TheRuledAngel

|| Consuelo || 25 || Pan |||| She/her || Scorpio || Slytherin || This blog is honestly just a mess, you've been warned...

[thewitchandtheassassin]

Tube (Lena Luthor x Reader)

Summary: ...reader is an idiot. That's all

Warnings: Language?

Words: 408

A/N: It's a drabble night. Love y'all.

-X-

Sprawled out on Kara’s couch as you waited for your girlfriend to arrive, you sipped from the bottle of alien beer, studying Kara thoughtfully.

“What do you think held her up?” you mused. “L-Corp disaster? A new assassination attempt? A phone call from her mother?”

“Ooh, what if she found a kitten or something? That’d be a nice change of pace.” Kara’s smile was hopeful, but you both knew it was as likely as Maxwell Lord suddenly becoming an alien—

The door swung open with a shove, bouncing off the wall and you both jumped to your feet, prepared for a fight only to see a fuming Lena storming into the apartment.

“Do you know what drives me fucking insane? When people get off the Tube and just stand there on their phones! Honestly, is it so hard to get out of the way?” Lena ranted, tossing her purse onto Kara’s kitchen island as she scoured Kara’s fridge for something strong that Alex probably left behind at the last game night.

You blinked slowly, staring at your girlfriend in confusion before a soft chuckle escaped. “The Tube, babe? I take it your uh… boarding school days are coming out, huh?” you teased.

She froze, bent over peering in the fridge, before slowly rising and glaring at you with that look—that look—that left your knees feeling like jelly and your heart racing, one brow arched like she was daring you to keep talking.

“Right now is not the time for this. Do you know how long I had to wait for some man to move out of my way? I had to say ‘excuse me’ six times before he got out of my way. So excuse me for calling it the “tube” instead of calling it the bloody awful rail system National City is so proud of.”

Her fury was apparent and really, you should’ve been comforting her and trying to soothe her anger, but as your mouth opened, you blurted—

“Rao, you’re so hot when your accent comes out…”

…there was a very audible “thwack” as Kara’s hand slammed into her forehead and you watched Lena’s brow arch a little higher, not amused by your lack of filter right this moment.

“That was the wrong thing to say, wasn’t it?” you mumbled to Kara from the corner of your mouth, eyes wide as you smiled weakly at your less than impressed girlfriend.

“Uh huh.”

“…thought so.”

[thewitchandtheassassin]

Kinktober Day 22: Car Sex (Natasha Romanoff x Reader)

Summary: Day 22, car sex-ish?

Words: 742

Warnings: Hydra shooting at the car, intense grinding, almost sex?

A/N: So, I cannot promise these will all be finished by the end of October, however I will complete the entire list.

-X-

The car’s engine roared as you tore down the street, hands gripping the wheel tightly as your eyes flicked between the mirror and the road as you raced down the empty pavement. Two—then three—Hydra SUVs were visible in the glass, hunting you. Determined to get back what you’d stolen from them.

Natasha was twisted in the passenger seat, fingers flying over a pistol’s clip as she slammed it home. “Keep it steady,” she said,, already shifting her weight. Before you could answer, she swung a leg over the center console, her lithe frame sliding onto your lap, making your breath catch. Her thighs clamped around yours, her knees digging into the seat’s edges as she looked around the headrest to stare out the rear window, gun raised.

When you took a sharp corner, her legs tightened and one hand left the wheel to hold her—steady her—but instead…

“Your hand is on my ass.”

Involuntarily, your fingers flexed, gripping the firm muscles, and Natasha inhaled sharply as her hips subconsciously pressed harder into yours. One hand remained on the gun, her eyes still trained out the window, while her free hand slid to the base of your neck, clutching gently at the baby hairs there.

The heat between her legs seared through the thin layers of fabric, her core pressing against the echoing heat in your own pants. She didn’t pull away; didn’t snap at you to focus or take your hand away. Her hips shifted again, a slow, teasing grind that sent sparks up your spine, her thighs trembling as she braced herself against you. The Hydra SUVs roared closer, their headlights flooding the car, but Natasha’s focus was fracturing; her breaths coming faster, her body rocking in time with the car’s jolts and turns.

“Fuck,” you hissed between clenched teeth.

She fired another shot out the back window, the recoil shoving her harder into your lap, her ass sliding under your grip. A soft moan slipped from her lips, barely audible over the engine’s revving, but it hit you like a grenade to the goddamn chest. Her fingers tightened in your hair, tugging just enough to sting, and she tilted her head, mouth brushing your ear.

“Keep driving,” she whispered, hips rolling into yours even as she glanced out the window to shoot another volley of shots into the SUVs, one finally careening and slamming into a building as its tire exploded.

Your mouth ghosted over her throat, eyes trained on the road ahead, and you rasped, “I’ve never hated pants more in my life.”

She laughed breathlessly, though it shattered into a broken moan as the seam of her tactical pants dragged perfectly over her throbbing clit. “Fuck… keep talking like that and I might forget we’re being shot at.”

Tugging on your hair, her hips ground down against the slight bone of your hip, head tipping back. Her breasts were practically in your face and you’d never been more annoyed by Hydra’s existence than in that moment.

A bullet grazed the side mirror, shattering glass, and Natasha’s gun hand twitched, firing a wild shot out the back window. “You’re making it real hard to focus, milaya,” she murmured, tongue dragging along the shell of your ear as her hips rolled with a slow, filthy grind that had you biting back a groan.

Your hand gripped Natasha’s ass harder, fingers digging into the taut muscle, pulling her down as your hips bucked up to meet hers. “God, I’ve wanted you for so long…”

Shuddering at your confession, Natasha barely remembered to fire another round at the SUV gaining ground behind you.

“Lose them and I’ll let you fuck me in the backseat,” she promised—

And your foot slammed down on the gas pedal, the car roaring in protest as it lurched forward.

“…bet.”

Her hips rolled harder, deliberate, dragging her core against yours in a slow, obscene grind that made your vision hazy around the edges. The car lurched as you swerved to dodge a spray of bullets, your arm encircling Natasha’s waist to steady her.

Taking a sharp corner, the Hydra SUV behind you misjudged the turn, its wheels skidding wildly before it crashed through the river barrier with a deafening crunch, plunging into the dark water below, but you didn’t care. All that mattered was the woman using your thigh and hip like it was her only salvation.

Or maybe…

Maybe she was yours.

[thinking1bee]

Changed Part 1

Requested by Anonymous

Parings: Lena Luthor x Reader

Tags: Violence, Angst, Mentions of Death, PTSD and Anxiety, War, Fluff, Humor

Taglist:  @sammy90682 @nobody13 @owloftheshadows @captain-josslett @camslightstories @worldovart

Joining the marines had been…well, a decision you hadn’t considered thoroughly. And it would seem that timing wasn’t really in your favor. The moment you met Lena, was the moment you were deployed shortly after. You only had a few short months to really get to know her, so you spent every waking moment with her, investing all the time you had with the mystifying woman with lustrous green eyes and a perfect smile. You found out that Lena loved the smaller things in life. For her it was never about extravagant dinners, it was eating burgers and talking while stuffing her face. She didn’t want to travel the world. She was just fine with staying at home while cuddled together on the couch. She was attentive and caring, compassionate and intelligent. Lena Luthor was almost too good to be true. You loved your women fiery, and she was equal parts passionate and committed. You loved the way she gave everything her all. She was dedicated 100% to everything she did, whether it was with work or with you. That’s why it broke your heart when it was time fore you to leave. You promised her that you would come back no matter what it took.

Keep reading

[thinking1bee]

Jealous One Shot

Requested by Anonymous who asked for the song Jealous by Labrinth to be the inspiration

Pairings: Lena Luthor x Reader

Tags: Character Death, Angst, Sadness, Grief, Cancer, Love

Taglist: @owloftheshadows

Hey guys, this is the first time that I have received a request of this nature. As a result of this, I will put the actual story below the “Keep Reading” option so that people can choose whether or not they want to read this. As always, I post requested stories with respect and this one will not be any different. I will go ahead and mention that it is the Reader that dies of cancer.  Please do not read if this is a trigger for anyone. Everyone stay safe and stay lovely ❤️

With Respect-thinking1bee

Keep reading

[reneesghostinthelivingroom]

i’m a sucker for any soulmate au tbh. could you write another lena luthor x reader one where people don’t see color until they meet their soulmate?

There Was Colour

|| Lena Luthor x reader

|| Warnings; nothing, just fluffy

|| Summary; when running late for work, Lena and reader run right into each other. Soulmate AU.

Requests open!

Started; September 30th

Finished; October 2nd

A/N; thank you @rayray2390 for giving me ideas on this!

