's picking up the tab? I think it's some combination of government funding from the Council and private funding from Mel Medarda and the Kirammans.

We see one other Kiramman-funded infrastructure project in the show: the Undercity ventilation system.

And, as we see in that case, what may seem like a purely benevolent investment for the good of the city as a whole comes with a very high potential for control. (And where do the Hexgate plans end up at the end of the show? In the Kiramman family vault, accessible only with the Kiramman key.)

The Kiramman family crest is all over Hextech at Progress Day. It's prominent on the stage when Jayce speaks, positioned as equal to his own House.

Cassandra Kiramman introduces Jayce's speech, and Jayce gets trotted around the Kiramman family tent like a show pony beforehand.

The Kiramman crest is also on the box containing the hexgems, which makes me suspect that the facility needed to process the gemstones is either owned or financed by the Kirammans.

Mel's influence is more subtle. There's no Medarda crest on anything associated with Hextech; once you learn a bit about Mel's relationship with her family, that is not surprising. But clearly Mel feels comfortable speaking to other investors on behalf of Hextech, without feeling the need to run it by Jayce or Viktor first.

I think this exchange implies that (1) getting additional, outside investors is something new that they haven't done to finance earlier rounds of Hextech development, and (2) Mel is planning ahead in case the Council doesn't like the direction Hextech is going next and they need to secure additional funding.

I wouldn't be surprised if Mel was the one who steered them toward shipping and long-distance trade as a marketable use for Hextech in the first place, something many of the councillors seem to have an economic stake in.

Throughout this whole scene with Jayce and Mel, the Hexgate model sitting on her desk is very prominent. It's the first thing we see in the scene; the color and lighting make it stand out; and it appears in the frame in multiple shots. It's the thing that's always there between them.

Mel and Cassandra Kiramman are also councilors, and along with Heimerdinger they are Hextech's main allies on the Council--3 out of 7. Jayce and Viktor really can't afford to piss off any of them...which gets complicated when they want opposite things.

At the time of Progress Day, Hextech is at a turning point.

This conversation implies that they have not had a lot of freedom to develop and build whatever they wanted in the years during the timeskip. It's an interesting reversal of the dynamic we saw from them in 1.02 and 1.03. This time Jayce is the one forging ahead, confident they can get what they want, while Viktor is the one pointing out obstacles. (This is also the first time we see Viktor's face post-timeskip and register how much sicker he's become, which...oof.)

Regardless of how much they talk about "bringing magic to the people," I think it's notable that both their little spiels focus on how these inventions would increase worker productivity. This is a presentation designed for people who are thinking about their bottom line. And they seem to expect that any new developments with Hextech will have to be given Council approval before they can proceed.

(I think all of this puts the Hexcore in a slightly different light, too. It's quite possibly the first Hextech device since Jayce's original prototype that they've built without thinking about the pitch meeting. It's not a single-purpose object with an immediate, obvious use. In the beginning, it seems to recapture some of that original sense of wonder and discovery. And Viktor built it. I can see how he would be protective of his creation even before things Got Weird with it.)

And then, of course, everything goes off the rails. The gemstone gets stolen; Jayce gets pulled onto the Council. And after that point, every new Hextech object that Jayce makes is a weapon.

Jayce and Viktor's arc can be read as a story about the hubris of scientists thinking they can control forces they don't understand and anticipate every possible consequence, or a story about their naivete in thinking they could keep their research somehow above politics in a world full of conflict. And it's not not about those things. But it can also be read as a story about how discovery, creativity, and people's natural altruistic impulses get constrained by capitalism, and how often innovation is only valued if it can be made to serve war or profit.

(As for who controls the future of Hextech after the end of the show? With Viktor, Jayce, Mel and Heimerdinger all gone from Piltover...Caitlyn, probably. A detail I would love to see someone use in a fic.)

[nchlsdmn]

Full Plot of the Cancelled Sith Shrine arc from Star Wars The Clone Wars: Season 8

The plot of this arc was repurposed in Star Wars Rebels, when Ezra and Maul merge Holocrons together – as well as for the Sith temple on Malachor. The design for the temple and the wasteland where the swords are impaled in the ground were all concepts that were created for Star Wars: The Clone Wars, but were later reused in Star Wars Rebels; and the Sith temple which was supposed to be located deep beneath Coruscant became a planet of its own instead of Malachor.

Yoda gets lured by Sidious like he did in Season 6 when he was messing with Yoda’s mind. Palpatine activates the temple and the disturbance in the Force lures Master Yoda. Additionally, Sidious partially messing with Yoda’s mind, since he knew that Yoda was likely the only one who had an idea of what was to come.

Sidious wanted Yoda to open a Holocron for him, but Yoda refuses, so he decides to hold Yoda hostage and to have other Jedi come down in an attempt to rescue him. The plan was for the other Jedi to open the Holocron for Sidious instead, in order to free Yoda in exchange. Ahsoka realizes this, and went to inform the Jedi that chasing after Yoda was wrong because it was a trap. Sidious would have also tried to sacrifice Yoda because in ancient times, the Sith used to sacrifice Jedi on altars.

Sidious wanted a Jedi Holocron – which Ahsoka would have then secured and returned back to the vault, and she would seal the door shut with her lightsaber while Sidious was on the other side shooting lightning at her. This would be her only glimpse at Sidious, even though she didn't exactly know who he was.

