Undead Romance | Isaac Night x Reader
master list part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 (you're here) part 13 part 14 part 15 part 16 part 17 part 18 part 19 part 20 part 21 part 22 ... A/N: bro the craziest shit just happened to me when uploading this part, check my page im uploading sm about it Obviously, spoiler warnings to those who have yet to finish the second season of Wednesday warnings: (Y/N)'s traumas being lwk triggered almost the whole time, nothing bad she's just uncomfy word count: 4.1 K
Nevermore was still Nevermore. Even with part of the wing gone, charred last year, the campus wore its ruin like a prop. Gargoyles still mourned from their perches; yet, things were expertly arranged so that students could still avoid the wing, as if last year's incident were merely a dream. Students flowed through the stone corridors in familiar clicks: the werewolves in their pack, the sirens in their school of fellow fishes, freshman eyes bright, stupid, and for a moment, deliciously alive. The rest of us wandered like characters who had decided their parts were no longer interesting.
Skipping? What was the point? Soon, I’d be over and done with it all. If anything, I busied myself with the never-ending schoolwork that came my way. The library has nothing of value to me anymore; every book has already passed through my hands at some point. Any new ones were quickly finished in a night or two.
The day had begun the way most of mine did: with Professor Orloff by his desk, muttering about “curriculum consistency” while I copied notes into neat little grids on the blackboard. Rows of chalky equations and diagrams lined up like prisoners of war, awaiting their fate. He had me redrafting the syllabus for the incoming students— as if ninth-years wouldn’t ignore half of it by October anyway. I sometimes wondered if Orloff actually needed me or if he just liked having someone around to sigh and complain to.
Not that I minded. It kept me busy. That was the trick, after all: staying occupied. If I weren’t copying pages, alphabetizing vials in the lab cupboards, or correcting spelling errors in students’ research papers, I might’ve had to actually think. And thinking had a way of dragging me down places I preferred not to visit.
“You have too much free time,” he said suddenly, peering at me over his tube. He always said it like it was a diagnosis, as though free time were a disease.
“Lucky for you, I spend it volunteering in your class,” I replied dryly, erasing a crooked line on the board.
He gave me a look that landed somewhere between amusement and pity. “It’s the first day of your last year here. Don’t waste it in a classroom. Go outside. Breathe fresh air. Spend it with your peers. Make some friends.”
“As opposed to the thrilling company of periodic tables and mildew?” I asked.
He shook his head, smiling. “Exactly so.”
I sighed, brushing the chalk dust from my fingers. “If I burn in the sun out there, I’ll be writing my obituary in your name.”
But I packed away the chalk all the same, leaving him to his beloved syllabus. The corridors outside were already buzzing with life — laughter, chatter, footsteps echoing off stone. It was like stepping into a fishbowl, everyone darting in familiar schools while I lingered near the glass.
So I did as I always did: I didn’t talk to anyone. I didn’t try. Instead, I pushed my way through the noise and found myself in the courtyard, where the air was warm and sharp with the smell of sun-baked stone.
The gargoyle near the front gate was waiting, ever patient, its wing a lump of cold relief against my back as I leaned into it. Perfect vantage point, perfect distance. Not too far from the crowd, but not in it either. Orloff had told me to make friends, but the truth was, watching them swarm and scatter was company enough.
But my peace never lasted long.
“(Y/N)...”
Of course. Just when I thought I might survive one day at Nevermore without being haunted by the ghosts still walking around. I sucked a breath through my teeth and plastered on the kind of smile that could pass as polite if you squinted hard enough.
“Morticia.”
She swept over to me like she owned the damn courtyard. Regal as ever, not a hair out of place, Gomez following a step behind— all toothy grin and slightly manic energy, like an overfed wolfhound on a leash. Age had done nothing to dull either of them. If anything, it had made Morticia more immaculate and Gomez more unbearable. God help me, I sometimes thought he should’ve been the one to die that night, but I always shot down the thought before I could entertain it long.
“It is so good to see you,” she said, voice as smooth as wine. Tense, but given our history, that was to be expected; she approached me as if I were going to bite her for getting too close. “How have you been?”
I forced my mouth into a half-smile. Fuck me, why did they have to be here? I was already exhausted. “I’m fine, so don’t trouble yourself worrying about me.”