Tag List; @queriaumpastelagora (if you would like to be added, comment and i'll add you!)

~~~

It was the early hours of the morning, sometime between 4:45-5:30am when Lena walked into her favourite 24 hour café. The CEO often woke up early before heading to work. It was like a morning ritual for her to be the first one in the office each day.

She waited for her coffee, looking around the shop. She wished she could see what it truly looked like. Lena could only imagine the pop of colour that this place had to it. But unfortunately, in this world one doesn't see colour until they run into their soulmate. The person they're supposed to be with. For Lena, that hadn't happened yet. Part of her was beginning to wonder if it would ever happen.

Lena's thoughts were interrupted when her name was called for her order, she thanked the cashier and gave them a tip before leaving. Having paid earlier, of course.

The city was typically quiet around this hour. Another reason why Lena liked being awake so early. You got to miss the busy buzz of afternoon traffic. Looking to her phone, Lena scrolled some emails and gave quick responses to texts.

She didn't notice you until it was already too late.

Your morning had started in a rush. For whatever dumb reason, you had agreed to the ungodly hour opening shift. Covering for one of your work friends. You rushed about your apartment. Quickly showering, brushing your teeth, speed eating. The usual.

When you had everything you needed, you bolted out the door. 5:10am, you had to be there for 5:30am. Your job was only about a 10 minute walk from your apartment, so you took the risk.

You made the mistake of looking to your phone and seeing how little time you had. Taking off at a sprint to get there.

You didn't notice Lena until it was too late.

With how much of a rush you were in, you were only focused on your destination. Not what was around you. Until you collided fully into some poor woman who had been looking down at her phone and didn't see you coming.

It all happened so fast and before either of you knew it, you'd both fallen to the ground. Lena landing on top of you, coffee spilling all over your work uniform. Shit, you'd have to borrow a spare when you got there.

You winced as the hot liquid hit your skin, closing your eyes.

"Damn it, watch where you're-" Lena froze. Her eyes landed to your closed ones and she realized something. She could see colour. At first, Lena had been upset with you. For bumping into her, spilling her coffee, ruining her perfect morning ritual. But, just maybe, you'd made it better. There was colour.

"I'm so so s-sorry- I-" you began to stutter, eyes opening only to stop and realize the same thing Lena had. There was colour.

The two of you stayed quiet for a long moment. You'd definitely be late for work now but you couldn't find yourself caring. Not when...

"It's... alright- do you see it too?" Lena asked. Making sure that it wasn't just her. That both of you were experiencing the same thing. A world of colour.

"Y- yeah. I do," you nodded.

"You're..." you both started to say, then your eyes widened and you laughed. Realizing you were speaking at the same time already.

"I'm sorry about your outfit," Lena got up and helped you to your feet, you shook your head and brushed yourself off.

"Nah, don't be. My work has spares. I'm sorry about your coffee, though. Let me pay for a new one," you offered.

Lena smiled, damn you had a charm to you.

"That's quite alright, you mentioned work? Are you going to be late?" She checked the time. 5:23am.

"Crap-" you glanced in the direction of the building, then to Lena. Quickly, the two of you exchanged numbers, said goodbyes and you ran to work. Somehow by some utter miracle, you'd just barely made it on time.

Though, throughout your entire shift, your mind could only focus on Lena. Until you realized, you didn't even get her name.

[talesofesther]

don't know how to be something you miss

Wednesday Addams x Reader

Summary: On a rainy day, Wednesday recalls pieces of your story together through memories, and wonders if you miss her too.

Requested by anon

A/N: Soft!Wednesday because that's my thing now. This request was really fun to make, hope you like it, let me know. All flashbacks are in italics.

Masterlist

There's something unusual on Wednesday's side of the dorm.

It's small, insignificant, private because there's no one else here to witness it.

Her typewriter still sits by the end of her dark-colored bed, her cello is still stashed beside her wardrobe and her window is still the opposite of Enid's; devoid of color, creating soft shadows on the wooden floor as the rain falling outside collides with it.

But there's an anomaly on the black-and-white hues of Wednesday's side.

The Addams girl sits on the floor beside her bed, her back resting against the cold wall. She hugs her knees close to her chest, making herself smaller; she's wearing a lilac hoodie, one hand gripping its fabric as she holds herself together and the other clutching a polaroid picture, the hood is over her head and she can smell a familiar perfume.

The color is strange on her pale skin, on the black of her hair. Yet she buries herself in it.

It's pathetic. She's broken all her rules and promises.

Wednesday remembers the first time she saw the hoodie she wears;

—

It was potions and elixirs class, one that Wednesday enjoys most of the time; handling deadly substances was always amusing — the classroom didn't lack glass vials that were labeled 'toxic, do not ingest' and she was dying to try them out in her mixing table.

The teacher was about to start talking when a knock sounded on the door. Wednesday glared at it with disdain.

It opened to reveal you standing on the other side, a lilac hoodie draped over your uniform, a lollipop hanging from your lips, and a smile on your face that looked more like a grimace as you apologized for getting lost and arriving late. It was dismissed since it was your first day, and you were left to pick a seat.

Wednesday put on her best stern look so you wouldn't choose the empty chair beside her.

But you did anyway.

She rolled her eyes with a sigh when you sat down, instantly turning to her with a hopeful grin.

"Hi," your voice was timid and sweet.

Wednesday chanced a glance at you and your smile instantly brightened at the attention. She noticed you had captivating eyes, the strawberry confection you had on your lips was now being twirled between your fingers.

"You better be good with potions," was Wednesday's greeting.

And the mixture you made ended up creating something acidic. It melted through the table and created a dent in the floor.

—

Wednesday scoffs at the memory, you were always a bit reckless, following your gut even if the odds were against you. She liked that about you.

There were several things she secretly liked about you.

Sometimes she believes you have the power to read between the lines, uncover things people themselves don't realize yet.

If it wasn't for that, and your incredibly annoying persistence, maybe Wednesday would never have had a story with you at all.

Her bedroom feels bigger, lonelier; the rain doesn't help, the sound of it hitting the stone walls outside gets her mind drifting.

—

You jumped on the puddles, splashing water all around you and most likely inside your shoes as well.

Wednesday was staring at you with a soft scrunch on her eyebrows, wondering what was the purpose of your actions other than inconveniently soaking the floorboards later.

She was leaning back on the wall of the bee shed, under the roof, waiting out the rain. You were doing your chores as if the sun was shining in the sky. Peculiar.

"Why won't you join me, Wednesday?" You asked as if the answer wasn't obvious, as if raindrops weren't rapidly rolling down your forehead all the way to your chin.

"Because I'm sensible," Wednesday stated, her gaze following the path of a droplet that stopped by your lips. She crossed her arms over her chest, clearing her throat.

"Where's the fun in that?" You raised a brow, "the rain washes your soul, you know."

"I like my soul dark, stained, and dry."

You clicked your tongue at her answer, stalking closer with a mischievous glint in your eyes. "I think that's just an excuse," you took hold of one of Wednesday's braids, twirling the end of it on your fingers.

Wednesday's lips hovered open at your audacity, her heart pushing against her ribs.

"Because we both know I'm much better at harvesting these hives."

That shook Wednesday out of her trance. She scoffed, "I can do it twice as faster with my eyes closed."

You shrugged, "I'll believe it when I see it."

"You have. And I've been here longer than you."

"Hm, these three jars of honey here say otherwise."

Wednesday clenched her jaw, it was a cheap attempt at getting her to indulge you, and she hated that it was working. She hated that the prospect of competing with you brought a thrill of excitement to her stomach.

When you stepped away, she followed, allowing the rain to pour down on her and soak her clothes and hair.

She did win in the end, and even if you lost you were still smiling widely as you two walked back to the school, feeling the smell of fresh rain hitting the tree leaves.

Mud was dragged on the floorboards of Nevermore when you got back inside and the water dripping from your clothes stained the rugs. Weems got red with anger and went on a tangent about manners.

Wednesday had to agree with you in the end. It was fun.

—

The rain picks up outside, the drops that hit her window are loud and the air is frigid — the wooden floor not doing much to chase it away.

If you were here you'd be scolding her, telling her to get on the warm, comfy bed. You'd take her hands on yours and complain about the coldness of them.

You'd place a kiss on each of Wednesday's knuckles if she let you. And she would; in the end, she knew she would.

But you're not here to do any of that.

A trembling breath passes through Wednesday's lips, creating a small puff of white air.

She thinks she deserves to feel the cold seeping onto her skin.

—

Night had long since settled in, Enid was having a sleepover at Yoko's dorm and Wednesday had the room to herself. The sounds of her typewriter were the only thing filling the air. Peaceful.

Another page was filled, she took it out with care before placing a new one in its place.

"When will you let me read it?"

Oh yeah. You're here too. Being alone feels nicer when Wednesday can feel your presence nearby.

"I doubt you'd be able to stomach it," she responded, curiosity hinting at her tone wondering if you really would read her novel or if you were just making conversation.

You're sprawled out on Wednesday's bed, laying on your stomach as you picked on a few loose strands of her dark blanket. "You underestimate me, Wednesday. The macabre has always fascinated me."

It's strange how comfortable you were in her presence, how you never once hesitated to see her darker side. Wednesday sometimes doesn't know what to make of it. There are no conditions to your apparent affection, you seemed happy to just exist beside her.

Wednesday looked at you, at the way you were swinging your feet in the air, laying your head on your forearm as you raised a brow at her; daringly.

Maybe there was a reason why she started calling upon you every time Enid left. She liked to exist in your presence too.

It was another hour before Wednesday finally stopped writing, and when she did — getting up from her chair and stretching her muscles — she noticed that you had fallen asleep. You lay in an awkward position that would surely give you neck pain later, your hand falling off the edge of the bed as you snored softly.

Wednesday didn't know what to do about you. She had a foreign feeling in her stomach upon seeing you so comfortable on her bed, her space.

The thought of waking you up didn't even cross her mind.

But you had been stupid enough to sleep on top of the covers. And it was winter.

On the guise of not wanting to hear you whinnying about being sick later, Wednesday rummaged through her wardrobe and picked up one of her oversized hoodies. She awkwardly placed it over your still body… and waited.

Eventually making herself comfortable sitting on the floor, she waited for you to wake up, intently observing your sleeping figure. Wednesday memorized your breathing pattern, eventually matching her own with yours, and when it halted for a second, she wondered what nightmares you must be having. She noticed each involuntary muscle twitch on your face, finding herself mesmerized by the way your eyebrows would furrow the slightest bit sometimes.

Was it creepy that she enjoyed watching you? Was it bad that she didn't want to look away?

Wednesday reached out with her heart in her mouth, clogging up her breathing. Her fingertips touched yours, her skin brushing against yours until she was somewhat holding your hand.

Why? She didn't know. But there was no one here for her to have the need to explain herself.

Until you returned her grip, and Wednesday's heartbeat stilled.

"Get your ass off the floor Wednesday, you'll freeze."

—

You had a warmth to you that was captivating. And Wednesday fell right into your trap.

She pays the price now. She never knew what it was like to miss someone until she wanted to rip her heart out. But it doesn't feel good.

Wednesday bites into her lip until she tastes blood. She wonders if you think about it too, about her.

A sharp breath enters her lungs and stays there. She wonders if she is someone worth missing.

You left, so, probably not.

Wednesday stretches her legs, leaning her head back on the wall. She could kill you for cursing her with this. But to what avail? The last living part of her would die with you anyway.

Her thumb brushes over the image of you and her on her hands, the polaroid picture is a little worn out from being kept under her pillow. It's her most valued secret.

You're smiling in the image, beside you, Wednesday has no expression as she looks at the camera; you're illuminated by countless fireworks exploding in the sky; far down, the town fair can be seen; both your hands are out of the picture but anyone could tell they were tangled together.

Wednesday Addams succumbing to something as frivolous as love?

You made it seem as simple as the raindrops that hit her window.

—

You were bouncing on your feet, hair up in a ponytail and lilac hoodie wrapped around your waist. Your eyes couldn't find a place to focus before your attention was already being grabbed by a new attraction at the town fair.

Wednesday followed a step behind you, colorful lights coming from the many amusement rides illuminated her skin.

"Come on, Wednesday," you fell back into step beside her, linking your arm around hers and pulling her along, "you can win me a teddy bear, it gives you an excuse to shoot something."

And she did, she won you the biggest teddy bear on the balloon shooting stand. And if she had a tiny smile on her lips as she proudly handed it to you, no one needed to know.

In exchange, you went into the haunted house with Wednesday.

"Stop squirming, this is hardly scary for a child, let alone for you," Wednesday grumbled as you walked the dark hallways of the old haunted manor, your hand clutching at her arm for dear life.

"We're walking through poorly lit hallways that are designed to scare us. I know something will happen yet I don't know when," you pointed out in a hush, your hand sneaking lower on Wednesday's arm, "of course I'm gonna be at least a little creeped out."

Not even a second later, a man poorly dressed as a zombie jumped from behind a wall. You squealed and Wednesday felt a sudden rush of protectiveness coming over her. She finally took your hand in hers.

Your fingers were snuggly intertwined with each other by the time you went into the Ferris Wheel to watch the firework show.

With little room in the cabin for you to sit, Wednesday's shoulder was flush with yours. Her hand still held onto yours. The warmth of your skin became addicting.

Way down, the town fair looked like a distant reality — for a fleeting moment it was just you, her, and the stars until fireworks started painting the sky a million colors.

And you were probably thinking the same, because you opened your purse and pulled out your instant camera, not giving Wednesday much of a warning before you snapped the picture.

"I always want to remember this day," you told her, your cheeks molding around your smile and your eyes crinkling because of it. There was a soft drizzle in the air, landing on your hair and clothes and making them shine.

Wednesday watched the firework show through your eyes, through the way it reflected on your pupils and made you glow. It was magical. You were magical in a way she's never seen before.

It was only natural for her to lean in, one hand coming up to hold your jaw so she could capture your lips with hers.

—

A drop of water lands on the edge of the polaroid picture, and then another, and one more on the sleeve of your hoodie, turning it a darker shade of lilac.

Wednesday frowns, until she realizes that she can't breathe, and that the droplets are coming from her eyes. She wipes her cheeks harshly, unkindly, almost bruising herself.

But she's careful with the way she dries them off the picture, gently brushing away the tears that almost landed on top of your smiling figure.

She wonders if you still want to remember that day the same way she does.

You are her best memory. And she wonders if you still want to remember her at all.

—

It was raining, had been for a week straight already, but today there was thunder roaring in the sky and lightning illuminating the night.

Wednesday hadn't seen you the entire day. No one had.

You were gone.

And she was losing her mind.

"What do you mean she's not in the school?" She snapped at Thing. The disembodied hand cowered at her tone. "Look again," she commanded, yet the way her words cracked at the end let the facade slip.

She was pacing back and forth on the entry hall of Nevermore, the tall wooden doors were pushed open so she had a clear view of the gates. Waiting — wishing — to see you walk through. All she saw was the rain hitting the ground and making the horizon hazy and white.

Damn you for making her care. Damn you for taking her heart. Damn you for making her realize how dreadful life is without you.

Weems walked back into the room, her heels clicking against the wooden floor.

Wednesday hastily walked up to the principal, "so?"

"No teachers know of her whereabouts either." Weems sighed.

Wednesday clenched her jaw, feeling her stomach drop, "I'm going out."

Weems' features softened, yet she shook her head, "I cannot allow you to leave in these weather conditions, Miss Addams."

"Me?" Wednesday scoffed indignantly, "what about her?"

"We don't know-"

"Exactly, we don't," she interrupted Weems, urgency filling her words because the reality that you could be taken from her just like that, was too palpable, and Wednesday doesn't like to feel a pain she can't control; "for all we know we could find her dead body in the woods and-"

"What happened?"

Both Weems and Wednesday snapped their heads towards your voice, relief evident on both their faces when they saw you unharmed.

You were soaked to the bone from walking in the pouring rain, drenching the rug beneath your feet as your hair and clothes clung to your body.

Weems gave you a glare that let you know you had to explain yourself later, but she left the room right after, knowing you and Wednesday deserved some privacy.

Wednesday's hands were closed into fists beside her, nails almost digging on skin as she watched you walk up to her with a soft frown on your eyebrows; as if you were unaware of the mess your absence had caused on her, as if you didn't know her vision was blurring over because for a second she thought all she'd have of you were memories.

Wednesday was enraged, her lungs being unable to hold air properly and turning her breathing erratic, "are you stupid?" She threw at you, making you flinch.

"What the hell were you thinking?" She continued, taking a step closer to grasp at that damn hoodie you insisted on wearing all the time, "don't dare do it again you hear me? I forbid you." She emphasized each word with a shake to your body.

Your answer was to wrap your arms around her, and she fought you, tried to push you away, but your hold was stronger. You held Wednesday's body to you until she collapsed, her weight mostly supported by you as her tears mingled with the raindrops still on your skin and the wetness of your clothes seeped into hers too.

Her nails dug into the fabric of your hoodie and she buried her head in your neck; breathing you in, feeling your heartbeat against her own.

"I'm sorry. I'm okay," you mumbled countless times like a mantra, your lips brushing the shell of Wednesday's ear.

It felt like a promise that you later sealed with a soft kiss on her lips. It was a little cold and wet, but you were there.

—

If Wednesday knew that would be your last kiss, she'd have held on to you a little longer.

Maybe that's why she feels so miserable today, because of the rain.

It's easier to put the blame on something she can't control, something she can't regret.

Part of Wednesday wants to be selfish and only keep the good memories, not the bad ones, but sometimes your words still echo in her mind;

"I'm sorry I didn't say anything, I just went into town to pick something up, for you, actually. The rain picked back up on my way back… I didn't mean to make you so worried."

And her own words still plague her too;

"It was reckless, it's like you enjoy being an inconvenience sometimes, I was perfectly fine not needing anyone in my life until you showed up."

That conversation ended with you storming out of Wednesday's room, your hoodie staying behind on top of her bed. It was two weeks ago, and she never got to know what it was you wanted to give her.

You haven't exchanged a word with each other since.

Begrudgingly, Wednesday gets up from her spot on the floor. The sleeves of your hoodie pool on her wrists. Your perfume is weaker, fading with each passing day.

What happens when she can't remember what you smell like anymore? When she can't fool herself that your arms are the ones around her and not the lilac fabric?

Wednesday lifts her pillow, placing your picture under it before putting it down again.

Maybe the time to let go is nearing. But it's a hard task when she has glimpses of you every day, in every class, in every corner of the school.

She takes off your hoodie and puts it back in her wardrobe, there's a place reserved for it there. Sometimes she wonders if you'll ever come back to get it.

Wednesday goes to her bathroom and throws water on her face, she doesn't need people looking at her funny because of her red-rimmed eyes.

There's a bit of hesitance on her steps down the stairs. Dinner will be served soon and Wednesday knows what awaits her at the cafeteria, or better, who.