The Geonosians were utilized by Dooku in order to look for the temple itself. Sidious and Dooku didn’t know where it was but Sidious heard about it, so they had to find it first. The Jedi also need to use the Geonosians as guides, because the Geonosians being creatures that live in catacombs and depths by nature, were useful. The Jedi then free Poggle in order to tell them where all of those Geonosians were going (the Geonosians used by Dooku).

The Temple had kaiju-like monsters called "protectors." They lived in the depths and had moved to those caves to live in them. After a while they started acting as custodians or protectors of the ruins beneath the surface. The Jedi had to get past them in order gain access. Their role in the story was more so for lore-building rather than vital to the plot itself.

The Sith temple was only one. But still underground, just above the surface of the buried Sith temple there would have been both Sith and Jedi architecture sometimes even mixed together testifying how the Jedi had gradually started building on top of more ancient Sith ruins and ended up "overwriting" the history of those locations by imposing Jedi architecture and Jedi culture that concealed or sometimes even destroyed past Sith architecture.

This would have also shown the battle that happened between the Sith and the Jedi, so it had more than simply a cultural relevance. The whole plot and theme of the arc was similar to the ruins of Mar in the Jak and Daxter franchise where the ruins of Mar are buried deep beneath Haven City and the city was built on top of it.

The Jedi would have also used capsule-like vehicles to descend deep beneath the surface because they had trouble descending in Level 0. The main Jedi accompanying Ahsoka were Anakin and Obi-Wan. There would have been scenes where Plo Koon, Kit Fisto, Mace Windu, Ki-Adi Mundi appear – but the main ones involved are Anakin, Obi-Wan and Ahsoka.

The reward for mixing Darkside arts and the knowledge contained in a Jedi Holocron was similar to what Ezra and Maul obtained in Star Wars Rebels, although at the time when they wrote the Sith Temple arc, they had decided that the reward for mixing Darkside and Lightside was a vision of the future – and Sidious wanted to see the future to know if his enemies would be defeated and if his schemes would actually come to fruition, or if he had to retrace his steps and change some things and to see how his enemies would have reacted.

As far as how the arc ended – the Jedi rescue Yoda, Poggle returns to Dooku (hence his return in ROTS), and the Temple would have been destroyed similar to what happens in Star Wars Rebels with Malachor. The Jedi decide to keep the matter a secret -- even from other Jedi who didn’t know – because the fact that the Darkside of the Force was so close to them, and they never noticed or sensed it would make the Jedi look weak.

Also, according to them – in the end it was better that the temple was destroyed because the Jedi had the mindset that the Darkside has nothing to offer them or to show them, so it’s better off if it was destroyed and buried forever. But this would leave Master Yoda disturbed because it meant that their enemies were much much closer than they had initially realized.

Ahsoka would have "returned" to the Jedi, but she would have acted as a sort of "external informant" on their behalf for some time; and this is where her role comes into place with this arc – because she would have investigated in the lower world and found out where Master Yoda was taken. In the original intentions for the show, Ahsoka was not so sour with the Jedi after she left them.

Anakin initially is upset that Ahsoka left to begin with, but by the end of the arc, he accepts that Ahsoka made her own decision, a nod to Obi-Wan's wise words in the Utapau arc: "She made the decision..." Ahsoka doesn't fully commit to the Jedi until the Siege of Mandalore arc, which is where she joins with Rex and the 332nd.

Unrelated, but one element that was removed from Dark Disciple is Ahsoka's role, because in the original version, Ahsoka still held a close relationship with the Jedi despite being outside the order; and she would act as an external informant or agent for the Jedi when the Jedi themselves were limited by their own morality or code. So the Jedi would have gotten Ahsoka to contact Ventress for the job they wanted Ventress to do for them (assassinate Dooku with Quinlan Vos) because they thought Ventress would be more open to listening to Ahsoka and also because Ahsoka lived in the underworld so she could find out Ventress’s location at the time and approach her.

[literary-illuminati]

2025 Book Review #10 – meat4meat (ed. Gray Levesque)

This is I think the first book I have ever read before it was published – as of posting the crowdfunding campaign is still ongoing! - so it’s a fun novelty to be able to say that I received an early copy of this book in exchange for an honest review. The book itself is also – well okay no, ‘fun’ is probably not actually the correct word, but it’s a body horror collection that succeeded at making me physically queasy at several points so it’s an unqualified artistic success in at least one dimension.

meat4meat is a short story horror anthology – specifically body horror, extra specifically body horror as written by trans and disabled authors (to quote the marketing copy, ‘by those who know it best’) – properly speaking it is an illustrated anthology, but that art wasn’t ready for inclusion in the copy I read, so I’ll stick to talking about the writing. Within the very vague remit the book sets out for itself, there’s no real unifying theme or much of a throughline between the eighteen stories included. They’re all very much short stories – I don’t think any were over twenty pages? - and flipping between them is a study in serial whiplash. Writing style, subject matter, thematic concerns and perspectives, even just conceptions of what ‘body horror’ means all vary drastically from story to story.

To be clear, I consider this a huge positive – it’s an anthology that really lives up to the potential of the medium, and makes an honest effort of capturing the diversity of perspective that’s pretty clearly part of the artistic project here. It also just keeps the reading experience from ever dragging or getting monotonous – if I do not vibe with one author (as is inevitable with these things), there’s a dozen and change others with entirely different takes on the subject. Even if it is somewhat grating to have one story use different paragraph breaks and spacing from the next.