Inside, the words tasted like ash. Don’t trouble yourself. They’d never stopped “troubling” themselves—letters, calls, invitations—all of which I’d tossed aside over the years. And yet they stood her, smiling like we were still friends, like nothing ever broke between us.
Silence lingered, thick as tar.
Then Gomez, Morticia’s knight in dark armor, swooped in. Voice too loud, too warm. “Have you met our boy, Pugsley?”
I arched a brow as they nudged forward a tall, slightly chubby boy. Dark hair, wide smile, eyes shining with morbid eagerness. He looked like every Addams gene had collided and produced a doe-eyed creature I wanted nothing to do with.
“Can’t say I have,” I said coolly.
“You’re a vampire, right?” Pugsley asked, his grin too wide, too curious. Before I could answer, he barreled on, “So does that mean you drink blood in the dorms? Like…do they give you some, or do you kill your classmates and hide what’s left of the bodies later?”
The words hung there, tacky and graceless.
My smile froze. Really? That was the opening line? I’d dealt with centuries of whispers, of pointed questions dressed up as jokes. But something about him asking—Gomez’s proud chest puffed up behind him, Morticia’s expectant eyes on me— it struck a nerve I didn’t even know I had.
Slowly, I turned my full body to face Pugsley, meeting his eager stare with one of my own. “A bit of friendly advice,” I said, voice flat, cool as glass. “If you ever ask me something like that again, I’ll bury your body where your parents hide theirs. And I know you Addams are into crazy shit like that, but I’d make sure even you wouldn’t enjoy it.”
His face fell, lips parting, confusion flickering into something smaller. Almost hurt. Good. Let him sit with that. I might regret that later, but I was too tired to care at the moment.
Morticia swept in like perfume, trying to mask rot. “(Y/N), dear,” she said softly, “he’s still learning how to ask things delicately. He didn’t mean offense.”
I waved her off with a flick of my hand, just crossing my arms as I swung my legs back onto the railing to face away from them. “Relax, Tish. I’ve had worse. Just thought your kid might have more sense than to lead with bad jokes.”
Gomez barked a laugh, too quick, too nervous. “He takes after me! Curious about everything, sometimes without filter.”
“That’s one way to put it,” I muttered, leaning back onto the stone behind me, already withdrawing. I didn’t want to talk to them anymore. I didn’t want to play their game, pretend we were all old friends reunited under Nevermore’s gothic roof.
It wasn’t their fault what happened that night— logically, I knew that, yet a part of me always felt bitter every time I saw them. I was angry, even now, and that anger somehow always formed into guilt every time I felt spite build up in my chest. I didn't feel good whenever I saw them. I didn't want to wish them any ill will; I just wished they could live happily ever after as far away from me as possible.
The air between us was heavy with years of things unsaid, and I wasn’t about to start unpacking them now—not in front of their wide-eyed boy.
“Am I interrupting something?”
The voice dripped oil before I even turned. Principal Dort, in his usual costume of slicked-back hair and a grin that stretched too wide, ambled towards us like a con artist sniffing out a tourist.
Morticia inclined her head with her usual elegance. Gomez, of course, lit up like someone had just announced free cigars. Clearly, they were both pleased that one more person was added to the equation before one of us could make another snappy comment.
“Principal Dort, new headmaster here at Nevermore. No need to introduce yourself, Gomez and Morticia Addams.” Dort declared, as if narrating a stage play. “Nevermore’s most illustrious alumni. What an honor to have you gracing our grounds again.” He seized Gomez’s hand with both of his, squeezing for far too long, before Morticia offered him the briefest, most delicate handshake imaginable.
“And,” Dort went on, turning toward me, “I see you’re all already acquainted?”
“Indeed,” Morticia answered before I could open my mouth. Her voice was velvet, practiced. “(Y/N) and I go back quite far. We shared many…memorable adventures together.”
Adventures? Is that what we were going to call it?
Pugsley shifted uncomfortably beside his parents. For the record, so was I. He really was an odd one, even for his family, rather subdued in his demeanor, which contrasted what I’ve seen from his sister. He seemed rather sensitive. Now I feel guilty for being snappy to him...
Dort clasped his hands together, delighted. “A testament to what kind of kids Nevermore produces. Don’t let her modesty fool you.” He pivoted, eyes landing on me like I was a prize exhibit. “Did you know,” he addressed the Addamses now, theatrically lowering his voice, “That your friend here is in line to graduate as valedictorian? High marks, clean record, countless hours assisting the faculty—she’s set a remarkable standard. The longest-standing student in Nevermore history.”