The sound of rain is all she can hear, it's dreadful, you've ruined it for her. You've ruined so many things for her.

Wednesday walks into the cafeteria and finds you almost immediately, in the sea of outcasts, you stand out. You always have, as much as she doesn't want to admit it. You're sitting by the window, lollipop on your lips as you talk with your friends.

Whatever it is that keeps you tied to her — magnetism, gravity, electricity; it must be a little bit of each — it's still there. Because you look her way, it's like you can feel her presence too, your lips halting in their movement when your eyes find hers. But you're shaking your head and averting your gaze from the doors she stands in front of the second after.

Sometimes Wednesday thinks you look at her with the same feelings you forced on her when you left; with longing, with sadness, with something bittersweet.

Wednesday wonders if you'd be willing to give her a second chance. She wonders if you think about her at night too.

She wonders, but she never asks. She doesn't know that all she had to do was ask.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Read ch 2 here

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keep me motivated to continue posting here, so I'd appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment if you want. <3

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[talesofesther]

love the way you love me

Wednesday Addams x Reader

Summary: You navigate through a relationship with Wednesday, slowly discovering the tenderness of her love.

A/N: This is a valentine's day special. It's not even valentine's day where I live but Tumblr got me in the mood for it, so I wrote one of the most heartfelt stories I've ever done I think. Soft!Wednesday because I said so. <3

Masterlist

"Wednesday," you gasp. It falls on deaf ears.

Your eyes are closed. You can feel surprisingly warm hands sneaking under your shirt, lightly clawing at the skin there.

"Wednesday," you try again, the words are muffled against burgundy lips.

Your hands can't help but bury themselves in silky black hair.

She's addictive. She'll be the death of you.

And she's going to love every minute of it.

"You talk too much," Wednesday whispers against your mouth, her lips brushing yours.

You kiss the words, causing your nose to bump into hers before you pull away, "Weems will have my head if I'm late again today because of you."

If you try to tell this secret to anyone, they won't believe you. In some sense, you love it. She feels yours to keep, only yours.

She pulls back, hazy dark eyes piercing into your soul. All lightly swollen lips and flushed cheeks. She's divine.

"A well-worth sacrifice, don't you think?" Wednesday ducks her head, partly hiding herself behind her bangs after she says it.

A year ago, when she first stepped foot in Nevermore, she promised she wouldn't get attached or fall in love.

For a little over two months, her growing feelings for you have been proving her wrong.

Hidden behind closed doors and dark corners, you managed to get her cold heart beating harder than ever.

She despises it, and at the same time, can't get enough of it.

You bring a hand up, your thumb brushing away the smudged lipstick on the corner of Wednesday's lips.

She leans the tiniest bit toward your touch against her own volition, her nails making half-moons on your skin.

"You're a bad influence on me, Addams."

You can feel the shape of her smirk under your fingertips.

"It's what I do best."

—

Once a year, Nevermore's hallways gain a burst of color to them. What usually is all dark wood and grey stones, takes on extra shades of pink and crimson red; paper hearts are stuck to the walls and roses cover the gardens of the school. All in time to strike a cupid's arrow through the student's hearts for valentine's day.

You walk beside Bianca on the quad, smiling softly at the pink ribbons that decorate the outside area.

"I think I already regret offering to help with the roses," Bianca complains with a huff, "valentine's day is only tomorrow and we already have more than one hundred of them to deliver."

Her frustration makes you chuckle, an 'I told you so' lingers on your tongue yet you refrain from saying it. "Look on the bright side, you're helping to spread the spirit of love," you tease.

The siren scoffs. She comes to a stop in front of a red table, 'Nevermore's roses' is written on the bulletin board just above it in cut-out pink letters.

It's a tradition as much as it is a popularity contest in the school. Every year, students would send their crushes a red rose; some are bold enough to write a note declaring their love, some prefer to remain anonymous.

Bianca received more than ten roses last year. You got one, but Enid's proud smile had let you know it was just her attempting to soothe your heart; not a secret admirer.

"When are you gonna tell me to deliver your rose?" It's Bianca's turn to tease you, a grin playing on her glossy lips.

"Not today, that's for sure," you cross your arms over your chest, gaze skimming over the quad until it lands on a certain Addams girl; she's glaring at the colorful ribbons that adorn the walls as if they just committed unspeakable crimes.

You find yourself unwillingly smiling just at the sight of her.

Bianca catches your staring, she leans in closer to your ear, "I bet she would swoon."

You push her away, giggles escaping your lips and heat coming to your cheeks, "shut up."

Bianca joins in on your laughter, both of you unaware of watchful dark eyes on you from the other side of the quad.

—

It's in times like these, that Wednesday realizes that you've softened her.

Her pinkie is hooked with yours. You gently swing your joined hands back and forth. Your eyes are mostly focused on the sky, on the trees of the park, or on the buildings you see as you walk through Jericho's streets.

You drag Wednesday with you when you bend down to pat a dog or walk a little quicker to point out a pretty bird. No matter what, you don't let go of her.

Wednesday should be annoyed. In the beginning, she wanted to be. But she's not, and as the days go by, she's made her peace with the fact that you have the power to soften her.

She has never craved someone's presence, until she had a taste of yours. It's something Wednesday will take to the grave with her, but she secretly cherishes these little moments.

You end up stopping at the Weathervane for coffee as a light drizzle starts falling outside.

You sit down at the booth first, and Wednesday hesitates for a beat before deciding to sit beside you and not in front of you.

She orders coffee. You order hot chocolate. It's peaceful.

After you take the first sip, Wednesday feels your pointer finger tapping her thigh, and maybe that's why you're her exception. You don't push, you don't force, you're willing to love her the way she likes to be loved.

And no one can love Wednesday the way that you do.

It's new, and her chest still tightens in anticipation; but Wednesday turns her hand anyway, palm up, telling you it's okay.

Your fingers thread between hers, intertwining your hands together in a tender grip. Your thumb brushes her skin, and you lift her hand to your lips, placing a feather-like kiss on her knuckles.

Wednesday feels the warmth of your breath.

She loves to be loved by you.

When Wednesday is just a sip away from finishing her coffee, she finally breaks the silence; "what were you and Bianca talking about earlier?"

"Hm?" You turn to look at her, not sure what she's referring to.

Wednesday gulps down the remains of the bitterness of coffee still on her tongue, feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable under your gaze. "Today in the quad, you were laughing."

"Oh," you recall with a faint smile, "it was nothing, we were just talking about the valentine's day tradition."

Right. Wednesday furrows her brows in thought, subconsciously squeezing your hand. That ridiculous tradition.

She never cared for it. Valentine's day was pathetic in her eyes and any traditions that came with it usually made her sick to her stomach.

But this year there's a break in the pattern. You.

"Do you care for it?" Wednesday finds herself asking.

"Valentine's day?" You purse your lips, shaking your head softly, "kinda? Not much. Bianca does though, and she thinks I should too."

Wednesday inhales sharply, you see her blinking a couple of times. Too many emotions swim behind her eyes for you to put a finger in any of them.

She can be fragile sometimes. It's rare, but it happens. She's been hurt once, the fear still lingers like a poorly healed scar. You think that's the reason why whatever you are to each other, doesn't have a name yet.

—

It's that look in Wednesday's eyes that makes you sneak out the night before valentine's day. You don't care about labels, but you do care that Wednesday knows what she means to you.

You find yourself going to the greenhouse, praying to every higher entity that no one sees you or Weems would never let you live this down. You rummage through the many rows of plants for the one that always reminds you of the raven-haired girl.

Next, you find Bianca, she opens her dorm room door for you with an annoyed tilt to her brows. She's in her pajamas and was clearly ready to go to bed. But this can't wait.

"Sorry," you utter quietly, sweaty hands tight around your flower, "but I think you were right."

Bianca's gaze shifts from you to the flower you're holding; Wednesday's name is tied around it with a black ribbon and hurried writing on paper so it doesn't get mixed up when the students go to deliver all the anonymous roses at the end of class. A knowing smirk comes to Bianca's lips as she rolls her eyes endearingly.

"Though, I think this one would be more fitting," you can feel heat coming up to your cheeks as you extend the flower to her.

It'll break the tradition, but she's worth it.

—

The next morning couldn't have dawned soon enough. It should be a day like any other, but you can't help the fluttery on your chest as you skip down the stairs of your dorm.

Wednesday is waiting for you just beside the doors that lead to the quad, in your own little private space, just shy of meeting the curious eyes of your peers. Her hands are buried in her pockets as she leans on the wall, her leather backpack resting by her feet. She straightens her posture when her eyes find yours.

You think she feels it too, the shift in the mood.

You stop in front of her, taking in her neatly made braids, the tie that's just a little loose around her neck, and her big doe eyes. Your fingers itch to hold her. "Hi Wednesday," you breathe in adoration.

The corner of Wednesday's lips tilt up in the ghost of a smile, her nimble fingers reach out to hold your jaw so she can press a gentle kiss to your lips.

Contrary to what others might think, her love is always tender. Your hands find her waist, tugging her body closer to yours in an embrace as you reciprocate her affection by pressing your lips firmly to hers; and you feel her melt against you.

And it's in the way that you are able to strip her of her defenses, that Wednesday sees her lingering piece of hesitance; the reason she avoids naming what you have together. Saying things out loud means making them real.

If she tells you just what you do to her, she's allowing you to break her if you ever leave.

But maybe you'll prove her wrong on that too, and she hates to admit that part of her longs for it.

—

It's after lunch that Wednesday seeks you out again, a bit of urgency tugging at her heartstrings quickens her steps.

She's able to hear her own heartbeat in her ears as she has a staring contest with the door that leads to your room. Her skin is hot and prickly under her clothes because of how fast she walked, or maybe it's because of what she's thinking about doing.

Three soft knocks sound on your door, and she waits with bated breath.

You turn the doorknob to see Wednesday on the other side, she has one hand behind her back and the other holds a Black Dahlia; the one you choose.

You bite back a smile.

"Bianca delivered this to me after class," Wednesday tells you, raising a brow, "told me to be nice."

Her tone gets you chuckling, "for the record, I didn't ask her to say that," you tell her.

Wednesday hesitates — she seems to do that a lot around you — her lips hovering before any words come out. The orange light of the hallway is casting a golden glow on her. "So it was you?"

You nod timidly, gesturing for her to come in. When she does, you close the door to your dorm, and the familiar bubble of intimacy finally settles around you.

"I know you don't care about today," you start, your hands already slick with perspiration. "But I wanted you to know how I feel anyway."

Wednesday catches the hidden words in the way you're looking at her; the 'you're it for me, it's you and no one else' that goes unsaid.

No one has ever looked at her the way that you do.

A beat passes, a beat where, for the first time, she hopes you can see what she doesn't say too. Because what Wednesday feels for you, she doesn't feel for anyone else.

She stiffly extends her hand to you — the one that's been behind her back since she arrived — holding out a little sunflower for you to take. She refuses to meet your eyes, her usually pale cheeks and the tip of her ears now burning a soft shade of pink.

Wednesday clears her throat, clearly bothered that you're not taking the flower and she has to say it; "I don't need other people to deliver mine."

Your heart melts. You both broke tradition.

Gentle as ever, you take the flower from her, your eyes crinkling on the sides because of your smile. You bring it to your nose to feel the perfume, humming appreciatively.

You take a step closer to her, your socked feet bumping her boots. You hear the catch on her breath when you push aside a few strands of her fringe, your fingers lingering on her skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake.

"You're growing soft, Wednesday Addams," you had to tease.

A glare is thrown your way, her features hardening the slightest bit. It gets you smiling more, you lean up to plant a kiss on her forehead and delight in the fact that she tries to follow when you pull away. "Thank you," you whisper.

Just say it. Wednesday urges herself, shooting down her ego and the unpleasing twist in her stomach at the prospect of voicing her wishes. She grasps your free hand with hers then.

"I would-" the words feel heavy on Wednesday's tongue, but she forces them out before any second thoughts could take them from her;

"I'd like to call you mine… If you'd like to call me yours too?"

And now you're just looking at her wide-eyed, your grip on her hand becoming slack. You're not speaking, you're not moving. Wednesday doubts you're even breathing.

She shifts uncomfortably in her stance, feeling smaller by the second under your eyes. It's unnerving.

"You don't want this," Wednesday mumbles, and she despises the way her voice cracks in the middle of her sentence.

In the same heartbeat, you finally answer; "I want this," your hold on her hand returns and you tug her closer still, "I really do."

Wednesday blinks a couple of times until her eyes can find a place to focus on your face. She gulps; "don't make me regret it." It's supposed to be a threat, but it sounds more like a plea.

Your forehead rests against hers, her fringe tickling your skin as you feel her soft breathing ghost over your lips.

"I would never."

Wednesday feels more than hears your words over her lips. And she believes you.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keep me motivated to continue posting here, so I'd appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment if you want. <3

Wednesday’s taglist: @milkiane @bookfrog242 @heelaechan @imagine-reblog @simp4wanda26 @sakurarukas @bluetreecloud20 @the-night-owl-blr @imlike-so-gaydude @user284747 @dreifhraniquo29 @emeraldevan @simp4nat @boobabietch @impossibleliv1031 @deadpool-in-a-snood @rainbow-love4ever @maria-403 @pompompuri @halleest @wandaromanova @marveloussimp @rainbow-hedgehog @left-and-right-up-and-down @get-the-fuck-outta-here @awolfcsworld @elduster @alexkolax @georgi-salva @imdumbhi @youralphawolf72 @reginassweetheart @justyourwritter69 @yangsroboarmm @8e-h-e8 @irish-piece-of-trash @femalehomosexual666 @thenextdawn @trishatheotaku

[talesofesther]

scorch marks | ch 1

Wednesday Addams x Reader

Series Summary: Wednesday has been careful to keep what you two have behind closed doors and far away from labels; but when someone starts to take it — take you — away from her, she realizes how much she cares.

Requested by anons: one, two, and three.

A/N: Yes, I combined three requests here. It was a bit of a challenge to make these requests and keep Wednesday in character, but I truly hope I'm doing an okay job; let me know. <3

Masterlist

You're drowning in a sea of lavender.

There's a mix of dust there too, given the forgotten shelves, brooms, and crates of the small storage room, but her perfume still fills your nostrils. It gets you thinking of white and purple orchids under a midnight moon.

Maybe too soft for Wednesday Addams. But what is she now, if not soft?

Her lips, plush and purposeful against yours, leave tiny smudges of burgundy lipstick on the corner of your mouth every time she pulls away to gasp for air. Her hands, cold and precise, keep your body in place; one grasping onto your jacket, the other disappearing beneath it, leaving goosebumps on your hip in its wake. Her bangs brush against your forehead when she tilts her head, so close it gets you shivering.

There's a delicacy to her that shouldn't be there but is anyway. So could she blame you? For associating her with everything beautiful and enchanting in the world?

You bring a hand up to her jaw as you hear the commotion outside, telling you that it's time to go. And you think to yourself; just one more minute.

Wednesday is the first to pull away, slowly as her blown pupils travel down to your reddish lips and back up to your eyes. She gulps, setting her jaw into something sharp as her chin angles up. The fingertips that had been touching your waist let go in a lazy motion.

Her hair is a bit of a mess and it's your fault — the light is dim in the small room, casting an orange glow that makes you squint to see — you make to tuck it behind her ear, but she takes half a step away from you as if abruptly waking up from a dream.

You're familiar with her, honestly, in such a way you never thought you would be. Even before the whole deal with the Hyde attacks and Crackstone, your relationship with Wednesday had a constant push and pull; as the tides do with the shells that rest too close to shore. You didn't know exactly where you stood with her when she said you were nothing but an inconvenience in her mystery, but came running when Thornhill shot you; all wobbly chin and glistening eyes, repeating like a mantra that you weren't allowed to close your eyes — you didn't see her for two months after that, and when the classes came back, it took one more month for her to steal her first kiss with you. That was three weeks ago.

With a careful thumb, Wednesday cleaned the smudged lipstick below her lower lip. Your eyes followed the movement as you stuffed your hands in your pockets. For some reason it got you smiling, faintly so.

"Don't come out right after me." Was all Wednesday told you before reaching for the door handle.

You snapped out of your daze; "but I have to go-" the door slammed as she walked outside, her footsteps mingling with all the others, "to class too." You finished in a lower tone to yourself.

Wednesday walked briskly through Nevermore's hallways, not once looking back while she put as much distance between her and her demise as she could. Being alone — as alone as one could be in a school filled with outcasts — was such a desperation that she only noticed her missing backpack when she was already halfway to class.

She came to a sudden halt, her boots scratching the stone floor and causing a couple of gorgons to almost topple over her, but she didn't move an inch. With a side gaze, Wednesday glanced behind her. There were no familiar faces in the crowd, but she caught herself looking for one.

If her parents could see her now, they wouldn't believe their eyes. Maybe they'd be happy, that she's finally forging relationships. But could it be a good thing? Is the constant twisting and turning of her stomach a good thing? Is it healthy that, most nights as she lays in her bed, she spends the minutes before sleep thinking about it?

What does it mean, that ever since Wednesday came back to this school after saving it, a new character has been introduced in her novel; and with each page that's filled in her typewriter, she gets closer to Viper?

No one got Wednesday feeling the way she did when she was with you. Not even Tyler, and she kissed him; so was it bad that she's been doing the same with you? A big part of her screamed yes, the other, not so much. And those two wolves inside her chest were still fighting.

Wednesday could recall in detail the first time she kissed you; of course, it's not even been a month yet. But she fears that even if it had been years, decades, the memory would still be intact.

She remembers that Eugene had gone away to pick something up, leaving only you and her in the bee shed. You had been rambling about a new small group of bees you recently rescued and how they now needed a new Queen; you just kept talking and talking, until the words became background noise and the fluttering of your lashes seemed almost in slow motion. Wednesday had been inching closer yet neither of you noticed, not until she ended up with one hand behind your neck, her lips doing quick work of shutting you up.

To this day she's not sure why she did it. But there was this force, this annoying pull to you that got her chest hurting if she didn't comply. The pain was almost as forceful as the one she felt with the sight of your abdomen oozing blood from the bullet wound, with the dropping of a single tear when she imagined herself wearing black in your honor.

You got her breaking her own rules, you became her favorite secret and sin, because Wednesday was quick to get addicted to the thrill of it. One kiss turned into two, that turned into three, until behind every closed door she left scorch marks in her own cold heart.

She never put a name to it, and you didn't either. It was never discussed what was happening between you two, and Wednesday liked it this way. What's not set in stone can't come back to hurt her, or break her trust.

There was only one problem though. Little sparks of flame in the moments that got Wednesday's skin filling with goosebumps. It was the way you traced the outline of her lips with your thumb, gentle as if she'd break in your hold; the pulse of her own heart in her ears when her body was glued to yours; the brief look you get in your eyes as soon as she pulls away, as if she hung up the goddamn moon. Those are the things that swing too close to reality, too close to inflicting damage, and got her blood running cold. They remind Wednesday why emotions come with a price, and why she needs to keep her distance.

