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What is a Husband's Role? - Liyue Girls x Male!Reader

A/N: Exams might be over for me, but now, of course, I got a notice that I have to submit myself to a military assessment, compulsory for all men in their 19th year of life. Wonderful. Anyway, enjoy! CW: None.

Question: Who is a husband to you? What is his role?

Beidou: Well, it's quite simple. Y/N is a tough guy, one that's not afraid of taking the world on his shoulders if need be. He handles things in my absence, keeping the Crux’s land-based businesses afloat. While I don't take him out to sea that much, I'd rather have him well and good just in case, he's more than adequate at running the fleet. Me? Heh, he always has my back. Whenever I drink, he stays sober and makes sure I'm taken care of and back home safely and he keeps my bunk warm at night. He's one hell of a man in the sheets too- Why are you blushing, eh? Not the kind of answer you expected? A gal has her needs, I'll have you know.

discount-supervillain

Uh. Whoops.

discount-supervillain

ex-robin

I ONLY SEE HER AS A FRIEND (BIGGEST LIE I EVER SAID)

Summary: Wednesday was fairly sure that she didn't want to date you, but she was positively certain that she didn't want you to date someone else

CW: Fem!Reader, Jealous!Wednesday, Flirty!Reader, Wednesday being bag at feelings, mutual simping, threats, kissing

andy-15-07

Heyy! I wanted to ask for a female reader, Wednesday's girlfriend.

Where Wednesday falls in love with the reader in Nevermore because the reader has a personality similar to hers, a bit of a psychopath, far from colorful, and calls her "cara mia." I hope you understood, English isn't my first language 🥹

Well and you can add the rest…

tkyy ❤️

Cara Mia

✦ Pairing: Wednesday Addams x Reader

✦ Word Count: 2022

✦ Requests: Open | I’ll gladly answer them 🖤

✦ Wednesday Masterlist

She finds you where she always finds the interesting things at Nevermore , in the library, in the corner where the light is thin and the dust seems to listen. You are halfway through a book of surgical diagrams while balancing a cup of something black and steaming that smells faintly of iron. Your expression is unusually calm for someone reading about arteries splitting like dark rivers.

Wednesday watches you for a long minute before the curiosity becomes a step and then another. Your boots make no sound on the old floorboards. She sits without asking, on the table opposite, one knee hooked over the edge, a book shut across her lap. The two of you create a parallel of contained storms.

“You're reading that for pleasure?” she asks.

You don't look up right away. “I like the geometry of it,” you reply, and your voice is low and even. “Tissues fold so obediently when you know where to cut.”

Wednesday's mouth twitches , possibly a smile. “Educational.”

“Also,” you add, looking up finally, and the silence that follows makes the world compress around your gaze, “it helps me fall asleep. The sections that list instruments are the most reassuring.”

There is a beat of consideration, then: “I understand bedside rituals.”

You lift your cup in a tiny, almost imperceptible toast. “Cara mia,” you say, and there’s a note to it , not mockery, not even tenderness in the usual sense, but a naming that belongs, like setting a rune into place. It fits Wednesday's face like a glove.

The corners of her mouth curl further. “Cara mia,” she says, trying it on, feeling the syllables the way one would test a poison by the tip of the tongue. “Heart of mine. For a corpse that still beats occasionally, you are oddly poetic.”

“I prefer practical poetry,” you answer. “Less enjambment, more precise incisions.”

She likes that, obviously, because she nods.

There are small things, at first , ways you both observe Nevermore as if it is a specimen to be cataloged. You don't laugh at the cracks of the vampires' necks when they sharpen their smiles; you simply note the angles. She appreciates that you correct her Latin sometimes, but with the same soft cruelty she reserves for professors who insist on calling her by her full name. You appreciate how she isn't afraid to tell the truth, even when the truth is a blade.