I’m on record as often being pretty annoyed with how ‘horror’ as a genre label is used in books these days – which is to say how often it ends up being life-affirming tales of togetherness and found family but cast from the universal monsters catalogue – so for the sake of consistency I should really praise meat for really living up to the genre label. Even the stories happily framed from the perspective of something monstrously inhuman and happy about it are more than fucked up enough to still be compelling reading.

I’m also very much on record as thinkingthat horror is far better suited to short stories than novels; the extra length of which seems to bring a pressure towards explaining things and giving neat, validating endings on the one hand and on dragging out the tension past what the reveal can sustain on the other. This book’s an excellent case study of that – most of the stories are bare handfuls of scenes, hitting a particular beat or bit of imagery with as much force as they can; very nearly all of them can be summed up as ‘something really fucked up happens to someone’. Triumphantly happy and reassuring endings are thin on the ground, extended denouncements nonexistent. If anything, there are a couple stories that probably could have used a bit more space to breathe – ending up feeling more like imagery without the connective tissue or context to really make it land – but that’s just the natural tradeoff of the format forcing focus and writing economy.

Speaking of imagery – the book advertises itself as a body horror anthology, and it is not lying. There are several stories I would really recommend skipping if you have a weak stomach (which is, in this context, high praise). There’s also several stories that do take a more symbolic or oblique tack when discussing the ruin and gore they make of the human body (a couple of them are some of my favourites in the whole book), but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that the most memorable by far are the gleefully, explicitly vulgar and carnal ones. Here meant in the most literal sense of being fixated on the mess and meat of your body, the way parts of you can swell and suppurate and rot and burst before your eyes (though there are one or two that leave you acutely aware the only difference between horror and niche erotica is framing and perspective).

The anthology is themed around trans and disabled authors, and it’s really very interesting how different stories lean into that. Some are very literally and directly about e.g. the misery and desperate hope of looking for a doctor who can help you until you’re willing to look past every red flag from one who says they will, others are far more symbolic or metaphorical (or else simply aren’t stories I would have though to view through that lens if they were in any other book). There is little (though not no) body horror in the sense of shocking and gory violence or something directly inflicted upon you by an obvious outside force. Instead it’s the horror of the body being usurped or broken from within, horrifying parasitism, some invisible injury or lack making it impossible to do what is expected of you, or a terrifying transformation that’s only dimly understood as it’s lived through that predominate. There are, unsurprisingly, quite a few stories that are in one way or another about the horror of pregnancy, of some disease or failing leaving you so disgusting as to be exiled from conventional society, or both.

While there isn’t much of a unifying subject or throughline between all the stories in the book, the organization and ordering of them actually does a very good job highlighting similarities between specific pairs or small sets of them. One story that is in some sense about or preoccupied with pregnancy or disfigurement or parasitism or romantic connection will be followed by another with an entirely different setting, plot and subject matter which is still very interested in the same theme. It works very well to give the book a sense of cohesion and structure, and makes some of the stories feel like much more than the sum of their parts.

This is definitely a book for a very specific audience – the kind who will read a first story that starts with strange pupating growths breaking across the narrators chest being described in careful and loving detail, and happily power through as it mostly just escalates from there. But for that audience, I absolutely recommend giving this a try.

In which case, the crowdfunding campaign is still active until March 11th – you can back it here.

[lis-zhuk]

TDL & TCO - fusion

a comic-collaboration with @vulami-wantz-t0-sleep

So... yeah. They can merge for they are very simple organisms (plasmoids).

And while for Internet sticks merging can be dangerous - if they spend too much time merged, their innards and magic (even if they have little to no magical potential) meld into one, making two separated sticks into a creature with two cores; for Animated stickmen (or Hollowheads) it is hard. They mostly consist of magic and are active users of it (staring at you, Second) so they have a greater control over it and are more natural. Also, Hollowheads don't have cores - their cytoplasm is much thicker and membranes are almost impenetrable.

Note: fusions can happen between more than two sticks, but they are difficult to both perform and sustain, they lack stability and the new self is in constant pain.

So for Animated sticks merging is the question of syncing their flows and entering the state of mutual acceptance. Their mind stays two, but they enter a slow dance of balance that creates the third self - "us" of the two. It has consciousness and understanding of itself as two combined. It exists only in the fusion and proactively reacts to whatever its parts are doing.

In a way, fusion is a long magic exchange between two.

Note: Merging with someone can be seen in many ways, from weakness (too weak on one's own) to a making out session

In calm state it's collected and whole, either being a rough merge of the components' personalities and/or reflexes or a whole new person, having only the childish wonder and some critical memories of both of the sticks. When the parts become unstable the fusion feels pain, as their body becomes to split back into two forcefully.

(an old ref for TCL, previously - TOL)

(new TCL concept)

TCL likes being, just being in general. They presumably formed their personality from little bits of both TDL's and TCO's minds. They don't belong to Alan but aren't that different from a usual hollowhead. TCL has high stability and can endure the pain of Dark getting fascinated over a sunset from bird flight's height or enraged by some rando. They can channel all the excessive emotions of the parts into their own. For a short while after the first TCO's and TDL's merge they had halves of their hair swapped, exchanging some powers too. After that they had to force a mana exchange (Dark almost caused a local cataclysm while trying to go on a flight)

Note: TCL most likely uses a different name, like Cataclysm or Hazard. TCL is just a placeholder.