Ultimately, Wednesday decides that she doesn't need her backpack anyway.

—

You get to the anatomy class ten minutes late. The door creaks when you open it, causing everyone to look at you. You grimace, mumbling an apology through pursed lips.

There's a skeleton of a werewolf in a large print over the board, beside it there's a smaller one of a gorgon and then a vampire, and so on. Though anatomy is not your favorite subject, this is one of your favorite classrooms, it has huge windows on one side and most of them have an array of plants enjoying the sunlight that shines there. The teacher — an older, kind woman with a light blue dress — is separating small cutouts of paper in a bowl, mixing them up together, and it reminds you that today will be the draw of subjects for your assignment.

You walk quietly between the tables of your colleagues, carrying your bag over your shoulder and Wednesday's black leather backpack in your hands.

Her dark eyes shift to you when you stop beside her. You smile something shy, dropping her backpack by her feet before you walk over to your table and sit down. Wednesday shows no reaction to it other than the way she follows you with her eyes, but you don't mind, quickly diving into conversation with your partner in class, Yoko.

You and Yoko have been thick as thieves since you came to Nevermore three years ago, she was the first one you befriended; Enid came right after, but Yoko was still the one you partnered with in most classes.

Right now you dug your teeth into your lower lip as you fished for one of the folded papers the teacher had in the bowl, and when you picked up the one that read vampire, you couldn't help but squeal in happiness. It was one of the easiest ones to work with.

Wednesday watched with hawk eyes as you smiled big, your hand grabbing onto Yoko's arm when you showed her the subject of your assignment.

There was a pink pencil being twirled between Wednesday's fingers, her black nails scraping its color each time she huffed angrily. Her jaw was clenched, almost painfully so; because the girl with the round sunglasses shouldn't be leaning this close to you. When Yoko's hand covered your own — her thumb gingerly brushing over your knuckles as her fangs appeared in her smirk — the pencil Wednesday held in her hand snapped in half with a sharp sound.

"Hey!" Enid swatted at Wednesday's shoulder, pouting as she looked down at the now-ruined pink pencil, "that was one of my favorites."

Wednesday let go of it, letting both parts roll on the table; "it's just a piece of wood, Enid," she grumbled.

"Yeah well, it was my piece of wood," Enid's eyebrows had an annoyed crease to them, her lower lip jutted out as she looked at Wednesday, "what's got you grumpier than usual?"

Wednesday let out an indignant scoff, forcing her eyes away from you because each time you touched Yoko, her murderous intent grew, though she wouldn't admit or acknowledge it yet. She was above such trivial feelings — or so she hoped. "I'm not grumpy, Enid," she said pointedly, picking up a paper from the bowl without looking at it, "just felt like breaking something."

Enid's sudden giddy gasp got Wednesday flinching slightly, the folded paper being snatched from her hands before she even fully opened it.

"Oh yes, we got werewolves! That's me." The blonde took hold of Wednesday's shoulder, shaking her slightly, "this is going to be so much fun."

Wednesday huffed sharply, her bangs going side to side because of Enid's excitement. Her gaze shifted to you against her own volition and she was met with you already looking at her; it got her straightening on her seat, her hands fisting the fabric of her skirt. But a hand touched your shoulder, and you turned away promptly.

Your cheeks molded all prettily around your smile, and Wednesday watched as you put a hand in your heart, making a silly show of bowing to Yoko — as best as you could sitting so damn close to her.

It made no sense to Wednesday that her chest felt hollow; that she had the sudden urge to throw the vampire girl in a pool of garlic just so she could take her place beside you. Because lately that's been her new normal, and now that someone seems to be taking it from her, she's realizing how much she actually cares.

————

The weekend came sooner than you thought it would. Ever since taking your subject in the anatomy class, you've been spending most of your free time with Yoko, and so far you've written down most of the particularities of a vampire's body — mainly the fangs honestly.

But today was your free free day, which meant going down to the lake, which got pretty busy on days like this; where the sky is basically free of clouds and the warm sun is shining down on the green fields outside the school walls.

The water was glistening brightly, and there was a slight breeze in the wind that got the leaves rustling around you. Basically, everyone was out because of the perfect weather, students were swimming on the lake, reading, practicing archery, or just walking by the shore. You were enjoying a bit of peaceful time — that is, until a splash of water came over you.

You sat up abruptly from your place under the huge willow tree, the picnic blanket wrinkling under you. Cleaning the droplets of water from your sunglasses — Yoko's extra sunglasses actually, that you shamelessly snatched — you shouted; "watch it, Xavier, some people wanna remain dry."

The boy in question had just emerged from his jump, shoulder deep into the lake and squinting at you because of the sunlight in his eyes, "sorry, my bad," he chuckled, swatting away his long hair, now dripping wet.

"I'm telling you, the guy's got a crush on you since your first year."

Your head snapped to Yoko, who lay just beside you. Leaning back on your elbows, you picked at a few loose strands of the red and white blanket beneath you; "Xavier? No, no way."

There was a nest of birds on the branches above you, you could hear the mother calling out to her babies, loud and sharp. You caught a glimpse of her feathers when she flew, white and blue.

Yoko followed your gaze, her eyebrows scrunching as she searched for the bird; "hm yeah, I'm pretty sure."

With a thud, you let yourself fall down flat on the blanket, your head hitting the softness the grass under it provided. "No, come on. Besides, he's not even my type."

That sparked Yoko's attention, she propped herself up on one elbow, turning to you so she could look down at you better. "Who is your type then?" She raised a perfectly styled eyebrow, her dark sunglasses mixing well with the darker lipstick.

You could feel your cheeks automatically heating up. You thought of raven black hair, soft skin that's a little cold under your touch, and eyes so dark you swear you can see galaxies in them.

"Maybe a certain gloomy, cold-hearted Addams?" Yoko suggested with a shit-eating grin before you could answer, gingerly twirling a strand of your hair between her fingers.

You chuckled, one hand coming up to cover your eyes as you bit the inside of your cheek; "stop it, that's not-"

"Not accurate?"

"Not that simple."

Yoko hummed, taking a sip of her cold drink before laying back down, her shoulder brushing yours. "You've been dancing around each other for so long, I wouldn't even be surprised if she got you a valentine's gift."

"She wouldn't," you mumbled.

"You deserve someone who would, though," Yoko told you, turning her head to you, "hope she knows that."

Without meeting her gaze, you tangled your hand with the vampire's, giving a soft squeeze to let her know you agreed.

Yoko groaned playfully, her finger tapping yours; "alright, stop sulking. I catch her looking at you way too often that it's like, impossible it doesn't mean anything."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and Enid keeps asking if there's something between you two already."

The sunlight started to peek through the leaves, you raised a hand to play with its light, faintly hearing Enid's panicked gibberish before Ajax threw her on the lake, his own splash coming right after. You sighed, closing your eyes; "it's… complicated."

Not even ten seconds after you spoke, the sunlight vanished completely as a shadow was cast upon you. You frowned, noticing a smidge of darkness over your eyelids; you opened your eyes to see Wednesday standing right beside you, gazing down at you with a scowl on her features that even got you a bit worried for your safety.

You pushed your sunglasses up and propped yourself on your elbows, looking at her through your lashes; "Wednesday, hey. Everything alright?" As happy as you were to see her, it wasn't common for her to join you all on the lake.

Wednesday's focus changed between you and Yoko carefully, her bangs getting messy with the wind; she looked like a painting, like something worthy of being in a museum. You could easily lose yourself just by looking at her but before it happened, Wednesday blinked, moving her gaze away from you, and said; "I need you for something, let's go," her tone tight.

And with that, she was taking purposeful steps away from you and towards the woods. Your lips hung open for a second, something seemed off.

"Doesn't look complicated to me." Yoko teased with a chuckle.

"Shut up." You grumbled before scrambling to your feet and jogging towards Wednesday, quickly falling into step beside her.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Read ch 2 here

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are very much appreciated. <3

Wednesday’s taglist: @milkiane @bookfrog242 @heelaechan @imagine-reblog @gayestfeels26 @sakurarukas @bluetreecloud20 @the-night-owl-blr

[talesofesther]

yours only

Wednesday Addams x Reader

Summary: You make Wednesday feel something she never felt before; jealousy. And maybe a bit of something else too.

Requested by anon

A/N: First time writing for her, who stole my heart pretty quickly. I hope this is okay, hope I could somehow capture her personality that's definitely not an easy one. Let me know what you think. Requests for her are open. <3

Masterlist

You felt a little petty, just a little, as you walked amongst the woods to meet Xavier in his secret spot, the one where he stored most of his paintings.

But he's been a good friend of yours ever since before Wednesday came to Nevermore, and if she can spend however long she wants in that coffee shop, why can't you do the same?

You weren't expecting to fall for her, in reality, you couldn't stand her in the beginning. But one doesn't choose one's feelings, and when underneath all that secrecy and nonchalant attitude she does things like; take an extra tray of breakfast for you when you wake up a little late, or help you in class when you forget the particularities of a flower, or even send Thing to your room in the dead of night with a written note for you to meet her the next day for an outing, which was code for sneaking out to investigate, but the gesture is there.

It was safe to say you were a goner. As much as it might be — her words, not yours — a terrible decision.

But lately, Wednesday has been distant. And you were jealous, even if you didn't have the right to be. So over the past week, you've been spending a good amount of time with Xavier. He's been helping you with your drawing skills, the piece you're working on now is almost done, and you're quite proud of it.

The entirety of your day is spent in Xavier's shed, laughing and painting and getting your head off of things. You think you see a dark silhouette spying on you from outside, but when you go looking, it's gone.

It's already late at night when you do go back to your dorm, your roommate is sneaking into her boyfriend's room tonight, so it's just you. You're looking forward to the quiet night.

You open the door to your room with a yawn escaping your lips. Your backpack is thrown somewhere to the side and you don't care much for where it lands, you stretch your muscles, a little sore for being in the same position most of the day. Only then do you take a glance over your room, and in the right corner, sitting by the end of your bed on the floor and mostly covered by the darkness, is Wednesday.

You almost jump out of your skin. With the way your heart is beating under your hand, you swear your soul did leave your body for a second; "holy shit Wednesday, a little warning next time."

Wednesday gets up, taking a single step towards you before deciding against it, her eyes never leave you. "You're distracted today, why?"

"Hello to you too," you grumble, taking off your jacket, "and, how did you even get in here, the door was locked."

There's a ghost of a smirk on her burgundy-painted lips, and it gets you wondering if they'd leave a print on you if you stole a kiss. "You can't expect a simple lock to stop me," Wednesday tells you.

You chuckle, knowing damn well there were few things out there that held any power over her. You just don't know that you happen to be one of them. "no, of course not."

A beat passes where you just look at each other, both waiting on something, wondering whether the other person’s feeling the same way. The air feels heavy around you, almost electrical.

You clear your throat and walk past Wednesday and to your wardrobe to pick up your pajamas, figuring a shower would do you good.

Wednesday has a staring contest with the back of your head as you rummage for clothes, her jaw is set tightly in place and she hates the feeling that's in her stomach right now. "You didn't answer my question," she says, with more bite than usual.

You huff, running a hand through your hair as you turn to her again. You walk up closer, your personal space mingling with hers.

She sucks in a sharp breath when you stop before her, her gaze darting to your lips before settling back on your eyes. It's so fast that you don't notice it.

"What question?" You ask.

Wednesday gulps, twisting her words into what she really wanted to know; "why are you spending so much time with Xavier?" She deadpans, as if she couldn't care less.

Your lips tilt up on the sides, because you know better, but you won't indulge her just yet. "Why are you spending so much time with Tyler?"

"This is childish."

"Indeed."

"His father is the sheriff, and I need information on the attacks," Wednesday raises her brow, "my relationship with him is merely convenient."

You bite the inside of your cheek, nodding softly, "well, Xavier has been my friend for years already, so…" You shrug and walk around her, heading to the bathroom.

"It doesn't look like it."

"Like what?" You turn and ask impatiently, waiting for her to do the same and look at you again.

Wednesday does so slowly, staring at you through her lashes. "Like you two don't want to be more than friends."

There's something complicated about her tone that you can't quite put your finger in. Her eyebrows are a little crooked, her eyes glinting just a little brighter under the moonlight and her hands painfully closed into fists. You realize she's upset.

You soften. For her, this might just be the equivalent of a crying plea. You walk over to where your backpack lays forgotten on the floor and carefully pull out your sketchbook. The cover is black and a little worn as you run your fingers over it, taking a steadying breath.

You sit down on your bed with it and pat the space beside you.

Wednesday regards you with caution, she's lost and not in control, two things she absolutely hates; however, she doesn't feel as uncomfortable when it's with you. She takes calculated steps to your bed and gently sits down beside you, closer than she thinks she should have, but it's too late to back down now.

"Xavier has been giving me a hand with a few of my drawings," you explain, opening your sketchbook on the last page you used, "and uh- this is the one I'm working on."

Wednesday takes the sketchbook from you, holding it tenderly between her fingers as if it could fall apart. Her heart beats erratically against her ribs, for a moment she thinks she can hear it. The feeling is foreign to her.

The drawing is a perfect picture of her, undoubtedly by your eyes, as she sits beside you in class, focused on her notes. It's a sight you're all too familiar with, one that you love. The lines are a little rough still, all black charcoal and dark ink; tracing the lines of her jaw and hair to perfection. It's pretty, probably not a word Wednesday usually would use to describe herself, but it's true now.

"I couldn't see Xavier as more than a friend," you tell her quietly, so as to not break the bubble of intimacy around you, "I'm afraid that spot is already taken."

Wednesday's gaze snaps up to you, and you think that's the most emotion you've ever seen her let on. You wish you could bottle this moment up like fireflies in a glass jar.

You reach out a hand, and Wednesday holds her breath before you even touch her, you do too. Her hair, deep black and so incredibly soft, meets the pad of your fingertips as you push it behind her ear. The motion is all delicacy and shyness, just a breath over the fragile line between you and her.

Wednesday's lashes kiss her cheeks when her eyes almost drop closed for a millisecond before she takes back control. She's stiff, hands now with a bruising grip on the sketchbook, "what are you doing?"

You inch closer, and when she doesn't pull away, you gently cup her cheek; her skin is a little cold under your touch. "What do you think I'm doing?"

For the first time in her life, her words get caught up in her throat before she forces them out; "Something you'll regret."

Smiling against your own volition, you whisper; "do you really believe that?"

Wednesday wonders if you're aware that you're killing her slowly; agonizingly, because you're so kind with her demise. She's the one who closes the gap between you, when you're just a hairs width away from her, one hand letting go of your sketchbook in order to bunch up your shirt in her fist and pull you to her.

It's everything you're not expecting, her eagerness, urgency even. She's kissing you like she's trying to memorize you, not sure if you're real or not. It's still soft though, still uncertain, still her.

When she parts, it's slowly, her lips almost refusing to let yours go. The outlines of your mouth are faintly smudged with her lipstick, testimonies of her affection, of how lucky you are to have it.

The sight pulls a smile from Wednesday, and consequently from you as well once you see it. Because albeit small, her smile is real, and you think you already have your next project for the sketchbook.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are very much appreciated. <3

Wednesday’s taglist: @milkiane @bookfrog242

[talesofesther]

I told the moon about you

Wednesday Addams x OC/Reader

Summary: Wednesday finds herself enchanted by the black wolf who always watches her play the cello in the dead of night.

A/N: This was written for a request sent by @roleplayfandom and I combined it with an idea of mine that I've had for a while, hope you don't mind and can still enjoy it. Arguably one of the most important stories I've written, because this oc has been my baby for so long, and I'm so happy to finally have the opportunity to include her in one of my stories; just hope I was able to do her justice with this. <3

Word count: 6,4k (sorry)

Masterlist

There was a drizzle in the air, the wind carried it around easily; tiny droplets of rain landed on the strings of Wednesday's cello that shook with each note she played.

Past the thin rain and clouds, the brightness of the full moon was nothing but a faded blur, casting a silver glow over the Addams girl and serving as the only witness to her spectacle.

The strong melody traveled with the wind same as the rain did, reaching the deepest parts of Nevermore and undoubtedly waking up a few students from their slumber. It only served as incentive — Wednesday could feel the burn on her fingertips as her song reached its momentum. The pain was welcomed, embraced.

When she released the strings, a soft sigh was let out as well. She blinked up at the moon above her, silently thanking it for its loyalty in keeping her most vulnerable moments a secret.

With uncanny delicacy, Wednesday lowered her cello, closing the case with a soft click.

The rain looked like it was starting to pick up, bigger droplets started to kiss Wednesday's cheeks, making their way down to her chin. The sky was darkening, with the moon fighting for a chance at a last goodbye to the one responsible for her favorite lullabies.

Wednesday walked up to the railings, her hands leaning against the wet concrete there. Save for the howling wind, it was strangely quiet.

But there was something different with today. Wednesday could feel it. She could feel the weight of a mysterious presence nearby.

As expected, her instincts never failed. It was dark, pitch black, the shape of trees blending together with one another in the distance.

But in the middle of the darkness, a pair of caramel eyes were spotted. They belonged to what appeared to be a black wolf; big in its size, ears pointy and tail long, fur a little spiked as it glinted from the raindrops that fell on it, almost resembling a starry night sky. It was just sitting there, on the grass of the gardens outside. Its golden eyes fixed intently all the way up to the balcony where Wednesday was standing.

The Addams girl expressed no reaction other than angling her chin up with furrowed brows, a dare; and the wolf understood, because it slowly stood up, its ears resting back against its head before it trotted out of sight and into the woods.

Wednesday remained under the rain until she could feel the wetness of it seeping into her clothes. Her hands held onto the railings tightly.

Turns out the moon wasn't the only witness tonight.

—

Those same golden eyes followed Wednesday in her dreams, and she woke up frustrated for not knowing who they belonged to.

Was it just a wild animal passing by or a student braving the woods past curfew?

The thought of the wolf being a student seemed… unlikely, because it looked much different from Enid when compared to her 'wolfed out' form. The black wolf was simply that, a wolf — albeit a tad bigger. Yet Wednesday didn't discard the possibility of it being someone. Someone who was watching her.

She tried pushing the thought out of her mind during the day for the sake of her grades.

"Miss Addams?"

Wednesday snapped her head up, only to see her anatomy teacher and the whole entirety of the class with their heads turned her way, eyes expectant as they waited for something to happen.

A scowl came to Wednesday's face at the unwanted attention. She rested both hands on her table, briefly realizing that the board had three extra paragraphs of lessons written on it that weren't in her notebook yet.

"I made you a question," the teacher continued, one of her hands coming to rest on her waist, "for how long can a gorgon stone a person?"