My brows furrowed. He was talking as if my age were a quirky little footnote rather than a slow grinding eternity. I felt the urge to bite back some more, but apparently, I had a record to keep clean. Arguing with the headmaster wasn’t going to do me any favors.
Morticia’s lips curved up faintly, that unreadable softness in her gaze. “How wonderful. I had no idea you were working so diligently.”
Gomez let out a booming laugh. “Ah, of course she is! Always quick to get work done in our class, always the one with her nose stuck in the books. Valedictorian—it suits her!”
I let out a scoff, leaning back some more as I looked up to the sky. Contemplating if I should just rub off all this sunscreen and throw myself into the daylight now. “Yes, what a dream. Half a century in school and what do I have to show for it? A shiny gold star for punctuality and unpaid overtime grading freshman essays. Try not to be jealous.”
Dort chuckled, pretending my tone was modest. “What other school can boast of such loyalty, such longevity? Generations of students have looked up to her. Truly, Nevermore is fortunate. She’s a testament to Nevermore’s enduring spirit — and the kind of excellence we cultivate here.”
There it is, I thought. There’s the brochure pitch. My achievements weren’t mine; they were selling points. Marketing bullet points for a school desperate to pretend it mattered. Students didn’t know me. The only people who knew me were the desperate individuals who needed to pass a challenging test or whose parents forced them to spend time after school. The only benefit that came from it all was a private room.
“I’m just a glorified unpaid intern, forgive me if I don’t break out the champagne, Dort.” What a joke. Who fucking cares about some stupid award? I certainly don’t.
Morticia, ever the diplomat, tried again. “Still, it’s no small fear, (Y/N). You should take pride in this.”
Pride? Perhaps I was being too negative, but her presence irritated me like no other. If pride was the only thing she had left to offer me, she could keep it.
Morticia’s expression softened, perhaps in sympathy — or pity — and Gomez clapped me on the shoulder with that relentless optimism of his. “Regardless of how you see it, we’re proud of you. It’s no small feat.”
Proud. That word again. Everyone always wanted to be proud of me, as if that filled the vacuum I felt. I nodded once, just enough to be polite, and looked away. The truth was, I didn’t care about accolades. I didn’t care about being a star student. It wasn’t ambition that kept me here — it was inertia.
“So!” Dort clapped his hands together, too loudly, too eagerly. “Speaking of Nevermore’s continued excellence — Mrs. Addams, I’ve been meaning to ask. We are in desperate need of someone to chair our annual fundraising gala. A task that requires taste, poise, and social brilliance — all qualities you possess in abundance.”
Morticia blinked, clearly taken aback. “Oh… that’s a rather significant undertaking.”
“It is,” Dort said, leaning in as if they were already conspiring. “And your involvement would mean so much to the alumni network. It would signal to our donors that Nevermore’s brightest still care deeply about its future.”
Gomez’s grin widened. “It sounds perfect for you, cara mia.”
Morticia’s lips curved faintly, a trace of pride there — but something else, too. Reluctance. “I’d need some time to consider, of course. It’s a commitment, and I wouldn’t want to agree lightly.”
“I completely understand,” Dort said, though his smile suggested he already considered the deal sealed. “But I can’t think of anyone more suited to the role.”
I stopped listening after that. The words blurred into a meaningless hum, my thoughts elsewhere. Chairwoman. Fundraising. Staying. All signs pointed to the same thing — that Morticia Addams might once again plant roots here. That the ghosts I’d been trying to outrun would make themselves at home.
I slipped my hands into my coat pockets and pushed off the stone railing, interrupting whatever Dort was saying with the sound of my footsteps.
“Leaving so soon?” Gomez asked, a flicker of concern in his eyes.
“Yeah,” I said lightly, offering a nonchalant shrug. “Suddenly remembered I have somewhere far more interesting to be. Like literally anywhere else.”
Morticia opened her mouth as if to say something — maybe a gentle plea, maybe a reproach — but I didn’t give her the chance. I turned, cutting through the crowd of students and staff, the murmur of their conversation fading behind me.
If they stayed, I wasn’t sure what that meant for me. But I knew I couldn’t stand there and smile about it.