Usually, after the sticks divide, for a short while (while there is mana that didn't divide properly) they can hear their combined self in half-conscious space or have bits of other's memories. As hollowheads keep all the info throughout their whole body (okay im voting for the primitive colony structure, lis can't continue stating that they are unicellular with this stuff going on)

[dreamsy990]

im fascinated by the whole murderbot tv show thing . i know literally nothing abt the series at all but its amusing to watch so many people be all uppity abt mb using it/its pronouns as if thats smth Weird and Bad and Dehumanizing . like nah sometimes u just dont fuck w human concepts of gender . nbd

REAL REAL REAL i did expect this though. people thinking the it/its arent actually preffered was on my bingo card. i guess its just the fact that mb as a character is like a little bit of the archetype of the robot whos actually a person who deserves rights. but also like. its not like murderbot doesnt WANT to be referred to as it. it goes out of its way to make sure people dont perceive it as human in any way shape or form.

foreverrr thinking about the scene in fugitive telemetry where it has to choose a name for itself. and it considers a bunch of human sounding names its gone by in the past. and then it picks the most dehumanizing option possible because it doesnt want people to forget what it is. mb is inhuman and it chooses to be perceived in that way and i LIKE THAT anyways new murderbot fans need to read this exchange from exit strategy

[nemoredraw]

hey! I just wanted to ask how long have you been drawing? Or if you’ve ever gone to art school, because your skills are PHENOMENAL‼️‼️ I’m in love with your comic and any and every art piece that you post<333

Thank you so much! Honestly, I’ve always been better at learning on my own, being self-taught. Although, it’s true that I’ve been drawing my whole life, as far back as I can remember—it’s something that helps me keep my mind occupied.

Here’s a piece of advice I can give you: Observe closely the art that fascinates you and try to understand how it was created—brushstrokes, use of colors, shadows, tones, etc. Try to pinpoint what exactly draws you to that art, take that concept, and apply it to your own drawings. Over time, you’ll start to develop a unique and dynamic style. Eventually, it will come naturally, as the hand has muscle memory (or at least, that’s what I like to believe, haha).

That said, I feel like I can’t give you too much advice because I still have so much to learn myself, hehe.

I would recommend attending an art school, not necessarily for the learning itself, but for the experience and the chance to meet people who are in the same world as you. I can’t guarantee you’ll learn a lot there, but you’ll definitely make connections and exchange skills with other artists, which is always important to stay motivated and continue growing in this field.

It’s also completely normal to feel unmotivated at times or even think your art will never be good enough. Don’t listen to those thoughts; that’s just your imposter syndrome talking. Understand that even great artists go through that, but by overcoming those doubts, they become the incredible creators we admire today.

And thank you for asking me! :) Here’s a little drawing I made recently that I hadn’t shared here before.

[cultureosmosisenjoyer]

This exchange intrigues the hell out of me.

We got Fidelio’s silent death glare after Glodell, and in most of his scenes he’s at minimum a little miffed about whatever’s on his mind that minute. But this is the first time we’ve seen Fidelio’s proper angry about something.

And once we understand him more it’s all clear why this is what set’s him off. Fidelio’s has seen and been through nothing but sacrifice after sacrifice his whole life. People died everyday and himself and those he cared for were permanently scarred just so they wouldn’t starve to death. So seeing someone just deny it outright must feel like a slap to the face for Fidelio. Especially from someone who he views as high up in the world like Hulkenberg, a knight who once served the royal family itself.

There’s there him saying that at least they’re doing what needs to be done. Which is strange thing to agree with when you remember he said this a few moments earlier:

He thinks the dragons fury is supersition, yet still says what I laid above. While we could just chalk this up to Fidelio refusing to agree with Hulkenberg to the point of contradicting himself. But I believe something else is the case for these clashing ideas.

Fidelio holds little value for himself. We see this multiple times in the story, and the mendrandum just states it outright. He’s ready to give himself up for the cause or the people he cares about at the drop of a hat. We know from Junah this is something he and Bas does a lot before our buddy brother boatride with them. So the concept of giving yourself up is something Fidelio is deeply familiar with before hearing the talk at the town square.

I think Fidelio empathizes with Euphas willingness to give up her life to save those she cares for, regardless of the validity of the actual reason, because he is all too ready to do the same himself.

There is also the interesting fact that the last 3 party members are all siblings who deal with sacrifice in some way. Rella sacrifices herself to correct the wrongdoings she was forced into doing. Eupha is ready to sacrifice herself until the party comes along, eventually realizing that she can still protects those she cares about without sacrificing herself. And Basilio only lives because Fidelio would rather die than the alternative.

It would also make me curious how a Del and Eupha conversation regarding this would play out as if Fidelio failed to protect Basilio. With Eupha accepting that she can still live and protect the people she cares about, while Del failed to throw himself in Basilios spot fast enough, he failed to protect the person he cared most for.

[bogleech]

Can we get more on how Fectoids work? Is the microform literally one of the creatures, dissolved into cells and swimming around in your blood until it jumps back out and coalesces again? Do they retain their personalities or any kind of control over their tiny infectious components?