“People think I'm icy,” you tell her once, while leaning against the gargoyle that stands sentinel behind the greenhouse. It is raining, but Nevermore's rain always smells of lead and old secrets. “They don't realize it's because I'm conserving heat for what matters.”

“What matters?” she asks, and there's a danger in her curiosity; she likes to know what people hoard.

“You,” you say plainly. “And the rest is expendable.”

Wednesday makes a sound that could be delighted or alarmed. “Expendable is an economic word,” she notes. “I like it. How merciful of you.”

At night you walk the perimeter of the school together. Students think you hunt the same shadows and don't understand that the two of you are not hunting them , you're mapping them. When the moon leaks its silver into the courtyard, you tell her stories, small confessions hidden under the guise of anecdotes.

“I used to remove the eyes from dolls,” you say one night, without preamble. “Not because I wanted them blind , because I wanted them to see differently when replaced. There is a satisfaction in altering how something observes.”

Wednesday looks at you as if you're a lab experiment she hadn't expected to work. “Did you ever replace them with other eyes?”

“Once,” you say. “A cat's. It made the doll look like it was planning a coup.”

She laughs , a real, hoarse sound. “I would have kept that doll.”

“You would have taught it chess,” you say. “And then you'd be furious when it beat you.”

She blinks. For a moment, something like affection flickers across her features. “Who taught you to joke so precisely?”

“You did, by example,” you answer. “Often in things you didn't intend as jokes.”

Conversations like that coil around you both, tightening until they become a language of small violences and comforts. You encourage each other in unique habits: Wednesday teaches you pin-sharp sarcasm and deadpan observation; you teach her to read other people's fear like a map, to know paths that would otherwise be invisible. In class, when a boy sparkles and offers her a motley bouquet of neon flowers, you reach across and clip a petal with a pair of surgical scissors you keep tucked in your sleeve.

“Practical,” you murmur.

“Decisive,” she rejoins. “And oddly tender.”

One evening, the school throws a ridiculous masquerade for charity , a whim of the headmistress. You go because curiosity is a compulsion neither of you can ignore. Masks bloom across Nevermore like poisonous flowers. People laugh too loudly at a joke they don't understand.

You appear in black. Your mask is elegant , a folding of shadows around your eyes, simple, almost surgical. Wednesday is a portrait of severe elegance; she could have been carved from bone. You watch each other across the room, and when she crosses to you, the crowd parts as if annoyed by your togetherness.

“You're late,” she tells you.

“You are always on time,” you answer. “Someone has to make sure I'm properly judged.”

She lowers her voice. “You know, a masquerade gives one permission to do cruel things in the name of entertainment.”

You tilt your head. “Do you have something in mind, cara mia?”

Her mouth quirks. “Perhaps removing the masks of those who do not deserve them.”

You take her gloved hand. “Then let's be cruel.”

You don't unmask anyone in the ballroom. Instead you walk the garden, two silhouettes moving through the hedgerows, and when you step into the fountain, both of you drenched from the waist up and perfectly content, the world feels like a plan spontaneously executed.

Wednesday wraps her arms around herself. “Why do you call me that?” she asks suddenly, in a voice that is less certain than she usually allows.

You sit beside her at the fountain's edge, letting the water make ripples that disturb nothing in particular. “Because it fits,” you say. “Because when I say it, it keeps you from being only an icon or a hypothesis. It makes you mine in the same way a map belongs to the cartographer.”

Wednesday stares at you. “Mine,” she repeats. “That is a dangerous word.”

“So is loyalty,” you reply. “But both have their uses.”

She studies your face like a specimen pinned to a board, and then she leans forward. Her forehead touches yours for a fraction of a second , a small, clinical contact, but enough to transmit a current.

“Cara mia,” she whispers this time, unselfconsciously. “You have been most inconveniently necessary.”

“Good,” you say. “I prefer my necessities to be inconvenient.”