Wednesday gulped, her lips hovering open as she searched her mind for the useless information yet came empty-handed.

The teacher was annoying, one of the least liked by the Addams girl. She was old and wore long and colorful skirts, with obnoxiously large glasses resting atop her nose.

"It depends on the gorgon," a familiar voice suddenly said, "but usually from two to four hours."

Wednesday glanced beside her to where the owner of said voice sat, and was met with a smirk being directed at her. She huffed in annoyance, visibly rolling her eyes.

You had transferred to Nevermore a little over two months ago — adorning a pair of dark sunglasses you never took off and dressed in all black, save for the light pink pendant of your necklace — instantly getting into Wednesday's nerves the moment you stepped foot into the school and called her 'sweetheart'.

"Very well." The teacher looked between you and Wednesday, not entirely pleased that Wednesday wasn't the one who answered but deciding to let it pass, and turned around to write on the board again.

Wednesday didn't know what your deal was, no one did. No one knew who your family was, what were your abilities, or the reason you enrolled in Nevermore; not even Enid knew, and she was the gossip queen. Despite the ever-present sunglasses, one thing Wednesday knew for a fact was that you weren't a vampire, just by the way you scrunched your nose at the mere sight of blood; but that's about everything she knows so far.

Too smug for your own good, you leaned back on your chair. Wednesday could feel your gaze roaming up and down her body, before you said, quietly; "you're welcome-"

There was sunlight coming through the dusty windows. Wednesday could see her reflection in your glasses. "Shut up."

"Sweetheart," you finished with a grin.

The pencil that was thrown in your direction missed you only by an inch.

—

When Wednesday walked out onto the balcony of her dorm the next night, the wolf was already there.

She got a little taken aback by it, halting in her steps and gripping tighter onto the case of her cello. Wednesday immediately discarded the possibility of it being a coincidence or just a wild animal passing by. The wolf was there for her.

Those caramel eyes held a staring contest with Wednesday, and they eventually won. Satisfied, the wolf then lay down on the grass… and waited.

Long beats passed by until Wednesday finally sat down on her chair and adjusted her cello to be played. Her movements slow and calculated, all too aware of the heavy stare on her.

The moon was bright in the night sky, and Wednesday briefly glanced up at it, partly searching for some kind of reassurance but only finding that it wasn't a night of full moon.

When her gaze found the wolf again, she saw it looking up at the moon as well. The sharp silhouette of its muzzle being highlighted by the silver glow, fur flowing like silk with the wind.

Wolves sing for the moon, maybe that's why this one took a liking to the Addams girl.

There was hesitance on the way Wednesday's fingers hovered over the strings. Save for the occasional twitch of its tail, the wolf was unmoving on the grass, patiently watching.

Wednesday could tell the wolf to leave again, part of her knew it would obey. She didn't. She only closed her eyes, and started playing.

—

The next day, Wednesday made a trip to the school's library. She dug up every single book about werewolves and lycanthropy that she could find — some of them old, pages fragile to the touch and covered in a thick layer of dust.

The place was mostly deserted as per usual, and Wednesday saw no harm in staying. A table waited for her in the middle of the tall bookshelves, the only one hidden from sunlight.

She would be lying if she said she wasn't at least a little thrilled at the prospect of a new mystery. Things have been dull at school without an evil pilgrim trying to destroy it.

Though she was able to read in peaceful silence for all of ten minutes.

"What's with the sudden interest in furs?"

A heavy sigh left Wednesday's lips when she heard your voice. She sat straighter on her chair and chose to ignore you, pointedly turning the page of her book and focusing on it.

You hopped up on the table, sitting there cross-legged so you could face Wednesday, "you know your roommate is one, right? I bet she'd be happy to answer your questions."

See, there's a reason why Wednesday is bothered by your presence. Every time you're near, every time she can hear nothing but your voice or feel nothing but the warmth radiating from your body; Wednesday's little black heart gains a burst of color that should never exist, it picks up a faster rhythm and makes her skin crawl uncomfortably. It's a feeling that's been there once before, fleetingly, much smaller than it is now. But she's no stranger to what comes with it.

"I don't remember asking for your advice," Wednesday said, still refusing to look at you, her bangs hiding her eyes from you.

"Ouch," you mumbled, leaning back on your hands, "was just trying to help."

No one else but you could make Wednesday feel the slightest bit of remorse for snapping. And it's not like she paid attention to the last three lines she just read in the book anyway. Begrudgingly, Wednesday glanced up at you, and the moment her eyes found you, she knew it'd be a whole challenge in itself to look away again; the dim golden light of the table lamp framed your profile and the way your hair fell over your shoulder — for a second, it reminded Wednesday of her wolf.

Her wolf. The thought jolted her back to reality and she cleared her throat, heat rising to her cheeks as if you'd be able to read her thoughts.

"When are you gonna stop chasing after me like a lost puppy?" Wednesday didn't sound half as confident as she should for those words.

You raised an eyebrow at that, almost as if you wanted to be challenged. You leaned forward, bracing your elbows on your knees, so you could cast over every twitch on Wednesday's expression, your personal space shy of mingling with hers. "When you ask me to," you whispered.

The air felt electric, there was something enticing about the way you refused to back down sometimes. Wednesday felt the hair at the back of her neck rising with a shiver. If looks could kill, you'd be six feet under already — or at least fighting for air between her and this damn table. Wednesday couldn't decide which outcome she liked best.

Wood scratched against the floor as she suddenly pulled back the chair beside hers; "sit down properly, stay quiet," without looking at you, she shoved one of the books in your direction, "we're looking for a werewolf who can transform without a full moon."

—

Nothing. There was nothing in any of the books.

Wednesday walked back to her dorm without having learned a single thing. None of the books in the school had anything remotely close to the creature she saw the past two nights. Frustration was eating at her insides because she was running out of leads to follow, a dead end steadily approaching.

She went up the stairs of Ophelia Hall in a haste, pushing the door to her room out of the way and causing a loud thump that got Enid jumping on her bed, almost throwing her cell phone to Wednesday's side of the room.

"Jesus Wednesday, what did the door do to you?" Enid grumbled, sitting up on her bed.

Wednesday didn't respond, she threw her black backpack by the feet of her bed and came to stand in front of Enid. "What do you know of werewolves that can transform without a full moon?"

Slowly, a frown came to Enid's features. She turned off her phone when Wednesday kept glaring at it. "Nothing? Werewolves don't usually change without a full moon," Enid explained, confusion evident in her tone.

"And what if they did?"

"Then they're most likely not a werewolf."

Wednesday clenched her jaw in annoyance, she tugged at the tie around her neck, taking it off and messing up her hair in the process.

"Uh- my mother used to tell me about people who could shift into wolves at will, when I was younger," Enid kept going, wondering if that's what Wednesday was after.

The tie fell to her feet and Wednesday came to sit beside Enid; "tell me."

"Well, I don't know much about it, just that they're technically not werewolves. At least not like me," Enid shrugged, her colorful nails tapping her knee as she searched her brain for the stories she heard as a kid. "Oh, people used to call them hellhounds… pretty creepy if you ask me," she grimaced momentarily, "because they could change form whenever they pleased, and their… looks didn't help either, it made others scared of them. Most of the hellhounds succumbed to the fame and lived up to the name back in the 1850s I think, from what I know."

Wednesday narrowed her eyes, "lived up to the name?"

"Killers," Enid gulped, "or hunters, as they'd call it. My mother always told me they were no good, so I guess the bad rep still follows," she shrugged, "maybe that's why no one has seen one for the past twenty years or so."

—

Wednesday didn't sleep that night. She kept staring at her ceiling and going over everything that Enid had told her. And the only other thought on her mind was you. It was inevitable, too fitting for it to be a coincidence.

Every time she's seen that wolf she felt the exact same tug on her heart that you so inconveniently brought. It couldn't be a coincidence.

For a week straight, Wednesday waited for the wolf to appear every night so she could start playing her cello. And every night without fail, the wolf was there; same place, same time. It would lay down, watch her, and then leave.

—

On the tenth night, Wednesday wasn't on the balcony of her dorm. She decided to break the pattern.

There was no moon in the sky tonight, it almost looked like a storm was brewing. The air was frigid outside, the grass already coated with a thin layer of ice. Wednesday enjoyed the cold, but even she was reprimanding herself for having only one coat on.

Glancing down at her phone, Wednesday saw that it was already five minutes past the usual time the wolf showed up. She wondered if it saw the empty balcony and left. Or maybe it wasn't going to show up at all tonight. She felt strangely disappointed at the thought.

A twig snapped behind Wednesday, causing her to hastily turn around with a gasp lingering on her tongue. The trees stood tall in front of her, creating a blanket of pure darkness between them, nothing could be seen. Nothing, except a pair of golden eyes. For a moment, they looked like they were floating on nothing, intently watching the girl in front of them as if she was prey.

For several beats, Wednesday waited. And then, one paw stepped out of the woods and into the grass, causing a chill to run down her back — not from fear, at least not only fear.

The name hellhound has never seemed more fitting. One paw in front of the other, white air huffing from its nose with each breath, fiery eyes, and fur as black as the night. It was almost as if darkness became alive.

Admittedly, it was bewitching.

The wolf, even on all fours, was almost as tall as Wednesday; and still, it kept its distance. If she didn't know any better, Wednesday would say it was afraid of her.

The night was suddenly calm, with not a single soul around to witness. Wednesday had come all the way down here tonight to put an end to things, discover who this wolf was and the reason behind all this… stalking?

Yet any words had died on her tongue and she found herself taking a step closer. The moment felt strangely delicate. When the wolf didn't move, she took two more steps.

Wednesday was reaching out before realizing it. The wolf's ears twitched, caramel eyes following her every move until her hand was barely grazing the dark fur. It was silky, engulfing her hand in a blanket of darkness as it sunk into the wolf's cheek.

Wednesday didn't dare breathe, trapped in a moment that felt unreal. But her attention was soon caught by a glint of color, dangling from the wolf's neck.

The wolf backed away as soon as Wednesday tried to take a closer look, bright eyes looking at her one last time before it bolted away into the woods.

—

The next night, her wolf didn't show up. And Wednesday sat on the balcony of her dorm in silence, waiting for something she knew wouldn't happen. She didn't play. Loneliness clawed at her heart.

A loneliness that shouldn't be there, but it was.

Wednesday found herself slipping away when the moon was highest in the sky, her bare feet feeling the cold of the wooden floor as she walked the empty hallways of Ophelia Hall. Maybe a walk out in the cold would take her mind of off foolish matters.

She walked until she eventually reached the main doors that led outside, stopping short of crossing the threshold. There was a figure sitting on the grass just ahead, cross-legged and looking up at the moon.

Wednesday would recognize you anywhere. She wondered why, for a fleeting second. "What are you doing?"

You tensed when you heard her voice. You had heard her coming, you heard the soft pattern of her steps down the stairs. You just weren't expecting her to talk. You didn't turn around to face her when you spoke; "admiring the moon."

Subconsciously, Wednesday's gaze shifted to the natural satellite in the sky, before settling back on you. She could barely make out the silhouette of your nose and cheeks, but she could tell you were smiling. Foolish. She thought to herself.

Why would you look at the moon as if it held your heart's affection?

Why would look at the moon like that, when Wednesday was standing right there?

The Addams girl let out an indignant scoff at her own inner thought, reprimanding herself for even coming up with it. She couldn't possibly be feeling jealous of a floating rock.

"What are you doing up?" You eventually asked, your voice gentle into the night.

If you turned around, you'd see Wednesday chewing at the inside of her cheek as she tried to chase away the mess of feelings swimming in her stomach. You'd see her take half a step toward you before deciding against it, and instead rushing back inside without giving you an answer.

But you didn't need one. Part of you already knew why she was there. It was the same for you, and it was bittersweet that you ended up meeting in the middle anyway, even if for a moment. Part of you wanted to run after her and just tell her.

—

You weren't sure why you did it.

On the first night, it was mere curiosity. You could remember the coldness of the grass beneath your paws, announcing the inevitable arrival of winter. You could remember the howling wind, causing your ears to twitch as the fur there felt sensitive to the force of it. You could remember the first drops of rain hitting your nose as you walked and how that's when you heard the first note of her song.

You followed it easily, soon finding yourself in the gardens that her balcony overlooked. And even seeing her all the way from down there, she was nothing short of entrancing. It was like you could feel her emotions through the music.

You never meant for Wednesday to see you though, even if all she'd see was a black wolf. But it happened, and yet you kept coming back, night after night; you couldn't help yourself. You started missing her. Because listening to her play felt like an escape from your unfortunate reality. It put you at ease.

But you should've known Wednesday would not settle for so little, you should've known from the moment you found her in the library, already digging up every last bit of information on anything regarding werewolves. You should've stopped then.

You didn't. Instead, you allowed her even closer, close enough to touch. On that night, part of you knew she'd already figured it all out.

—

It was a gray day outside. Fitting, you thought to yourself; as it was also your most dreaded day of the year. There was no more dodging it, you could fake sickness or an injury only so many times until it gets too obvious.

From your dorm's window, you could already see the familiar car pulling up in the parking lot. There was a bitter taste on your tongue, a suffocating feeling weighing down on your chest for what was to come. It felt like drowning.

It's tradition. That was what your father always told you. It's keeping the memory of our ancestors alive. As if they were anything worth remembering.

You couldn't care less. Part of you wanted to yell at him to stop living in the past, but you'd probably lose your tongue for that. Literally. He had called you yesterday to let you know he'd be coming, as if you weren't stressing over it for a whole week already.

There was a chilly air outside, you could feel it even before walking out the doors that led to the quad; and it was right as you were making your way out, that she bumped into you. A quiet grunt left her lips at the impact, and she only didn't fall to the ground because your hands steadied her; your hold warm on her waist, keeping her body the closer she's ever been to you.

Now, you never intended to fall for the resident Addams of the school. It just happened. Maybe it was your incredible bad luck; or those dark eyes that sometimes put the midnight sky to shame with their beauty. The teasing came with the package of your growing feelings for her, it was your natural defense mechanism whenever your heartbeat skyrocketed at the mere smell of her perfume. Though you could swear that, sometimes, you managed to get her cheeks a tad rosier than normal. It got you wondering if it was wishful thinking to consider the small possibility of her returning your affections.

"You good?" You asked, subconsciously squeezing her waist.

Wednesday stumbled back when she realized that if she leaned forward just a tad more it would result in her nose brushing yours. She blinked multiple times to focus back on you, yet the first thing her eyes found was the light pink pendant of your necklace, the very same she saw on the wolf the other night.

For someone who's always so hard to read, she let the facade slip pretty easily this time. Wednesday's features did something complicated, as if she wasn't sure what she should be feeling.

"You're my wolf," the words rolled off her tongue against her volition, her wide eyes darting from your necklace to the dark sunglasses resting on top of your nose.

An awkward chuckle escaped you. You felt a lot more timid than you thought you would, "what?"

Wednesday clenched her jaw, she felt anger but wasn't sure towards what; "you're the wolf I see every night, aren't you?"

Your lips hovered yet no words came out, you took a step away from her. If it where any other time, you'd be happy to bounce arguments off of her until inevitably confirming her idea; but her timing wasn't ideal, "W-Wednesday, now is not a good time-"

"Why did you hide it-"

"What part of 'hurry up' did you not understand?" A gruff voice interrupted both you and Wednesday. You only gulped and looked down at your feet, while Wednesday turned her head to see a tall man walking towards you. He wore a dark red suit and had the same golden eyes Wednesday saw on her wolf every night, though his held a much darker undertone to them. The man's gloved hand closed around your arm with a tight grip. "We don't have all day."

"I'm sorry, father," you mumbled as he dragged you away and you tried to keep up with his steps. You turned around to give Wednesday a last tight-lipped smile, "see you later, Wednesday."

—

The sun was nowhere to be seen when your father dropped you back at school again.

You had brushed your teeth three times already, but it still felt like the taste lingered, making you nauseous.

Part of you was grateful to have come back late, Nevermore's hallways were mostly empty at this hour already so you didn't have to explain your looks. It's not like you couldn't have freshened up at your family's cabin, you just didn't want to stay a minute longer than necessary.

So you hurried into the first bathroom you found, not really considering the fact it was a communal one and anyone could walk in on you.

—

Wednesday wouldn't call herself obsessive, more like committed. She had pending matters with you, and she was going to get to the bottom of them.

So of course she kept an eye out for when you'd return to school. She saw the car drop you off by the gates, following after you as soon as you walked inside.

When Wednesday pushed open the bathroom door, you were standing in front of the mirror, damp paper towels in your hand as you tried to clean a rather nasty cut on your cheek. Your sunglasses rested atop the sink, giving Wednesday a clear view of your eyes; they were a shade of caramel she was all too familiar with, the same ones that have been keeping her company at night.

You tensed up when you noticed her, your hand freezing midair as you were about to throw the paper into the trash can.

There was a silence that stretched uncomfortably as none of you seemed to know what to do next. You were shifting on your stance, breathing unsteadily and Wednesday feared you might run away, again.

She took a single step in your direction and asked the one thing she came for; "why have you been stalking me?"

As if breaking from a trance, you looked down and away from her; allowing your hair to fall from behind your ear and hide your profile. "I wasn't stalking you."

"What would you call standing outside my window at late hours of the night only to watch me play the cello?" Wednesday raised her eyebrow pointedly.

You chuckled humourlessly, "now you make me seem like a creep." You felt small under her piercing gaze, embarrassment twirling inside your stomach. Sure, when she said it like that, it sounded weird. But you were just enjoying good music, right?

You slowly turned around to face her, your hands gripping tightly onto the sink's edge behind you. "You never told me to leave," you said quietly.

Any words Wednesday might have thought of died on her tongue. She felt uncharacteristically shy knowing that it was you who'd been witnessing her late-night lullabies. Yet she was also glad that it was you, and not someone else.

You shrugged weakly, focusing your gaze on your feet, "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, I just- I heard you one night and-" you glanced up at her with a bittersweet smile, fragility still lingering on your heart and making your vision blur over. Even under the cheap artificial light of the bathroom, she was the most beautiful person you'd ever seen; alabaster skin contrasting with soft dark hair, sharp eyes, and burgundy lips — she had your heart on a leash.

"And I was blown away," you continued quietly as your feelings escaped you, "it was like I could feel what you were feeling through the music, and it was so freeing… I had to come back to it."

There was a distant ache in Wednesday's lungs, because she refused to breathe. Her heart was thundering against her ribcage as she took in each of your words. No one has ever made her feel as if she was a piece of art, worthy of a display at the most renowned museum, like you just did.