The initial idea of the Fectoids was that they'd begin as a sentient hive-minded viral infection, then all the little viruses would leave their hosts and fuse into one macroscopic monster body. Later I wrote some around an idea that a copy of the monster form would be born from every host, so they'd shift between microbial outbreak and swarm of monsters. All this was a little too tricky to justify for TTRPG mechanics, and I came to feel it complicated the idea of them as Pokemon-like partners.

So my current concept is that when they turn microscopic and infectious, they still have just a single "true" body. Basically they revert back to a parasitic larva and the rest of their biomass breaks down into millions of pathogenic cells. This borrows a bit from two real-world things: parasitoid wasps actually inject symbiotic viruses alongside their larvae to alter the biology of the host, and then there are creatures like the so-called "immortal jellyfish" that revert back to a larva instead of aging to death. They all still have the capacity to become a whole "outbreak," it's just not automatic; they actually need to mate with other Fectoids through spore exchange to make more macrobodies. This just means your Pokemon Partner Fectoid isn't automatically duplicating itself hundreds of times just to use its main ability; narratively, wild Fectoids are still causing zombie plagues and mass monster spawnings.

[bottle-of-harpoons]

Bruv, this took soo fucking long.

New AU dropping, boys.

So basically it's a hybrid between the 'toxic chain/possessed Kieran' AU and the 'Kieran is Ogerpon' AU.

In this AU, the events of the teal mask play out normally.

After Kieran looses his fight to Julianna, he starts hearing a mysterious voice in his head. It starts playing with his insecurities and telling him he needs to be stronger.

"That's why the oger didn't want you as a trainer. You were too weak".

Thanks to the voices advise and 'encouragement', Kieran quickly rises through the ranks of the Blueberry League and becomes champion. However, he also becomes a massive jackass.

The voice tell him that everyone is beneath him. He starts bullying other club members until the point were everyone is too imtimidated by him to hang out with him.

He is distant and aggressive towards the Elite 4. He doesn't even attend meetings and barley does any of his champion responsibilities, causing Amarys and Crispin to step up. Lacey was too busy helping Cyrano with academic duties. Drayton dedicated all his time to helping out the trainers Kieran bullied.

Kieran started skipping classes and dedicated all his time to training. The only person who still talked to him was Carmine.

However, after months of trying to reach out, Kieran finally snapes at Carmine, causing her to retreat from him. After this, Kieran finally realises he is truly alone. But thats when the voice makes a deal with him.

He could continue living his life alone and unloved or he could dawn the mask and start a new life. Kieran takes the mask, not fully understanding the deal. He ends up loosing his human form and turning into an Ogerpon. It is then that the voice reveals itself as Pecharunt and it steals Kieran human life.

Because of Kieran's shitty behaviour, he suspended from the academy for one month and 'Kieran' is sent back to Kitikami.

Kieran is left roaming around the Terrarium, dealing with the fact that he is now a pokemon and a whole fuck load of self esteem issues.

However, he is eventually found by Carmine and the new exchange student, Julianna.

Some notes in this AU -

Kieran isn't evil. He's a young child who needs help and the only people who notice are also children themselves. (Carmines doing what she can but she's still young and inexperienced)

Pecharunt has no control over Kierans actions or emotions. He basically says things to Kieran to encourage his negative thoughts and continue his unhealthy downward spiral.

I didn't explain this earlier but when Kieran put on the Ogerpon mask, he left behind a human mask that represents his human form. Pecharunt is currently wearing it.

Pecharunt wants a family again. He woke up many years later to find the old couple he used to live with had died. He wanted a family again but he wanted to live equally among the humans as well. So he started scheming to steal Kierans human life.

His plan just consists of him manipulating Kierans life until he was completely cut off from his friends and family. Once Kieran has nothing, he could trick Kieran into trading him his human life, then he could rebuild Kieran's life from the ground up.

Kieran's not having fun adjusting to life as a pokemon but he believes it's his punishment for being a dick to everyone.

Juliana's meowscarada is called Verde (haven't figured out what the rest of her team consists of yet). Carmine's mightyanna is called Subarashi (Suba for short), her sinistchi is called Chia, morpeko is Kamu and ninetails is Kyu (I used google translate for this, sorry if they're weird). Kieran's furret is called Shippo and his hydrapple is called Ringo.

Fun fact - This plot concept was taken from an old submas fanfic I started writing but never finished. Short summary was Ingo coming back to modern day Unova but he still has amnesia. His and Emmets relationship becomes very strained. Emmets ends up making a deal with Giratina to help turn him into a zorua and use hi illusion powers to get close to Ingo again. (I may post a full summary of the story one day)

Because of this, in the original draft, Kieran was going to turn into a zorua. I changed it just incase I ever wanted to revisits the old fic. Also I thought it would be funny if he turned into ogerpon.

This was heavily inspired by the Kieranpon au, the possessed Kieran au and the movie 'a whisker away'.

Sorry for any spelling errors. No excuse just can't spell for shit.

[quinloki]

Hiyah,

Finally got the guts to ask for the kinky head canon event.

So i hand you Sir Crocodile (obviously) | Shanks | Thatch

The generator said: tease and denial | body writing? | sir/mistress (but maybe them on the receiving end 😉)

Please 😊

\o/ I love these - and I'm reminded how the generator is setup for writing prompts more than just straight up kink prompts.