—-
I didn’t even want to go to this stupid pyre event. Dort had cornered me after class and “suggested” I attend with that tone of voice administrators get when they’re about to make your life miserable if you don’t listen. I had a long day, and I was afraid he was going to add the cherry on top to my fuck you sundae by saying I’d have some sort of role.
Thank God, Dort hadn’t tried to rope me into giving a speech—he’d have had to drag me to the stage kicking and screaming. Wednesday Addams was the student of honor this year, which was the only reason I hadn’t bolted yet.
The DaVincis had done their usual meticulous work on the pyre: a massive bird of wood and lacquer, its wings outstretched in triumph. Students milled around it, laughing and shouting as if they were at some warped county fair instead of a ritual bonfire. I hadn’t seen one of these in a decade, though it hardly mattered; the show never changed, only the faces did.
I busied myself with the safest option of what to do—a churro from one of the food carts—and was retreating towards the outer edge of the crowd. The cinnamon sugar stuck to my fingers. I’d been halfway through my snack, already plotting my escape route, when I felt something tap against my boot.
A small, polite tap. Like a knock on a door.
I froze. Looked down.
And there he was.
Thing.
A severed hand, still somehow living a busier social life than I did. Even the name—Thing—made my stomach knot. He lay flat on the ground like a dropped glove, stitched fingers twitching faintly. Then, with the practiced grace of a creature who’d done this many times before, he scuttled forward and began to climb me.
I almost screamed. My free hand clutched the churro like it was a crucifix.
Stitches pulled taut as he scaled my coat, fingers gripping fabric as delicately as a spider climbing silk. By the time he reached my shoulder, my skin had crawled all the way to my hairline. He perched there and raised two fingers in a bashful little wave.
I stared at him. “It’s you again,” I said finally, because what else does one say to the reanimated severed hand of an ex-situationship?
I’d known about him from the start—Morticia and Gomez had been so pleased about their new companion—but knowing and seeing were two different things. Looking at him brought me back to the day Isaac’s body was dragged off, back when Morticia swore she’d keep Thing away from me. And yet here he was, crawling up my coat like some demented souvenir.
The hand flipped onto its palm and gave me a bashful wave, shy as a schoolboy at his first dance. Which was ridiculous, given he was literally a severed hand. He tapped my collarbone twice, almost apologetically.
I forced a breath through my nose. My brain screamed don’t touch me, don’t touch me, while my mouth managed a strained half-smile. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You Addams family folk often appear at the…strangest of times.”
Thing did a little hop onto my shoulder and settled there like some grotesque parrot. His fingers smoothed the fabric of my coat collar, almost fussily.
“Personal space isn’t really your thing, is it?” I muttered. He tapped twice on my collarbone in reply, smug.
“Charming,” I deadpanned.
For a moment, we just sat like that: me pretending not to feel my entire body crawl, him practically glowing with smug attachment. Students passed by and stared. Someone even snickered. Yes, laugh it up. The ancient vampire with a severed hand for a date. To be fair, the scenario did make me feel kind of crazy, like I was talking to myself.
I cleared my throat. Time to be civil. You were rude enough for one day. “So… how was your summer?”
Thing’s fingers began to dance in his peculiar, off-brand sign language, nails scraping the hem of my sleeve as he gestured. The translation, if I had to guess, sounded like a child describing a nightmare to a very tired parent. Something about a case he’d “helped solve,” a serial killer who scalped people and dressed dolls like the victims. His fingers flicked with glee at the “plot twists,” as if this were all perfectly normal summer fun.
I blinked slowly, churro halfway to my mouth. “Right. Because that’s a perfectly normal way to spend a vacation.”
He signed faster, insisting he was very brave, that it didn’t bother him, that it was all terribly heroic.
“Mm…Well.” I took a bite of my churro. “Glad someone had a productive summer. I mostly reorganized my bookshelves.”
That earned me an affectionate touch on the cheek. My stomach twisted. He didn’t even mean it badly, but—God. If there was ever a definition of wrong, it was this. I felt insane, sick to my stomach.
Trying to distract myself, I dangled the last of my churro between two fingers. The fried dough was still warm, its ridges dusted thick with cinnamon and sugar. “Here,” I said, more to keep him busy than anything. “Want some?”
Thing froze, every tendon taut. Then—like a starving dog offered a treat—he tapped his wrist excitedly, bouncing on my shoulder.