"I'm sorry if it seemed like I was stalking you," you breathed.

"Why keep it a secret?" She asked then.

Her sudden gentleness startled you. You've never heard her voice so soft. "I feared you might hate me." It went beyond just late-night encounters with a wolf Wednesday didn't know was you; you feared she'd hate what you could turn into; you feared she might see you as the thing you least want to be if she ever found out what you try to hide behind sunglasses and a snarky attitude.

It's because of the way your voice breaks at the end, that Wednesday finally looks at you. And she sees the tiny splatters of blood on your cheek, a cut running from your lip to near your ear, scrapes and bruises in your hands — you're nothing short of a mess.

And you weren't hers. Wednesday knew you weren't hers to worry about, to care for, to protect. Yet she had the annoying urge to do it all anyway.

She wordlessly closed the distance between you, the sound of her boots loud against the bathroom tiles. Taking a few paper towels, Wednesday dampened their edge under the running water of the sink. She hesitated before coming closer, it felt like crossing a line, walking down a road with no way back. Her eyes never left you as she came to stand in front of you.

Your grip on the sink's edge was bruising, knuckles white. You were so quiet, so on edge, so shaky; your eyes had a darkness around them, your lips quivering. It felt all wrong. Wednesday hated seeing you like this, without your usual light.

She raised her hand slowly, stopping short of reaching your cheek, "may I?"

You nodded, feeling a warmth rushing to your heart at the delicacy you didn't know she was capable of. A barrier had fallen between you. When you leaned against her touch, Wednesday started gently cleaning the few places still stained with blood on your skin.

"Did he do this to you?" Wednesday couldn't hold the question back anymore. A different kind of anger bubbled in her chest — one that was mixed with an unusual sense of protectiveness. "Your father?"

"Not him," you choked out, unable to look her in the eyes — not wanting to, "not directly."

Wednesday frowned at that, her eyes tried to chase after yours but you avoided her.

"He makes me do it." A tear rolled down your cheek, you bit into your lip to contain a sob, "he always makes me do it."

Wednesday would never dare call herself an empathetic person, but her chest clenched in pain to see you hurt. One of your tears fell on her thumb that rested on your cheek, and she wanted to take all the pain to herself.

"But I hate it, Wednesday," you told her fiercely, desperate for her to believe you, a new batch of tears coming to your eyes when you finally looked up at her, "I hate the killing."

The moon was high in the sky when Wednesday walked out of the bathroom, with you close by her side. The darkness of the night easily hid the way her hand was holding onto yours.

And as you walked through the gardens together, Wednesday could feel the shift in the air. You had told her about the 'stupid tradition', how your family gets together once a year for the hunt, and how you felt dirty, disgusted at the feeling of sinking your canines into the white fur of the rabbit. Yet they still make you do it.

The door to her dorm came before yours. You stopped in front of it with her, nothing but the dim yellow light hanging from the ceiling to make you company. The moment felt more intimate than it should be. Wednesday didn't look like the girl who threw pencils at you in class — there was a faint blush to her cheeks and her pupils were blown wide — she looked like someone you could love.

"Why don't you ever take it off?" Wednesday asked, shooting a brief glance at the necklace hanging from your neck.

You take the light pink pendant between your fingers, tracing the nooks and crannies in it, "it was my mom's," you said softly, "she was the only person who ever told me I didn't need to be what others said I was. That I didn't have to carry the sins of my forbearers."

Wednesday nodded softly, glancing up at you before she turned around. Her hand left yours and she instantly missed the warmth there, it made her think of how lonely the nights started to feel when her wolf wasn't there.

Her fingers hesitated on the doorknob, she looked at you from over her shoulder, "if you wish to see me play, stop lurking around," she pushed the words out quickly, "Enid is out until nine most nights."

And with that, Wednesday closed the door in your face, not giving you an opportunity to ask about the abrupt invitation.

On what was usually the worst day of the year for you, Wednesday managed to make you go to sleep with a smile.

—

There was suddenly an unspoken thing in the air.

Wednesday went about her day as per usual, following her routine precisely. But there was something making her feel as if spiders were crawling around inside her stomach; it happened each time she walked into a room hoping to find you there, each time she'd feel you looking her way and doing a poor job of pretending otherwise, each time she found herself checking the time on the clock to see how long was left for the sun to set, and especially, each time Enid pointed out her looking at you.

When night came, Wednesday had her cello already set up outside, and she sat on her bed with her eyes fixed on the door. She felt a little silly, waiting on you like this even if you hadn't given her the slightest hint you'd be coming at all.

But she hoped you would.

It was two minutes past the usual time she'd go out to play her songs, that Wednesday heard three knocks on her door. She opened it to reveal you on the other side, looking as nervous as she felt.

"Hi," you greeted with an awkward smile.

"Hello," she bit back a smile of her own.

You followed after her when Wednesday quietly made her way outside. You felt a little out of place, up here instead of down there on the grass. But when Wednesday played the first note on her cello, it was as if the whole rest of the world went quiet, and it was just you and her.

You figured you'd never be able to settle on watching her from a distance anymore. Not when you'd just had a taste of listening to her music so loud and clear, of watching her up close, following each small movement of her fingers on the strings and the twitches on her expression as she immersed herself in the melody. She captivated you in a way no other soul ever did.

Wednesday had her eyes closed the whole time, she knew she'd stumble on the notes if she blinked them open and saw the way you were looking at her — she could feel it though, the weight of your gaze; it was enough.

Only when the last note stretched out, that she did look back at you. And sure enough, the song ended with abruptness as she lost her focus.

Because Wednesday realized that you were looking at her the same way you looked at the moon. Maybe you always have been, for all of those nights you laid outside in the cold only to watch her play. She wondered for a moment if that is what love looked like.

And maybe that's the reason why, before even getting up, she decided she'd take that gamble.

"You are so amazing," you breathed out, your lips hovering as you gestured around in search of words good enough to describe your feelings.

Wednesday put her cello aside, getting up from her chair to take the few steps that separated you.

"I mean, every time that I hear you play I'm just-" you choked on your words, your eyes finding hers when you realized that with each beat of your frantic heart, she was coming closer, closer.

"I'm just in love," you told her in nothing but a whisper.

Wednesday had taken a hold of your jacket, and she halted only for a second when the word love left your lips. She didn't say it, but the way she was looking at you with the softest of eyes held a lot of love too.

The kiss she pulled you into might have been long overdue, given both of your eagerness. You were quick to grasp her waist and pull her body as close to yours as humanly possible.

Wednesday cupped your cheeks, holding you in place as her nose bumped yours and she gave a gentle nip on your lower lip.

She kept her lips on yours until her lungs screamed for air, pulling away slowly, feeling each one of your deep breaths grazing her lips. Wednesday felt your nails gently pressing against her spine, she felt you trace a path from her jaw to right below her ear where you chose to place a lingering kiss.

And she knew, right then and there, that she'd never be able to look up at the moon again and not think of her wolf.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

A/N: This is a storyline I'm definitely willing to expand, so if you have any requests regarding Wednesday and her wolf, feel free to send them in.

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keep me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment if you want. <3

Wednesday’s taglist: @milkiane @heelaechan @imagine-reblog @sakurarukas @bluetreecloud20 @the-night-owl-blr @imlike-so-gaydude @jjsmaybank20 @dreifhraniquo29 @emeraldevan @simp4nat @boobabietch @impossibleliv1031 @deadpool-in-a-snood @rainbow-love4ever @pompompuri @halleest @wandaromanova @marveloussimp @rainbow-hedgehog @left-and-right-up-and-down @get-the-fuck-outta-here @awolfcsworld @elduster @alexkolax @georgi-salva @imdumbhi @youralphawolf72 @reginassweetheart @justyourwritter69 @yangsroboarmm @8e-h-e8 @irish-piece-of-trash @femalehomosexual666 @wol-fica @wednesdays-woes @vorsdany @v1ci0us @the-nightshades-library @tundra1029 @aahdiieb @greyscxle-is-taken

[jmkjournalblog]

"Soulmates" Part 1

Part 2

Pairing:Wednesday Addams x FemVampire! Reader

Summary: The Fem!reader, vampire with a penchant for dark humor and psychopathic tendencies, is sent to Nevermore Academy by her parents following an unpleasant incident involving the murder of a couple of triple students in her previous school. Despite their contrasting personalities, the reader and Wednesday form a complex bond, navigating their differences while facing challenges that threaten to keep them apart.

A/N: This text combines three chapters written at different times, so there might be slight differences in style. Also, English isn’t my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes))

Warnings: Shitty humor

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The sun hung low in the sky, casting a warm golden glow over the picturesque town. It was a quaint, almost idyllic place, with its cobblestone streets and charming old buildings—a far cry from the darkness that lurked within the reader's soul. She stood at the edge of town, a lone figure amidst the bustle of the afternoon crowd. Tall and imposing, with an air of quiet confidence that set her apart from the ordinary townsfolk, she surveyed her surroundings with a mixture of curiosity and disdain.

The Y/n was not here by choice. No, she had been sent—a pawn in a game she had no desire to play. Her parents, in their infinite wisdom—or perhaps, their utter lack thereof—had deemed it necessary to exile her to Nevermore Academy, a school for misfits and outcasts. It was a punishment disguised as a solution, a way to rid themselves of a daughter whose darkness they could no longer abide.

And so, here she was, alone in a town that reeked of desperation and decay, a stranger in a strange land. It was a bitter irony, she thought, that a creature such as herself—a creature of the night, born to roam the shadows—should find herself so utterly exposed in the harsh light of day. But she was not one to dwell on self-pity, nor was she inclined to mourn the loss of a home she had long outgrown. No, she would embrace this new chapter of her existence with the same ferocity that she embraced life itself.

With a flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes, the Y/n turned her gaze towards the looming silhouette of Nevermore Academy, its spires reaching towards the heavens like the fingers of a long-forgotten deity. And as she took her first steps towards her new prison, she couldn't help but wonder what twisted fate awaited her within its hallowed halls.

*Y/n POV*

As I stepped into the imposing entrance hall of Nevermore Academy, I was greeted by the sight of a young girl. She was dressed in the school uniform, her blond hair falling in waves around her shoulders as she approached with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Welcome to Nevermore Academy," she said with a wry smile, extending her hand in greeting. "I'm Enid Sinclair. And you must be the new arrival."

I nodded, returning her handshake. Enid's warmth and charm were a welcome contrast to the oppressive atmosphere that hung me like a shroud.

"Nice to meet you," I replied with a forced smile. There's no point in being rude, this school is my last resort, and it's better to try to be nicer to people. "I must admit, I wasn't sure if anyone would meet me."

" I always give a tour of the school to new students, especially since you will be my roommate." A smile spread across her face. God, I wish I could be as carefree "It's going to be so much fun, you, me and Wednesday are three new best friends".

Three best friends? Well, that's one way to look at it—a trio of misfits ready to conquer the world, or at least survive sharing a room.

"Wow, lucky me," I muttered inwardly, plastering on a grin that probably looked more like a grimace. "I've always wanted to be part of a trio. How did you know?" 

I forced another polite smile, masking my inner cynicism with practiced ease. "Okay, we can't stand here all day. Let's go. "

After walking around all the main areas of the school, Enid and I headed towards our room. The whole time we were walking, I couldn't shake the feeling that this place was definitely going to be interesting. Enid had her own issues, but I'd always been attracted to people who looked at the world with an unhealthy amount of optimism. Talking to her should dilute my morbid thoughts with a touch of sweet idiocy. For being alone with myself again does me no good, though it gives me a lot of pleasure.

“So, roomie, ready to see your new abode?” - Enid said with a smile, her hand resting on the doorknob. With a casual shrug, I followed her into the room.

A huge room greeted us, with beds on both sides. The left side was a riot of colors, what I would call “colorblind worst nightmare” It was a cacophony of hues that defied description. Plush toys adorned one wall. Well at least it is not dakimakura with half-naked characters from anime or furi costumes. On the other side of the room, the atmosphere was stark—black linens on the bed, a desk, and a typewriter. Its practically untouched. It felt more like a museum piece than a living space, devoid of any trace of personality. Enid had mentioned that the other girl had only recently moved in…

“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY ROOM ROOM?” – Enid asked in irritation.

Her voice startling me out of my thoughts. Distractedly looking around the room, I completely missed the girl who was tearing off colored stickers from the right half of the huge window. It must be Wednesday.

“Dividing our room equally,” replied Wednesday, her voice dripping with disdain. She kicked the last of the colored paper to Enid's side for emphasis. "It looks like a rainbow vomited on your side." She finished in a calm tone, as she returned to the desk at her side of the room.

God, I love drama.

“I...” I could literally see Enid's ears steaming right now.

“Silence would be appreciated.” Wednesday spoke as she quickly cut her roommate off. "This is my writing time."

I like this school already.

“Your writing time ? ” Enid asked, raising an eyebrow.

Wednesday rolled up her sleeves as she situated herself in front of her typewriter. “I devote an hour a day to my novel. Perhaps if you did the same your vlog might be coherent.” she slides the carriage of the typewriter to the side as she continued, “I've read serial killer diaries with better punctuation.”

She read serial killer diaries? One point to the goth girl.

Enid clenched her fists “I write in my voice. It's my truth. It's what my followers love.”

“Your followers are clearly imbeciles.” Wednesday stood up from her desk as she moved infront of Enid. “They respond to your stories with insipid little pictures.”

“Uh, you mean emoji's?” a small smile appears on Enid face “It's how people express their feelings. I realize that's a foreign concept to you.”

“When I look at you, the following emojis come to mind. Rope, shovel, hole.” She continues “By the way, there are two D's in Addams." she moved back over to her desk. “If you're going to gossip about me, at least spell my name correctly.”

“Ahem”- as much as I'd love for this delightful show to continue, I can't just stand there like an idiot with things to do. I could certainly settle down nicely on my suitcase to brew some coffee and continue watching this wonderful drama, but I think sooner or later they'll notice me.

“Oh, sorry about that please, I'm just not used to this attitude. Wednesday, meet Y/n. She's going to live with us too.”

“That's okay, Enid, you can continue this lovely conversation, very intriguing actually. All I need to do is put my things somewhere and ideally lie down myself. The long drive and the splendid but somewhat drawn-out tour, has tired me out.”

Wednesday turned to me. “Nice to meet you, now if you'll excuse it’s my writing time,” she said, before turning back to her typewriter. She began methodically tapping the keys of her typewriter.

I smiled to myself, amused by the interaction. These two were definitely something else.

“Ms. Thornhill has decided that your bed will be on Wednesday's side, there's more room and the closet is close by. Bed should be arriving soon, but in the meantime, you can lay out your things, the outer two doors are yours.”

“Got it, okay then, that's what I'll do for now.”

Taking the suitcase in my hands I headed over to the closet, starting to put things away. I've always had a problem with this, not that I don't like it on the contrary, pedantically folding shirt to shirt, pants to pants, has always calmed me down. Things in the closet should look like they're on the counter of a boutique. If something doesn't look right, I can't sleep well.

Enid put on a song. I guess this is another one of God's tests for all the sins I've done. Don't get me wrong, I like music, but on rare occasions. People who play it on a regular basis to soundtrack their daily routine are the real psychopaths.

“Turn it off!” Wednesday gets up from her chair and heads over to Enid.

I couldn't help but stifle a laugh at the exchange. It was moments like this that made me grateful for immortality. Trying not to attract attention, I peeked out from behind the locker door, amused by the unfolding drama.

“This is your final warning!”

As she got too close Enid raised her hands and let out her rainbow painted nails out a claw. “Don't mess with me. This kitty’s got claws and I’m not afraid to use them.”

Suddenly the door swings open and a woman walks into the room.

“Good evening girls.” She looks around the room throwing a glance first at me and then at Wednesday. “I wanted to make sure that Wednesday and Y/n was settling in...”

She walks to the middle of the room, kicking up mud from her shoes on the wooden floor…. It drives me insane.

“I’m Ms. Thornhill, your dorm mom. Apologies, I wasn't here to greet you when you arrived. I trust Enid has given you the old Nevermore welcome.”

“She's been smothering us with hospitality, I hope to return the favor. In her sleep”.

Such unconcealed aggression, I like it.

“Enid did a great job of showing and telling me everything, thank her so much, and it's nice to meet you,” I interjected, wanting to move the conversation along.

Ms. Thornhill turned to me, offering a warm smile. “I'm very glad it went well.”

“The only thing I would like to ask about is the bed. I wouldn't really want to sleep on the floor on the first day in such a beautiful place. It would have dampened all the excitement I got out of today.”

“Oh right, the guys were supposed to bring it, but it looks like they're running late. I'll have to find them again and tell them.”

At this rate, I was going to sleep on the floor tonight.

“Ms. Thornhill, why do we need the guys? Why don't you just show me where to get it, and I'll take it from there? I think I'm strong enough to do that,” I replied with a sweet smile.

She looked at me in disbelief. I smiled a little, letting her catch a glimpse of my fangs.

“Ah, okay, I didn't realize right away. Not all vampires who are in this school have abilities such as strength or speed, so...Let's go,” she said, turning around and heading for the door. I followed her, casting a disdainful glance at the dirt left on the floor.

Who even does things like that?

Y/n POV

The walk with Ms. Thornhill was uneventful, except for her curious glances, which I pretended not to notice. She seemed… overly friendly, and her cheery disposition grated against every instinct I had. There was something unsettling in how her smile lingered just a bit too long. Still, I played the obedient new student—sweet smiles, polite nods, not even a hint of fangs. It wasn’t hard to find the storage area, cluttered with dusty furniture and half-forgotten relics from who knows how long ago. With little more than a gesture, I hefted the bedframe onto my shoulder, making it look far easier than it should have been.

As I walked back through the hallways of Nevermore, I couldn’t help but scan the dimly lit corridors and high arched ceilings. This place was dripping with history and secrets—I could practically taste it in the air. I wondered what kind of skeletons were hiding in these closets and whether any of them were literal. The thought amused me enough to crack a smile, which I quickly smothered when I caught sight of the door to our room.

Returning to find Enid attempting to cheerfully hang more decorations—and failing spectacularly in the face of Wednesday’s withering glares—was almost worth the trouble. Almost. I stepped into the room, set down the bedframe with a soft thud, and stretched slightly, letting out a satisfied sigh that earned me a sideways glance from both girls. I raised an eyebrow at Wednesday, who, naturally, looked unimpressed.

“You’re back,” she stated flatly, her attention already returning to the clack of typewriter keys. “I’d begun hoping you’d gotten lost and decided to stay that way.”

I grinned, leaning casually against the wall as I met her icy gaze. “Oh, did you miss me already, Wednesday? I’m touched.” I let my words drip with playful mockery, watching for her reaction.

She didn’t even pause her typing. “I don’t miss nuisances. They have a way of making themselves known whether one wishes it or not.”

“Well, it’s good to know I’ve made an impression,” I replied lightly, crossing my arms. “I do so hate being forgettable.”