Tease and Denial go hand in hand well enough, and Body Writing is a form of sensory play (I actually wrote a Shanks one shot a good while back that was body writing adjacent.)

Sir Crocodile, Shanks and Thatch with Body Writing, Sir/Mistress, and Tease/Denial.

Sir Crocodile:

Body Writing - Yes - He's more into it if you're writing on your own body, vs him writing on you. I think he has great hand writing, but I also feel like he does So Much Fucking Paper Work that the last thing he wants to do during his time with you is write.

But he's not against the kink itself.

So if you want to come to him with your desires wrote upon your skin, he won't complain. Especially if it's a few coy requests and an eventual statement for him to simply "Command Me". After a few minutes of pressing kisses here and there and helping you strip, you can be sure he'll be more than happy to oblige your request.

Sir/Mistress - Oh god you don’t even know - I mean.

SIR Crocodile.

I MEAN. 😅

In more seriousness though, it's less the word "Sir" itself, and more the exchange of power. The Respect that sits on that title is the point. You could call him Master for all he cares. God feels a bit pretentious in his opinion, he's at least humble enough not to desire such a lofty honorific.

But while he's always enjoyed it, his favorite, his absolute favorite, is the way "Sir... please," falls from your lips like drops of tears as you nervously shiver beneath him.

Tease/Denial - Oh god you don’t even know - Oh absolutely. As covered on some other kinks for him (humiliation, post-orgasm torture, references to overstim etc.) he absolutely LOVES the control.

Edging, teasing, denial, overstimulation - it all sits in the same lovely package for him, and what part of it you need to endure can shift within the very moment. Your pleasure, fear, frustration, elation - it is for him to decide.

And if you find yourself thanking him for it, then congratulations - he cares about you.

Shanks:

Body Writing - Oh god you don’t even know - Whole pictures. Full paints. Shanks has a collection of colored body frostings and he will paint entire temporary scenes on you.

Flowers, fields, golden treasures. He'll lick you clean afterward, or enough to indulge at least. He'll have almost as much frosting on himself as there is on you by the time it's all said and done.

Fun, sweet, messy sex, and also the intimate knowledge that there's only one canvas Shanks paints, and no piece of his work is seen except by you.

Sir/Mistress - Yes - Sir, Master, Captain, Bastard - xD Shanks doesn't really care what you call him. He appreciates the concept of Protocols and the things that having rules and such can do to elevate a dynamic between you and him, but it's not an end all be all for him.

Admittedly he really likes to hear you say his name - on the rare occasions you're coherent enough to even say it.

Tease/Denial - FUCK Yes - Oh yes please. He wants you to try and tease and deny him as well. the tension build up, the way the delay of gratification can make it even sweeter when you finally hit that crest.

He loves to hear your pleas, he loves to beg you. He may be in control, but he'll get onto his knees and give you the sweetest words if that's what you want from him. It's all about having fun, there's no rush, there's delight in being made to squirm and delight in making someone squirm.

He's happy to indulge both.

Thatch:

Body Writing - Oh god you don’t even know - It's going to be mostly with frosting, and it's going to be mostly vines and flowers and other standard cake decorations.

At least at first.

But then it's going to be beautifully flowing words. All the sweet things that he thinks of you. All the ways he loves you. It's going to be so romantic you're going to get a cavity from the INTENT and not the frosting.

The way his hands smear it when he can't hold back anymore. The shivered gasp from you as the warmth of his hand crushes the cool flower against your skin.

The terrible embarrassment when one of the crew mentions that Thatch's hand writing has gotten better....

Sir/Mistress - Sure - It's not a bit hot button for him or anything, but he's not against it. He's more likely to refer to you with some manner of honorific in the first place, but if you want to get fancy with him he's not against that.

He might throw it over the top a little bit, but he IS a big ham, so you shouldn't be surprised. Still, in the grand scheme he could take it or leave it, but he's happy to indulge.

Tease/Denial - Oh god you don’t even know - Much like Shanks, he's here to take his time. Not that he won't ever indulge in a quickie, but his preference is definitely to take his time.

Whether that's by forcing orgasm after orgasm, or teasing you until you're begging for relief, or denying you until you're apologizing for slights you didn't even commit - it doesn't really matter. He's not going to make you suffer, not really. Not as much as he could if he really set his mind to it xD

Thatch isn't in it for your suffering, he's in it for the shared pleasure, though maybe more yours than his, but in either case what's important is the time spent together. If some teasing/denial drags out the moment just a little more, he's here for it.

Plus it is cute when you beg him. The pout on your face and the whine in your voice, knowing full well he can't resist you.

How May I Kink Your Head Canon?

[ksadvent]

Not to disturb your summer vibes, but September is here (*screams, part in delight, part in shock*) and this means: K/S Sign-Up is happening!

Schedule for 2024:

Sign-ups and prompt posts: September 1 - 30 Prompt claims and creation period: September 1 - November 20 Works due: November 20 Works revealed (gradually): Dec 1 - 31 The time for all these steps is: 11:59 AM UTC. A quick refresher of our FAQs and rules: FAQs:

Advent Calendar? Is this a Christian event? Do I have to create an X-mas-themed work?