The next week, someone in class decides that a good prank is to set the greenhouse on fire. Flames lick the glass and students scream, a sound like breaking twigs. You are the first to move , not because you want to be a hero, but because the idea of plants suffering is a concept you cannot abide. Wednesday follows, and together, hands a blur of practiced motion, you drag pots, douse embers with buckets, and watch the fire retreat like a coward.

After, you sit on the steps, smoke curling around your hair, your lungs full of ash. Wednesday sits too, one boot on a lower step, the two of you absorbing the aftershock in tandem.

“You were reckless,” she says, but there's no reprimand in her voice.

“You were reckless for different reasons,” you counter. “You stepped into the blaze because you needed to prove it wouldn't scare you. I stepped in because it would have damaged a specimen I liked.”

“You like different things,” she points out.

“I like useful things,” you say. “And you are unarguably useful.”

She looks at you like an organism reconsidering its own classification. “Perhaps,” she says slowly, “I am useful because I am dangerous.”

“You are dangerous because you are honest,” you correct. “Danger and honesty are often confused.”

She closes her eyes for a moment. When she opens them, there is something raw in their black depths. “Promise me something, cara mia.”

You incline your head.

“Stay,” she says. “Not because you can't leave,I'd respect the theatrics of your exit,but because if you go, what you leave behind will be less interesting.”

You laugh, a small, private sound. “You're asking me to stay for the enrichment of your life?”

“For both our experiments,” she replies. “There is data to be gathered.”

It is a strange proposal and you accept it because the two of you are strange people who measure time in experiments and confessions. You stay. You keep making small, surgical changes to the world: a lock picked here, a truth revealed there, an enemy's spell altered into a polite suggestion that they reconsider their life choices. Sometimes you bicker , over methods, over semantics, over how much of the darkness to share , and sometimes you are silent together and that silence is fuller than any conversation.

One rainy night, she takes you to the observatory. The glass dome is wet with rain, and the telescope stands like a patient beast. You stand before it together, breathing each other's breath in numbers.

“I like to look at things that are older than us,” she says. “It makes our trivial cruelties feel like they matter less.”

You touch the edge of the telescope, feeling the cold metal. “I like to look at things that are very new,” you answer. “Because they let me plan. Newness is malleable.”

She studies your hand on the metal. “Tell me,” she says, “if I were to decorate the future, how would you prefer it?”

You turn to her fully, the rain painting her lashes with tiny silver tears. For a moment your persona of measured detachment drops like a mask because there is, beneath it, something you haven't fully dissected yet , affection, perhaps, or affection's more dangerous cousin.

“I'd prefer it with a good vantage point,” you say. “A place where we can both see what we need to cut and what to keep. And,” you add, softly, “with someone who understands that calling me by pet names is a tactical decision.”

Wednesday's laugh is like wind in dry leaves. “Then we will carve our future from the marrow,” she says. “And carve it neatly.”

You press your forehead to hers in the observatory's dim light. “Cara mia,” you murmur.

She replies in the same breath, the name tightening between you like a binding. “Cara mia.”

Outside, Nevermore turns in on itself, full of students and secrets and small tragedies. Inside, two kinds of darkness find the shape of a partnership , neither soft nor flashy, but exacting, patient, and strangely, fiercely loyal. They are a pair that will not fit into any ordinary story, and that is precisely the point.

When, months later, someone asks you how the two of you fell in love, the story that circulates is absurd: that you bonded over a botched alchemy class, or that Wednesday was enchanted by the cadence of your voice. The truth, neither dramatic nor tidy, is quieter. It is an accumulation of small things , shared jokes that are not funny to anyone else, mutual approval of another's cruelty, and the way the two of you say a foreign phrase and claim it as your own.

“Cara mia,” you say once while cleaning a scalpel together in the dormitories, the word casual as rinsing water.

She looks at you, tools in her hands, and her expression softens in a way you might have thought impossible. “Cara mia,” she replies, and the syllables are a promise.