There it was—a slight pause in her keystrokes. Barely perceptible, but I saw it. Victory. She resumed typing, but I could see the muscles in her jaw tense, and that alone was worth every ounce of effort. Behind me, Enid let out an exaggerated groan.

“Can you two not flirt for five minutes?” Enid asked, half-exasperated and half-amused as she tossed another garish pillow onto her bed.

“Flirting?” I said innocently, a hand coming to my chest. “Enid, I think you’ve misunderstood me. I was simply trying to have a civil conversation.”

“Your idea of civil conversation seems to involve needling people until they bleed,” Wednesday remarked coolly, finally glancing my way. “I’m sure you’re quite proud of yourself.”

“Oh, very,” I said, flashing a grin that showed just the hint of fang. “But I only needle people who are interesting. Take that as a compliment.”

Her expression didn’t change, but there was a spark in her dark eyes. A dangerous, calculating spark. “Compliments from you hold about as much value as a counterfeit coin. Useless and possibly diseased.”

I tilted my head, letting my smile widen. “And yet you’ve pocketed it anyway.”

“Enough!” Enid interjected, throwing her hands in the air. “I’m already regretting my decision to be roommates with either of you.”

“I thought we were best friends, Enid?” I teased, giving her a mock-wounded look. She rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself.

As the brief silence fell, Wednesday turned back to her typewriter, the clack of the keys resuming with renewed vigor. I moved to finish setting up my space, feeling her presence keenly even as she pretended, I didn’t exist. But I knew better. She’d noticed me, whether she liked it or not. And I intended to keep it that way.

I focused on arranging the few belongings I had, keeping one eye on my two roommates. Enid flitted around, determined to keep the atmosphere upbeat despite the thickening tension, while Wednesday remained stoic, her fingers tapping out words with relentless precision. The mechanical clatter of the typewriter filled the room, a fitting soundtrack to our peculiar dynamic.

As I stowed the last of my clothes, I moved to the shared windowsill. Half of it, Wednesday’s half, was bare and colorless, just like the rest of her side. I dragged a finger across the divider she’d drawn—black tape down the middle, stark and deliberate. When she’d divided the room, she hadn’t left any margin for negotiation. That was fine. I wasn’t one to negotiate either.

“Did you choose the décor yourself?” I asked, tone light but teasing. “It really says a lot about you.”

The typewriter stopped mid-sentence, and her head turned, her expression a mask of cold detachment. “If by ‘a lot’ you mean ‘nothing,’ then you are correct. My surroundings reflect my disregard for frivolity.”

I leaned back against the windowsill, arms crossed, giving her a slow once-over. “Yes, I see that. Stark, somber, a touch of morbidity… What’s next, Wednesday? Iron bars over your window? A ‘keep out’ sign? Or is this already your version of a welcome mat?”

“Those who need signs to warn them of danger are already too foolish to avoid it,” she retorted, her voice like ice. She didn’t look away, and I felt the weight of her attention settle on me like a dare.

“Danger? That sounds intriguing.” I stepped closer, deliberately closing the space between us. “But I’d rather find out for myself than take your word for it.”

Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, I thought she’d lash out. Instead, she simply pushed her chair back with a quiet scrape and stood. “Are you always this insufferable?” she asked, stepping closer herself. We were nearly face-to-face now, her glare as sharp as a blade.

“Only when I’m provoked,” I said, my voice softening, the challenge in it unmistakable. “Or intrigued.”

For a heartbeat, I thought she might reach for one of her knives. It wouldn’t have surprised me. But then she stepped back, and the flicker of emotion was gone, replaced by a cold, composed exterior. “Intrigue is a fleeting distraction. You’ll tire of it soon enough.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that,” I murmured, watching her turn her back to me and return to her typewriter. I had to give it to her; she was disciplined. She’d withdrawn from the confrontation as if it hadn’t fazed her, as if the moment hadn’t happened. But it had.

Enid broke the silence, plopping down onto her bed with a frustrated sigh. “Why can’t we all just get along? Isn’t this supposed to be like… the beginning of a beautiful friendship?”

“I don’t recall asking for friendship,” Wednesday replied without looking up.

“And I don’t recall rejecting it,” I added with a smirk, earning a scoff from Wednesday.

“See?” Enid grinned, ever the optimist. “Progress! I’m telling you, we’re going to be the best trio ever. Just give it time.”

“Optimism is a fool’s currency,” Wednesday stated, resuming her typing. “It’s usually spent too freely and leaves the owner penniless.”

“Good thing I have plenty to spare,” Enid shot back, unfazed. She turned to me. “Y/n, you’ll see. She’s all doom and gloom now, but she’ll warm up eventually.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” I said, letting the implication linger. “Though I have to admit, I like her just the way she is.”

Wednesday’s fingers paused for a fraction of a second, and my grin widened. There it was again—the tell that she was paying attention, even if she pretended otherwise.

Enid reached for her phone, likely ready to drown out the tension with music or social media, but she paused, her expression curious. “So, Y/n… what brought you to Nevermore?”

“Exile,” I said simply, my voice taking on a darker edge. “I’m here because my family thought it would be safer to have me… away.”

Enid blinked, unsure whether I was joking. “Safer for who?”

“Exactly.” I allowed a flicker of my fangs to show, then shrugged. “But this place isn’t so bad. It might even grow on me.”

“It’s full of disappointments,” Wednesday said coolly, not missing a beat. “Don’t let the shadows fool you.”

“Disappointments keep things interesting,” I replied, stepping back toward my side of the room. “And I’ve always been drawn to interesting things.”

I felt her eyes on me even after she turned back to her writing. This was going to be fun. Dangerous, maybe—but undeniably fun.

The next morning, the air was crisp, and a thin layer of fog crept around the gothic towers of Nevermore Academy. I found myself sitting on the edge of my freshly delivered bed, lacing up my boots. The rest of the room was quiet, but I could feel a watchful presence. Turning slightly, I caught Wednesday’s reflection in the mirror; she was silently observing me while pretending to prepare her things. Her eyes were intense as ever, like she was sizing me up, waiting for me to make the first move. It amused me, and I made no effort to hide my grin.

“Good morning, sunshine,” I teased, breaking the tension in the room.

She blinked, a slow, deliberate motion that barely disguised her disdain. “Please spare me your nauseating pleasantries.”

“Why, Wednesday, it almost sounds like you didn’t sleep well.” I stood, stretching. “I’d say I’m hurt by that, but I do recall you typing well into the night. Plotting murder, perhaps?”

“If I were plotting murder, you wouldn’t have woken up,” she replied with a deadpan expression.

I laughed softly, loving how quick she was. “Noted. I’ll try to be more deserving of your mercy.” I leaned closer as I passed her on the way to the door. “For now.”

“Don’t push your luck,” she muttered, though there was a glint in her eyes that suggested she was far from indifferent. Oh, this was definitely going to be an interesting place.

The hallway was bustling with other students, each an oddity in their own right—shapeshifters, psychics, sirens, and more. I navigated the throng with ease, catching glimpses of curious eyes that lingered just a moment too long. Whispers followed me. New arrivals always attracted attention, and I wasn’t exactly the type to blend in.

“Y/n!” Enid’s cheery voice pierced the noise, and she bounded over like a hyperactive puppy, practically glowing with excitement. “How did you sleep? Oh! You’re going to love breakfast here—it’s the best part of the day!”

“I’m surprised you managed to sleep at all with the ambiance,” I said, raising an eyebrow. “I half-expected bats to swoop down from the rafters.

“Oh, they’ve tried.” She shrugged with a wide smile. “But seriously, come on! The sausages are to die for.”

I followed her, letting Enid’s chatter wash over me. She was like a rainbow in this dreary place, and, strangely, I found her optimism a welcome contrast. Wednesday walked a few steps behind us, silent and brooding as ever. It was almost comforting.

The cafeteria was a storm of voices, laughter, and clinking trays. Enid led me through the throng of students, her energy a stark contrast to the brooding architecture of Nevermore. We found a spot at a small table near one of the tall, stained-glass windows. As I settled in, a presence made itself known—a girl with sleek black hair, crimson-tinted sunglasses, and a confident air that turned heads without effort. She walked up, holding her tray like she owned the place.

“Mind if I join?” she asked, but it was rhetorical. She was already sitting down, her eyes on me.

Enid perked up. “Oh! Y/n, this is Yoko Tanaka. Yoko, meet Y/n. She’s new.”

“Yoko,” I repeated, my gaze trailing over her with casual interest. I extended a hand, playing along. “Nice to meet you.”

Her grip was cool, steady. She didn’t let go right away, and her lips curled into a smile. “The pleasure’s all mine. So, Enid’s newest roommate, huh? Welcome to the madhouse.”

I returned her smile, undeterred by the playful challenge in her tone. “Thanks. From what I’ve seen, I’m going to fit right in.”

“Really?” Yoko’s fingers tapped rhythmically on the table. “It takes a lot to fit in here. But something tells me you’ll manage.” She tilted her head slightly. “You’re not... ordinary, are you?”

I leaned back, crossing my arms. “You have no idea.”

“Oh, I might,” she replied, the light catching the edge of her sunglasses. “Most newcomers are easy to read. But you? You’re a little... more.”

Wednesday, who had been quietly picking at her food, suddenly spoke up. “If you two are done exchanging veiled flirtations, there are more important matters at hand.”

I turned my gaze to her, a smirk playing on my lips. “You know, Wednesday, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were jealous.”

“Jealousy is a pointless emotion,” she said flatly, though her eyes seemed to darken. “I simply despise wasted time.”

“Oh, so you’d rather spend your time... constructively?” I asked, feigning deep interest. “Writing your next bestseller or analyzing the cafeteria’s murder statistics?”

She set her fork down with deliberate precision. “Both. I find productivity in all things. Unlike some people who waste their breath on hollow banter.”

“See?” I leaned forward conspiratorially, turning to Yoko. “This is what I get for trying to lighten the mood.”

Yoko laughed, a rich, throaty sound that drew a few glances. “You two are something. But don’t worry—I enjoy the kind of banter that makes the daylight hours less boring.”

“Is that why you’re here?” I asked, deciding to prod a little. “To liven things up for me?”

She pushed her sunglasses up, revealing striking eyes that glimmered with a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just trying to figure you out. Vampires don’t often get surprises, you know.”

“Vampires?” I arched an eyebrow, pretending not to know. “Is that what we’re calling ourselves these days?”

Enid jumped in with a cheerful clap of her hands. “Y/n’s also a vampire, Yoko! You two should totally hang out. Maybe you can teach her the ropes!”

Yoko’s smile widened, showing a hint of fang. “Oh, I’d be delighted. As long as she doesn’t get scared too easily.”

I matched her smile, unflinching. “Scared? That’s not really my thing.”

“Good.” Yoko’s voice dropped, her gaze sharpening. “Because there are plenty of things in Nevermore that will test your limits. I’d hate for you to miss out.”

Before I could respond, Wednesday stood up abruptly, gathering her tray. “This conversation has officially crossed into drivel. Some of us have standards.”

“Leaving already?” I asked, enjoying the way her expression never wavered.

“Unlike you, I have productive tasks awaiting me.” She paused, her dark eyes meeting mine. “Try not to lower the collective intelligence of the room while I’m gone.”

I grinned. “I’ll do my best.”

She left without another word, and for a moment, I could have sworn there was a hint of amusement hidden beneath her icy exterior. Yoko watched her go, then turned back to me, a knowing look on her face. “You’ve got your work cut out for you.”

“Good,” I replied. “I’ve always enjoyed a challenge.”

[letorip]

aline

“et j'ai crié, crié "aline!" pour qu'elle revienne, et j'ai pleuré, pleuré, oh j'avais trop de peine”

===+++===

pairing: wednesday addams x reader

summary: sometimes you’d talk about dying to wednesday, though it was something an addams couldn’t ever really fear. that was, until the person being lost was you.

warnings: erm you die lol, major character death, wednesday being sad, mentions of blood, self sacrifice, maybe a little contrived way to die but too bad

word count: 1.6k

A/N: i promise im okay but this was truly an interesting plot line to follow, and i couldn’t bear not writing it down. if it made you sad, don’t worry, because i have more fluffy stuff on the way. it was something short i had considered doing for a long time, so even if this flops i'm completely happy with how it came out.

===+++===

===+++===

"Wednesday?" you asked, eyes on the wooden ceiling of her room. From the way her head rests against the warm plane of your chest, she can feel the smooth skin move as you say her name, heart right under her ear. It nearly lulls her to sleep, had it not been a question.

"Yes?" she purrs, lazily propping herself up on her arm. There are heavy weights on her eyelids, but the line of your mouth tells her something is troubling you. You’re too saturnine, much too glum for what you and Wednesday just did, and her eyes soften imperceptibly, her thumb going to your side to quietly stroke itself back and forth there. “What’s plaguing you?”

You can’t help but shudder at the contact of her hand and the goosebumps the pads of her fingers leave in their wake. “Are you... do you...," you attempt, the question falling flat on your tongue. She furrows her eyebrows at your hesitation.

"Say your thoughts,” she says, forehead creased in concern. It's almost funny, how caring and soft she is, now that she's given up on trying to seem aloof and apathetic towards you, her skin warm against your own.

The Addams Curse to love someone with every fibre of their being had taken hold of Wednesday entirely, and she looked at you sometimes like you held her beating heart in your hands, or at least like she'd cut it out for you, if you were to need it. She raises a hand, gently brushing a few hairs from your forehead.

“Are you afraid of dying?”

Her eyebrows furrow even further, scanning your face for any indicators of harm. “Where is this coming from? Has something been done to you?”

But you shrug, finally looking down to look her in the eyes with softness. “I was just wondering… are you?”

She narrows her eyes. “You know I’m an Addams. Death is a friend, not a foe. Fear of that serves no purpose. Only cowardice from facing a fight. Only to make you weak.”

Your eyes flit away. “Hm.” There’s no hiding of disagreement in your tone, and it has an embarrassing amount of power over her, how she itches to know what goes on in that head of yours.

“What?”

“I think… I think my fear is what makes me strong. I’m afraid of losing those I care about. And so I fight with every bit of sweat, blood, and tears that I have. Your loss is my deepest fear, Wednesday. My deepest.”

She stared at you momentarily, then looked out the window to the stars. “How is one to fear death when it is far from the end? Death may take me from your sight, but it cannot take me from your heart. There I live, vibrant and whole. Forever.”

===+++===

You’d never even realised how much blood the human body could actually hold, until you were standing there in the centre of the quad with an arrow straight right below your heart, its steel tip poking from your back. Your own blood coated your hands where you cupped it, dribbling down the splintered wood and splattering in droplets to the cobblestone in thick, dark red splotches.

The blood— your blood— is coming out even more now, and you turn to look at Wednesday, where you had shoved her out of harm’s way. Her eyes are wide in horror, like she's seeing something straight from a nightmare of hers, and you take a clammy step towards her, frigid and burning at the same time.

“Wens—” you stammer, and suddenly your knees are giving out. She rushes forward, trying to catch you in her arms, but you're too heavy, deadweight that tugs on her. You fall onto them, your knees, clutching at the newly opened maw of your chest with a gasp, and before you know it you’re falling forward towards the floor.

Wednesday follows you down, catching you before you can land, and she holds you tight, turning you over onto your back as the arrow sticks straight up from the heart she cherishes so much. The wood is already splintering, nearly falling apart, and her hand goes to your wound as if trying to put your blood back into your body.

It’s uncomfortable, with the metal tip of Xavier’s arrow sticking from the back of your chest and lightly prodding at her front, but she squeezes you tightly against herself, hands frantically travelling the length of your torso and raking over your arms, anywhere she can reach. But there’s nothing she can do. It’s a thought she refuses to confront, but Wednesday specialised in dealing with dead things; she was unfamiliar with how to keep things alive, no matter how much she needed you to stay that way.

Crackstone is cackling from his belly, a toothy sneer spreading itself out onto his leathery face as he looks at the damage he’s done, stomping towards you. “Hey!” Bianca yells from the opposite door, and the pilgrim whips around, as Xavier takes another shot at him. It lands in the pilgrim’s arm but he pulls it out like a twig, snapping it and tossing it to the ground, before he makes his way towards Bianca.

Your white shirt is completely soaking itself in your blood, droplets running down Wednesday’s fingers where she tries to hold the wound and apply pressure. But there was no saving a skewered heart.

"No, no, no," she coos, voice barely above a whisper and tears already pricking at the corners of her eyes. You're crying out in pain as the arrow shifts within you, fingers scrabbling at Wednesday's arms where they hold at you. Your fingernails sink into her skin, and she winces but doesn't pull away.

"Wens," you say again, infinitely weaker than before. "Wednesday…” It’s like your mouth won’t move coherently with your brain, like words mean trudging through ice and slush to come out, even the red-hot ones you need to say. “H—Hurts,” you spit out, and with it comes a small stream of blood from your mouth as you cough and air becomes less and less available.

She nods in a rush, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks. “I’m aware, I know,” she’s completely crying now. “We will get you care, cara mia, just hol— just hold on for a little while.” But you’re shaking your head.

“Don’t have— I don’t have—” you’re coughing up more blood, and she wipes it from your chin with a shaky hand. There’s just too much of it, everywhere. You had once gifted her some as a token of your devotion and it was a prized possession of hers, but now there was so much and she would have given it back in a heartbeat if it gave you any more of those.

She can vaguely hear Bianca and Xavier yelling on the other side of the quad, and various fires rage on in their chaotic yet vibrant corners, tickling against her skin in large crackles, burning in the reflection of your eyes that stare up at the sky. Your head is leaning against her shoulder, and she raises her hand, stroking through your soft hair as you heave in her arms.

“You must live, I promise you,” Wednesday insists fiercely, “I promise you, if you die right now, I will kill you.” But its tears that streak down her face, her jaw clenching and dark eyeliner running down her cheeks. She’s squeezing you right against herself, feeling the pain of the sharp arrow poke at her own skin.

“Vibrant and wh—whole?” you said with a smile, feeling your voice begin to slow down and with it, the beating of your heart. The blood has pooled in a sick puddle around your body.

She’s shaking her head. “Cara mia, we don’t need to do this, we will get you to a doctor. You will be—”

“—Wednesday,” you interrupt. Your voice has reached an eerie calm that sends a shiver down her spine, and it snaps her from any sort of hope. “Vibrant… and whole?”

She looks down at you for a moment, tracing the features of your nose, the planes of your cheeks, the colours of your eyes and the wryness of your smile. Wednesday swallows. “Forever. You know that. You must always know that.”

You nod, letting out a small laugh. It hurts, she can hear you wheeze right after you done it, but you sit in silence for a moment, and she can feel you get slower and slower, and your shirt gets redder and redder. The tears are uncontrollable, now, as she sits there with you. Her friends are losing in the corner, but she's losing something unthinkable, and she's so damn scared the entire time it's happening.

"The stars look beautiful tonight," you whisper so only she can hear it, your voice cracking at the end. In seconds, you're gone. She can feel the life, the glorious life, evaporate from you, your head lulling back against her and your weight becoming a hundred times heavier, but she doesn't move, squeezing you against her.

She's unsure how long she stays like that, but when she can no longer take it, she shifts, laying you down on the ground. You look peaceful, looking up at the stars, and it takes an effort to close your eyes that Wednesday had never felt with the dead before. She gently closes them, shutting the door on the eyes that used to captivate her very heart. It's almost like she could convince herself that you're only resting for a moment, and she leans over you, placing a meaningful kiss upon your forehead, just like she would when she snuck out after a night of sleeping over, and there were no prying eyes there to watch.

"Vibrant and whole," she whispers like a promise, turning back to the fight with a piece of the sword in her shaking fists. "For you, cara mia."

===+++===

well that was sad... anyways more happy stuff coming next time

[thedemoninme141]

*Y/n trips over and falls. Wednesday: Are you alright? Y/n: Quick, make a wish, you just saw a falling star 🌟 Wednesday: ...... *sighs I can't believe I married this idiot.

LoL @sabrinasgirlfren told me to post this.