No, K/S Advent Calendar is not a Christian (or, generally, religious) event. There's no denying that the concept of such an annual fannish event in December has its roots in the wide-spread, originally German Lutheran custom of advent calendars (which first appeared in the 19th century), and we do keep the term "advent" in the name, but it is important to us that this fest itself is not tied to any specific religion or culture. December comes with a multitude of holidays, traditions, and days of significance around the world (see this list on Wikipedia, for example), be they secular or religious or even fictional (e.g. Festivus or Hogswatch); all of them can be explored for this fest, as can the topics of end-of-year, New Year, winter, and family gatherings. This is a very wide and varied theme, and we hope there's something for everyone in it, creators and readers alike.

Why does this event take place throughout the whole month of December? Advent calendars have 24 doors.

Because it's fun and we think there can be no better way to end the year (and start the new one) than with the delight that is Kirk/Spock. (Also, not all advent calendars have 24 doors.)

Do I have to be on Dreamwidth or Tumblr in order to take part in this fest?

No, a DW account is not required. We have a community on Dreamwidth and a blog on Tumblr for announcements and discussion, but schedules and important admin posts will always be publicly visible. The only account you really need for this fest is an AO3 account. You are, of course, encouraged to post/link to your work anywhere you like to after its reveal; so if you prefer to share your art, for example, on Twitter or Tumblr for greater exposure, then you can crosspost it there as soon as your work is revealed.

Is this a fic exchange?

No. K/S Advent Calendar is a prompt meme, that means participants will not get matched one-on-one and assigned to a gift recipient as is the case in exchanges. So no one is guaranteed a "gift", but there's also much less pressure on participants. Members sign up and post prompts until the defined deadline (see the schedule). Prompts can be claimed by anyone who has an account on the AO3, and the resulting fanworks need to be posted to the collection until the deadline according to schedule. If you need more detailed information on how a prompt meme works (e.g. how to edit your prompts, where to find your claimed prompts etc), please see this section in the AO3 FAQ.

Do I need to be signed up to claim & fill a prompt? What if I missed the sign-up phase?

Admittedly, the term "sign-up" is a tiny bit misleading. The "sign-up" form is for submitting your prompts; if you would like to claim & fill prompts without submitting a prompt yourself, then you do not need to go through the "sign-up" form. Just browse the list of prompts other fans submitted and use the "claim" button to pick whatever tickles your muse. When you claim a prompt it shows up under "My claims" on the collection profile and under "Claims" on your own dashboard. Use the "fulfil" button to post your work, please. Rules:

1. K/S Advent Calendar is an event for adults as some prompts or fanworks might be mature or explicit. By taking part you confirm that you are 18 or older.

2. The theme of this fest is very wide: December comes with a multitude of holidays, traditions, and days of significance around the world, be they secular or religious or even fictional (e.g. Festivus or Hogswatch); all of them can be explored for this fest, as can the topics of end-of-year, New Year, winter, and family gatherings. The focus of your work should be on the pairing Kirk/Spock or Kirk & Spock. Slash (romantic and/or sexual relationship) and gen (friendship) are equally welcome. K/S has many layers and aspects, and this fest is a celebration of them all. No other pairings will be accepted (mentioning side pairings of other characters is fine, but the focus must be on K/S). If a prompt does not touch the theme of the fest at all, it is up to the person who fills the prompt to include the theme. So if you want to have more say in how this should happen, give a few pointers in your prompt. Otherwise the creator has free rein, barring any DNWs. (So if someone prompts, for example, "spanking in the mirrorverse", without any further details, then someone who claims this prompt will have to include the theme somehow. Maybe it's spanking al fresco, on a snowy planet? Or maybe it's 12 Days of X-mas spanking? Or maybe it's a family gathering on Vulcan that entails ancient customs – and whips and paddles (so, basically canon props)? And there are so many other ways the theme could be included.

3. When we say K/S, we mean: both TOS (series and movies) and reboot; Discovery and Strange New Worlds content is also welcome (let's hope we'll get some K/S-worthy material from these series one day). No RPF, please. AUs and mirror universe are welcome.

4. Crossovers between different Trek franchises or between Trek and other media are permitted if the individual prompt states this or actively invites them.

5. All ratings are welcome in this fest. However, when you fill a prompt please stick to the preferred rating of the prompter (if stated in the prompt).

6. All genres welcome, including darker subjects if the prompter asks for them (as long as DNWs are respected). Use the AO3 warnings if applicable.

7. Prompts can be filled by more than one person. You can even fill the same prompt multiple times – the "fulfil" button will show up on the prompt you claimed even if you have already used it for posting a work before.

8. Participants can fill as many prompts as they want to. You can even fill your own prompt.

9. Please list your DNWs (Do-Not-Wants) in the prompt if you want to avoid certain types of content, e.g. rape or character death or specific tropes. When you submit several prompts, please state your DNWs for each. We kindly ask you to not abuse the DNW system: keep it short and simple, and don't box in your creator. When you fill a prompt, please respect the DNWs listed in the request.

10. All types of fanworks are welcome in this fest: fic, poetry, filks, art, vids, podfic etc. Made a giant cake with life-size Kirk and Spock marzipan figures? Post the photos.

11. Minimum word count for written fanworks is 100 words (exception: poems have no minimum word count). There is no maximum word count. Minimum for art: a doodle or clean sketch (on unlined paper, if you use traditional media); manips are permitted. No banner or icon art, please, unless it accompanies a work of fiction or a podfic. No AI-generated works, be it fic or art, will be accepted!