They are, both of you know, dangerously accurate. And neither of you would have it any other way.

sketch303

Loser! Jinx taking you to a not so ideal first date–

Close up too because I'm proud of myself OK

Shoutout to @fortunxa for letting Jinx raid her closet. Fun fact, one sleeve is rolled up to help with shooting(ﾟ▽＾*)☆

vorsdany

ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ ᴏɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛᴏɴɢᴜᴇ

Wednesday Addams x reader

Words : ±4.7k

Summary : Wednesday doesn’t like nicknames… does she?

Warning (s) : basically nothing except. you know. my writing lol.

check reblogs for masterlist!

∵※∵

Wednesday was confused – no, she was angry. Livid, in fact. Perhaps she was going mad. The only thing she knew was that everything was going out of her control.

nnightskiess

until the moon fades to black

⠀𓂃۶ৎ wednesday addams x werewolf!reader

ˎˊ˗ you haven't seen wednesday after saving her from the hyde and landing in the hospital, but weeks of healing have passed and a new school year is finally upon you. when wednesday returns to nevermore, she's surprised by the uncomfortable scratching feeling in her stomach when she sees you again- alive and well this time.

· · ✍︎ · ·

poisonlove

Love me not | w.a

A/N: Read this with the song Love Me Not by Ravyn Lenae playing in the background.

pairing: Wednesday Addams X reader

"Wednesday, can we talk?"

Wednesday stiffened her spine, her fingers frozen mid-air above the keys of her typewriter. The sudden buzz of creative emptiness scraped against her thoughts: an unusual nuisance, yet lately an all too frequent one. She had enough material to fill pages upon pages for her novel — Tyler’s escape from Willow Hill, which she had unwittingly enabled, the two Hydes, even the enigmatic figure of Isaac (Tyler’s mother’s brother). Each event, in theory, was a feast for her imagination. And yet, whatever she managed to lay down on paper never rose above the level of a mediocre draft. Her mind was an arsenal fully stocked… but the page remained tragically disarmed.

And she had been interrupted precisely when that rare, cruel thing — her creative flow — seemed to finally grant her a reprieve. Her jaw tightened, her teeth nearly clicking together in pure annoyance.

“No.”

sparklestormandsoda

something something scarlet witch! reader something something darkhold corruption(?) something… SOMETHING~… using her powers to manipulate spicy thoughts into the girls’ minds mid fight etc etc. 👀?

mona-risms

Thanks to you, I can't thinking about this idea where the reader (a normal person who knows them and the whole demonhunter thing) sees the girls getting surprise attack by a demon, and they get so angry, they start beating the shit out of it until It actually turns into fucking dust.

After that, they go check the girls worried not only about they injuries but also their reaction of you beating the hell out a demon.........while the girls try to not get turn on but fails in the most patetic way. Thinking to themselves;

Rumi: "That brutal not sexy,That brutal not sexy,That brutal not sexy.....shit it is actually sexy holy fuck."

Mira: "Don't you dare to get horny about this girl, they did something extremely dangerous and his knuckles are bleeding. It doesn't matter how brave, sexy and....... dammit."

Zoey: "That was hot. I mean brutal, cruel and all that. It wasn't hot and goddamn sexy at all and I definitly don't want her to dominate me in bed right this instant. Yeah."

Good news, the reader did't get in problema with his girls. Bad news, their knuckles needs bandages.

But hey, at least, there is chance that the girls would jump on your bed at night. (Not would, they will do it, no doubt).

What do you think?

THANKS TO ME??? WHAT'D I SAY????? Also this reminds me of when Pepper beat the living SHIT out of some guy while Tony Stark was injured 😭

I do have a lot of thoughts ab this though HAHAHA bc seeing each other brutalise demons, while obviously hot as hell, was something of a normal sight between the three of them. Now, seeing YOU brutalise them, on the other hand? Completely different fucking story bc okay let's list the facts

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