“Don’t drool on me,” I muttered, though of course he couldn’t.
He lunged for the pastry with startling force, seizing it in his little death grip. Sugar immediately cascaded between his stitches as he clenched and unclenched like a grinder. Then, like the wave of a magician's hand, the churro dissolved into nothing—like it had been swallowed by some invisible furnace inside him.
I blinked, half-horrified, half-fascinated. “…Huh. So that’s how you eat?”
Thing puffed up with pride, flexing his fingers in a victorious little flourish.
“You’ve got a little something—” I should have left it at that. But no, noticing a smear of sugar caught in the seam of his thumb. Against every shred of survival instinct, I brushed it away with my own. The texture of him made my stomach twist: cold and rubbery in some places, rough and papery in others, like touching leather left too long in the rain. The stitches caught against my skin.
Instantly, my chest tightened. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about whose hand this was.
But I couldn’t stop it. Memory surged: Isaac’s fingers brushing my hair back, Isaac’s palm cradling my cheek, Isaac’s hand laced with mine, the night everything fell apart. And here it was now, detached, puppeted, still reaching for me.
He went still. Utterly still. Then, slowly, his index finger curled inward like he wanted to curl it around mine. His body gave a tiny, bashful sway, the kind you might see in someone who couldn’t figure out what to do with their hands—except this was just the hand.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I forced out a joke: “…Did I make you nervous?” My voice sounded casual, but my pulse was hammering in my throat.
He snapped into a frantic wave of signs—No, no, not nervous, you’re imagining things, I’m perfectly fine!—but the awkward sway, the little tap-tap spiral his finger started drawing on my shoulder? That gave him away.
I swallowed bile. His fingers were light but insistent, brushing my collar, gripping a little too close to my throat. Every pat sent electric shocks of wrongness through me. It wasn’t just unpleasant—it was invasive, like being touched by the ghost of someone I didn’t want haunting me.
“…God, you’re clingy.” My laugh was thin, brittle.
His knuckles pressed against my jaw in what I think was supposed to be affectionate. My entire body flinched. I wanted him off, wanted to shake him away, but the pathetic truth was—I couldn’t bring myself to. Because somewhere, twisted under all the stitching, it wasn’t Isaac. And yet it was easier to let him hang on than admit how much I hated that I wished it to be him.
“You know,” I blurted, before I could even really think about what I was saying, “we don’t have to stay here. We could ditch. Hit the kitchens. Hide in the library stacks. Anywhere but this flaming bird rave.”
For a second, I thought he’d agree. His fingers stilled, tightening on my collar. He faced the pyre, like there was something in there I wasn't seeing, before turning back to me. Hope, stupid and cruel, bloomed in my chest.
Then he spelled out reluctant no.
Of course.
I bit the inside of my cheek. “Figures. Big flaming bird too hard to pass up, huh?”
He tapped me again, apologetic, almost tender. If only I knew what I was about to miss.
“Don’t worry about it,” I muttered, more bitter than I meant to. “I’m not much of a party date anyway.”
I pried him off finger by finger, every tug like tearing Velcro against a wound. His grip lingered on my wrist until the very last moment, like he didn’t want to let me go. I hated how real it felt, how warm his phantom weight stayed on my skin.
Carefully—so carefully I hated myself for it—I plucked him from my shoulder and set him down gently on the floor. His little fingers clung to my wrist until the last possible second, reluctant to let go.
“Stay out of trouble,” I said, trying for a wry smile.
He saluted with all the gallantry of a knight pledging his service, jaunty and absurd. Endearing.
I turned away quickly, shoving my hands into my pockets before I could do something equally ridiculous, like wave back. The crowd swallowed me. It felt like people were laughing at me, but I could hardly hear it over the ringing of my own ears as I forced myself forward.
The rational part of me whispered that it was idiotic—that abomination didn’t remember anything, just the twitching leftovers of a person, stripped of everything human. But the phantom pressure on my wrist still lingered. And worse, I caught myself wishing whatever was left of him held on just a little longer. He didn’t remember me, yet he always wanted to follow me around like a lost puppy.
I shut my eyes, telling myself not to think anything more about it. About today. It was better to just forget. There was no point wasn't time on the past; force yourself to look ahead.
This was why I’d told Morticia not to bring him around me. Not because I was heartless. Because every time I saw him, I had to relive Isaac—piece by severed piece.
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