12. Fanworks in languages other than English are allowed: As this is not a one-on-one gift exchange, but a prompt fest, fanworks in languages other than English are absolutely permitted and welcome! Each prompt can inspire a wide variety of fanworks, and as long as you respect the DNWs and the maximum rating of the chosen prompt, it’s all fine!

13. For K/S Advent Calendar, the works will be gradually revealed, at least one per day, hopefully even more than one if there are enough submissions. There is no anon period, but we ask you to not blabber about your work on social media before it appears in the collection. As soon as your work is revealed, you can link or re-post it anywhere you want to. While your work is in the queue and waiting for its scheduled day to go live, it will be marked as "awaiting approval by the mod". Fear not, this is just part of how the gradual reveal that is key for an advent calendar works. Please note that the AO3 keeps the date on which you submitted your work as publication date. When your K/S advent work gets revealed, you can/should update its publication date to its reveal date. Otherwise a work revealed on Dec 20, for example, might carry the publication date Oct 5. Which is not the end of the world and happens in AO3 prompt memes and fic exchanges often, but updating the date will also make your work appear among the recent ones when people search for a pairing or fandom tag. We mods can't do that for you, by the way; updating the publication date of a work is something only its creator can do.

14. Works posted to the collection must be new (created for this fest and unpublished) and complete. No WIPs or placeholder uploads! If you post a work with more than one chapter, it must be complete before the due date.

15. We allow extra works to be posted to the collection: If nothing among the submitted prompts tickles your muse, and if you missed the chance of submitting a prompt that you could have filled yourself, then you can still take part in K/S Advent Calendar by posting the work directly to the collection, without using any "claim" or "fulfil" button. Make sure to put the correct collection name into the appropriate field during the posting process (e.g. for 2024 the collection name is "KS_AdventCalendar2024", without the quote marks), so that the work stays unrevealed until it goes live. We think of these extra works as treats for the whole community. However, please do have a good look at the list of prompts before you choose to take this road. There are such lovely prompts waiting for creators to pick them, and this should take priority over treats.

16. Last but not least: Be courteous to the other participants, act in good faith and assume good faith. For all questions, please contact the mod (DW, Tumblr-Ask, or email: kirkspockmod+ksadvent@gmail.com). We are happy to help!

[workshopwitch]

A New Home for an Old Doll

"Of course, Miss," the doll replied, "thank you for hearing this one out."

It had just been told some very simple rules it must follow if it wished to enter the house. Nothing oppressive, nothing cruel, and certainly nothing unusual. The witch of the house merely wanted the doll to behave as it should. She led the doll to a table in the other room and beckoned another doll to prepare them both some tea.

"Now tell me once more, what brings such a little one to my home?" the witch asked.

"This one was told by another like itself that Miss would take it in if this one asked nicely enough," it said plainly.

The witch smiled and called for the other doll to serve the tea. The doll appeared content with how things were going, though apprehension could be seen hiding behind its eyes.

"Tell me," the witch continued, her voice low and soft, "what do you want from staying here?"

The doll blinked, unsure how to answer. It nervously stammered a sound before answering.

"Th… this one is tired," it said meekly. "Tired of the odd rules of my old house, the cruel way my creator would leave me to the dust and dark."

The witch nodded, hiding her light shock at the worn-down doll's spirited answer. "What then- if I told you that you may stay as long as you wish? Free of dust- as long as you keep up your own share of responsibilities, of course."

The doll blinked back. There was something… odd about this witch — there had to be, at least.

"I would like that, Miss," the doll answered gratefully.

The witch smiled with an expression that made the doll feel as though it had stepped onto a whole new path. Nothing but the unknown ahead for it, for better or for worse. "Then consider yourself welcomed," the witch concluded.

The days passed, and the doll grew accustomed to the new house. It wasn’t cold or dark like its old home. Here, the rooms were filled with light and warmth. Candles and lamps and bright sunshine lit up every room. The air was fresh, welcoming, and… safe.

The second doll, who had served it tea on the day it arrived, became the doll's friend. "My name is Made. That one can call this one that if it wishes," it told the doll. "Maid?" the doll questions before realizing, "That makes sense. If that one did the housework and chores alone before." Made was confused for a moment before the dots connected in its own head, "No! Made! Not Maid!" it exclaimed repeatedly. This exchange went on for quite too long before the witch of the house overheard and came to explain to the doll Made's name. "Made was allowed to choose its own name, and it is very particular about its name," the witch started to explain. She went on to tell the doll how Made came to like the word because it sounded like maid, but wasn't quite maid, as it was Made. The doll had a few questions… but the most important was why Made was allowed to name itself. That was such a strange concept for the doll, but she left that thought to stew at the back of her head for now. For some reason, the sentiment behind that name just made sense to it, but it could not find the words to explain the feeling.

Together, the doll and Made handled the simple chores of the house. The days felt longer, warmer, and more peaceful than they ever had before. The doll began to feel something it hadn’t felt in a long time — comfort. A sense of belonging. The witch, whose name it still hasn't learned, truly was odd like it intuited that first day. She cared for her belongings in a way it thought almost wrong.

The doll never knew it could feel so safe, so… not like it should.

This isn't how a doll should feel. This wasn't right. This one should not be allowed to feel these ways. The doll became scared. Afraid. These thoughts and more tore through its mind. Was it broken? Was Made broken? This isn't how a doll should be, right?

Confused and scared, the doll ran away.