[halfmoonaria]

still like this

pairing: tara carpenter & female reader

word count: 9.7k

summary: tara wanted to say she was sorry. she wanted to fix it. but you had already stopped waiting.

author’s note: part two of not like this — but i do apologize if this isn’t what some of y’all expected.

Tara woke up the next day with her mouth dry and her skull splitting open.

It was the kind of headache that pulsed behind her eyes, thick and mean, like someone had stuffed cotton and static inside her head.

The light seeping through the window was barely there—muted and gray—but it still felt too bright. Too sharp. Her body ached, her stomach turned, and for a second, just one stretched-out second, she didn't move. Couldn't. Her limbs were heavy and her brain wasn't quite connected to them yet.

She just laid there, eyes barely open, blanket twisted halfway off her and her face pressed against the cold side of the pillow. Everything felt wrong. Not in a huge, obvious way—but in those small, creeping details. Her throat hurt. Her wrists were sore. Her mouth tasted like stale vodka and nothing else.

She didn't remember getting home.

She didn't remember changing into the old hoodie she was wearing, or where her jeans had ended up. There was a vague memory of a party—someone pouring drinks straight into her mouth, someone laughing too loud—but it cut off halfway through, like a film reel yanked from a projector.

She forced herself to sit up. Immediately regretted it.

Her stomach flipped, her head pounded harder, and for a second she thought she might actually throw up all over her sheets. Everything swayed. Her mouth opened like she was going to call for Sam—ask what time it was, ask what happened—but nothing came out.

There were red plastic cups on her nightstand. Her phone face-down on the floor. Her boots still by the door, laces untied like she'd stumbled out of them and never looked back. The smell of her room felt unfamiliar—sweaty, a little bitter, like something had gone sour in the air overnight.

She didn't know why her chest hurt.

Didn't know why she suddenly felt this cold, creeping sense of dread curling around her spine.

But something was off. Something was really off.

And deep down, under the nausea and the headache and the aching in her arms—Tara knew she had done something she wasn't supposed to.

Her mouth was dry. Her hands shook a little as she leaned over the side of the bed, blinking hard against the pounding in her head. Her phone was face-down on the floor, screen dark, case cracked in the corner from how carelessly she must've dropped it the night before.

She picked it up with slow fingers.

The screen lit up the moment she pressed the side button—too bright, sharp enough to make her flinch and squint. For a second, everything blurred together. Just white light and motion and the sound of blood rushing in her ears. She dragged the brightness all the way down with one hand, already feeling like she might pass out.

Notifications were stacked like bricks on her lock screen.

Snaps from people she barely remembered being with. Tag after tag on Instagram stories—her name glowing above blurry party videos, red cups, someone screaming her name in the background, laughter that didn't feel funny anymore.

Her thumb hovered above one of them, and for a moment she thought maybe she should look. Maybe watching it would tell her what she did. Maybe it would explain the sick, guilty twist in her stomach.

But she didn't.

She couldn't.

Not yet.

She just laid there, phone still in her hand, screen dimmed low, thumb twitching over it like her body was acting without permission.

You hadn't texted her.

No "did u get home safe?"

No "i love you to the moon and back."

No "call me in the morning."

Not even a heart.

And that—it sat in her chest heavier than anything else.

She waited a beat. Then another. Her fingers scrolled anyway, like maybe she'd missed something. Maybe your name was buried under everything else. But it wasn't. And even if it was, she would've seen it. She would've felt it.

Because she always did.

Tara swallowed. Her throat was tight, her head still pounding—but that wasn't why her eyes were starting to sting.

She wanted to tell herself you were just asleep. Or mad at something stupid. Or being petty. But deep down, somewhere underneath the throb in her temples and the fog in her memory—she knew.

She knew why you hadn't texted.

She didn't remember what she said. Didn't remember much of anything past her second or third drink. But her whole body felt like it was holding something ugly. Something sharp. Like the truth was there already, just out of reach, crouched in the shadows and waiting to spring.

And the scariest part was that she didn't even need anyone to tell her.

She already felt it.

It was in her throat, her stomach, the dull throb behind her eyes. It was in the silence of her phone screen. In the hollow ache where your name used to sit.

She checked the time again—2:17 PM.

Shit.

Her mouth was dry as sandpaper. Her tongue felt too thick. She hadn't even noticed how bad she felt until now, but the moment she moved—just shifting her legs off the bed and planting her feet on the floor—her body caught up to her.

The nausea rolled in sharp and fast. The room tilted. Her vision swam. Her head fell into her hands and stayed there for a second, long enough for her to consider crawling right back under the covers and never coming out again.

But then she heard something clatter in the kitchen.

Plates. Water running. Sam. Tara could hear her humming, low and absent-minded, like she didn't even realize she was doing it. The normalness of it almost pissed her off.

Tara forced herself to stand. Slow.

Her knees buckled under her for half a second, and she grabbed the edge of the dresser just to stay upright. Her stomach turned again, and she swallowed down the burn in her throat. Her body was screaming don't move, lie back down, you're going to throw up, but she ignored all of it.

She told herself she was used to this.

She always told herself that. Every time she drank too much. Every time she woke up like this. She knew the drill, right? Water, painkillers, coffee if she could hold it down. She told herself it was fine because she'd done it so many times before.

But it wasn't fine.

She wasn't used to this. She hated it. Her body hated it. And worse—some part of her remembered that this wasn't just another hangover. Not this time.

Not after whatever the hell she did.

She braced herself with one hand on the wall and started toward the door.

The hallway light was too bright. Every sound in the apartment felt ten times louder than it should've been. Her socks dragged against the hardwood, her whole body moving like it didn't want to belong to her anymore.

She blinked her way into the kitchen, not ready, not even close.

Sam was standing by the sink, rinsing a mug. Coffee steamed behind her. She didn't look over at first.

And Tara didn't say a word.

She hovered near the doorway, trying not to breathe too loud, trying not to exist too loud. Everything about her felt too heavy, too hot, too visible. She could still feel her makeup on her face, sticky and smudged and clinging to the corners of her eyes. Her mascara probably flaked. Her lipstick definitely wasn't where it was supposed to be.

Which was why she didn't even try to meet Sam's eyes.

Instead, she turned slightly—barely, just enough to angle herself toward the TV mounted on the far wall, even though it was still muted from last night. Some news broadcast was looping again. Headlines flashed. A weather map hovered in the corner. But she wasn't reading any of it. She just didn't want Sam to see her face.

Maybe if she didn't look like she was in the room, Sam wouldn't say anything.

No such luck.

Footsteps behind her. Soft.

And then—

"Throw up yet?"

Tara flinched so hard she nearly folded. Her hand flew to her chest as she spun around, wild-eyed.

"Jesus— Fuck, Sam," she muttered, the sound barely above a whisper as she tried not to aggravate the headache any more than it already was. "Don't sneak up on me."

Sam just grinned, lifting the mug in her hand like a toast. "Wasn't sneaking."

She was definitely sneaking. Tara could hear it in her tone—the same smug, older-sister tone that meant I caught you even when she hadn't said it outright.

Tara just groaned, dragging her fingers through her tangled hair as she slumped forward against the counter.

Sam stepped past her again, cracking open the fridge and pulling out juice with one hand.

The smell of coffee was sharper in the air now, making Tara's stomach clench. She breathed through her nose, slow, careful.

Tara finally made it to one of the chairs by the kitchen island and dropped into it like her bones were liquid.

A beat passed. Two. She didn't lift her head.

"You look like roadkill," Sam said, not unkindly.

Tara didn't even argue. "I feel like roadkill."

She pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes, trying to block out everything—light, sound, thought, memory. Her head was pounding. Her stomach felt like it had flipped inside out and then spun in a blender. Her skin was hot and clammy and wrong.

"I'm surprised you're even awake," Sam muttered over her shoulder. "Figured you'd be out cold until tomorrow morning."

The way she said it—light, offhanded—told Tara everything she needed to know.

Sam had been the one to get her home. Sam had seen it. Or some of it.

And if Sam had seen it...

Tara swallowed, throat dry.

Her head stayed down, but her mind was running, panicked and unfocused, like someone flipping through a slideshow too fast. Snapshats of the night blurred together. Music. Lights. Voices she couldn't match to faces. A drink in her hand. Then another. Then another.

And the scariest part was—still—she didn't even know what she was trying to remember.

Sam sipped from her glass, the quietest sound in the room. She didn't say anything for a second. Just leaned against the counter, the morning light catching on the steam from her coffee. Then, with a glance over her shoulder, she reached for the carton of juice she'd set on the counter.

The fridge door still hung slightly open behind her as she unscrewed the cap and poured a slow, steady stream into a clean glass. The sound filled the silence for a second — soft, but sharp to Tara's ears.

Then, without looking, she slid a glass of juice across the island toward Tara.

"Drink," she said.

Tara didn't move. Didn't even blink.

The thought of putting anything in her stomach made her nauseous. Her head was still pounding, too loud for thoughts, and her mouth tasted like cheap vodka and sleep. She stared at the glass like it might turn into something else if she waited long enough.

"Did you talk to Y/N?"

Tara's gaze didn't move from the juice.

"...What?" she asked. It was barely more than a breath, but it cracked a little.

"Last night," Sam said, like it was obvious. Like Tara should've known exactly what she meant.

Tara blinked. Her hands gripped the edge of the stool beneath her, hard.

She felt a flicker—like static under her skin.

Did she talk to you?

She tried to chase it, chase you in her memory, but all she found were fragments. Flashlights. Music. Your face for a second too long across a crowd. And then someone else's hand tugging her somewhere, and then— nothing.

She wanted to answer. She wanted to know. But there was this panicked emptiness where you should've been. Just flashes.

"I..." she started, but it slipped. Her head was too loud. Her thoughts too scrambled.

"She went with you last night. Right?"

Tara blinked. The words felt like they should make sense. They did, kind of. She remembered that. You walking beside her. You'd tried to make some stupid joke about her boots — something about them being too clean for a party, and she hadn't answered because she was mad like always.

Yeah. Yeah, you were definitely with her.

"I think so," she mumbled. "We walked there together... I think."

Sam didn't respond, and that silence only made the static louder.

Tara dragged a hand through her hair. It felt like moving through molasses. "And then... I don't know."

The silence stretched.

She squinted at the table like it would give her something. Anything. The kitchen was too bright now — the sun slanting through the window, catching the edge of the juice glass she still hadn't touched. Her stomach twisted at the thought.

There had to be more. You were with her. You stayed close. You always stayed close.

So why couldn't she see your face?

Why did it feel like her memory just... stopped?

"You really don't remember?" Sam's voice was quieter now. Less teasing. Almost concerned.

Tara blinked. Her fingers curled slightly against the edge of the kitchen island. "What?" Her throat felt dry. "Why? Did something happen? Is she—" She swallowed. "Is she okay?"

Sam hesitated.

That alone made Tara's heart skip.

"She's fine," Sam said finally, pouring herself another half-glass of juice like she was trying to give Tara a second to breathe. "I mean—I think she is. I didn't talk to her."

Tara's stomach dropped. "Then what—what are you talking about?"

Sam leaned a hip against the counter, not looking at her right away. "Chad called me to come pick you up. You were out of it." A short pause. "I guess you'd already... said some stuff by then."

Tara looked up slowly. "Said stuff?"

Sam glanced at her, like she was deciding how far to go. "Mindy told me you were kind of... going off. Rambling. Outside the house. She and Chad were keeping an eye on you. You were saying things. About her. About Y/N."

Tara's face went blank.

Sam shifted her weight, folding her arms now. "They didn't give me details, okay? But they looked uncomfortable. You were saying how you didn't like her. Or didn't want her. Something like that. That she meant nothing. I don't know."

Tara's stomach twisted. She hadn't even had the juice, and now she felt like she was about to throw up anyway.

"They said it sounded... mean," Sam added, almost gently. "Like it wasn't just drunk talk."

Tara's chest tightened. Her ears rang a little. She remembered walking to the party with you. She remembered you trying to get her to slow down—reaching for the red cup in her hand, saying her name too gently for how serious your eyes looked. She remembered getting annoyed. Snapping at you, maybe. Pulling away. Saying she was fine.

After that?

Just noise. A blur. Faces. Loud music. You weren't beside her anymore. She couldn't even picture where you'd gone. Couldn't hear your voice in the chaos of her head. And then—

Nothing.

And now Sam was saying she'd ruined it. That she'd hurt you. That she'd said the one thing she'd always sworn she wouldn't.

And she didn't even remember it.

Until.

It hit her before she even knew what she was remembering.

Not in pieces this time. Not the flicker of a blurry image or a half-felt sensation. But all at once. A full-body jolt.

Like cold water down her back. Like a slap. Not just because she finally remembered—but because how she remembered. Your face. That exact look. Like someone had just pulled the floor out from under you, and you were still trying to figure out whether you were falling or already broken on the ground.

She felt it all at once: your voice going quiet, your hand brushing hers to try and steady her drink, the way she shoved you off. How you tried, so gently, to make her slow down. And how that made her angrier. How she'd started snapping, one slurred, defensive line after the other, trying to humiliate you—you—as if hurting you was some kind of shield against whatever she was feeling.

She hadn't just said one thing. She'd said everything. All the worst things you'd probably ever feared she thought of you. Things that weren't true—weren't real—not in any way that mattered. But she said them. She said them.

And the worst part was she meant it in the moment. Or at least, she'd wanted to. She'd wanted to make you shut up. She'd wanted to stop feeling guilty. She'd wanted to keep drinking and stop caring. You had made her feel seen—too much, too clearly—and she punished you for it.

She remembered the way your mouth opened like you might say something, but didn't. She remembered the way you just... turned. Walked away. Not stormed. Not shouted. You just left, and she let you.

And the silence after that?

She hadn't even noticed it at the time. She was too busy calling out to someone else—someone who wasn't you. Laughing like none of it mattered. Like she'd won.

Tara felt the blood rush out of her face. She was gripping the counter without realizing it, like something might give out underneath her if she didn't.

You'd left.

Not just the party. Not just the room.

You'd left her.

Right?

And she hadn't even gone after you.

The thought barely formed before she felt it clench deep in her chest. Tight, nauseating.

Her eyes stayed locked on the same spot in front of her, but her throat tightened like it was trying to hold something back—words, a sound, maybe the taste of bile.

You walked home. Alone.

You didn't tell anyone. You didn't wait.

And she hadn't been worried. Hadn't even noticed. Because she'd been too busy drunk and loud and throwing away the one thing she swore she'd never lose.

The guilt flooded her so quickly it didn't even feel real.

She blinked once. Twice. Shallow breaths. No thoughts. Just that image—your face, your back, your absence.

And then—

"...She left," Tara said quietly, but not like a question. More like the beginning of one.

Her voice cracked halfway through, like her chest couldn't support it.

"She left," she repeated, this time like she needed to hear it said aloud to believe it. "Didn't she?"

Sam's voice came quiet, cautious. She was still standing a few feet away, arms crossed, like she wasn't sure if this was the moment Tara was going to fall apart or try to fight the truth back down.

"I don't know," Sam said after a second, her tone uneven. "I think Mindy said she saw her leaving—"

"No," Tara cut in, sharper than she meant to. Her voice cracked with it, but she didn't stop. "Not the party."

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"She left me," Tara said, the words catching in her throat. Her heart felt like it was fighting its way up into her mouth. "Do you think she... she left me?"

The words made the room feel too still. Too heavy.

Sam's mouth opened, then closed again.

Tara swallowed, but it didn't help. Her chest felt too tight now, like her ribs couldn't quite make room for the realization settling inside her. It didn't even sound real when she said it out loud. But it was. It was.

There was a long pause before Sam answered. Not because she didn't know, but because there wasn't really an answer that wouldn't hurt.

Sam didn't respond right away. She just watched her for a second, eyes unreadable, then turned back to the sink. She lifted her mug from the counter and rinsed it out without ceremony, the faint clink of ceramic the only sound in the room.

"Maybe she had enough," she said finally.

Calm. Almost matter-of-fact. Like it wasn't cruel. Like it wasn't personal. Like she hadn't just torn Tara's chest open with five quiet words.

But maybe that was what made it hurt more—how obvious it sounded when someone else said it.

Tara didn't respond. Her legs felt unsteady under her, like she'd fall over if she stood up. Her hands were still curled tight around the edge of the counter, and her nails dug into the wood to keep herself grounded. But the silence between them had changed. It wasn't confusion anymore. It wasn't even shock.

It was shame.

The kind that curled low in her stomach and sat there like rot.

She didn't say anything after that. Just stood there, half-hunched over the kitchen island, staring at nothing while her thoughts spun too fast and too loud to hold onto. Sam didn't press. She didn't look at her again. Just left her there in silence like she always did once she decided a conversation was over.

The quiet made it worse.

Tara didn't even remember walking back to her room. Just the way the door clicked shut behind her, how her hands shook as she reached for her phone like it might anchor her to something. You. It had to be you. She could fix this. She could explain. She could say she didn't mean any of it—that she didn't even remember saying it.

She opened your contact. Typed fast. Fingers flying over the keyboard.

please please answer

i'm sorry

i didn't mean any of it

i swear

just talk to me

you don't understand

i don't remember half of it

you mean everything to me

One after another, rapid fire. As if filling the silence might undo it. As if saying enough might make you forget everything she'd already said. But the texts sat there, unread. Unmoved. Cold and still and gray.

So she called.

Once.

Twice.

A third time—voicemail.

And then she just stared at the screen, her hand trembling against her leg, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. Of course. Of course you didn't answer. Of course you left. She'd said the worst things someone could say, and she hadn't even had the decency to remember it.

You were supposed to be the one thing that stayed.

She thought she could be cruel and selfish and reckless and you'd still be there. She thought you'd always be there.

That's what made her stomach turn.

When the tears finally came, they didn't fall hard. They just built slowly in her eyes until the screen blurred and she had to blink them away. It wasn't dramatic. It was just empty. Numb. This tight, ugly pressure in her chest like she didn't even deserve to cry.

Down the hall, she could hear Sam moving around again. Calm. Normal. Like none of this surprised her.

And maybe it didn't.

Maybe, to Sam, this was just what Tara did. She partied too hard. Got too loud. Blew things up and expected someone else to clean the pieces.

Maybe Sam had been waiting for this to happen.

Maybe she thought it was only a matter of time.

And maybe she was right.

Tara didn't say anything else that day. She didn't come out of her room. She barely moved. The hours stretched long and slow, and every one of them felt heavier than the last. Time passed, but it didn't feel like it. It just stalled—like everything was stuck in that one moment where she realized she had lost you, and the world hadn't even flinched.

She texted you again that night. And again Sunday morning. None of them said anything new. Just different ways of saying please.

i know i don't deserve it but please

i'll say it to your face. i'll explain everything

just tell me where you are

please just tell me if you're okay

She typed out a message asking if she could come over. She stared at it for ten minutes. Deleted it. Rewrote it. Deleted it again. Her thumb hovered over the "send" button more than once—but she couldn't do it. It felt selfish. Like showing up would only make it worse. Like it wasn't her place anymore.

By Sunday night, the silence had started to feel like punishment. Like you were proving a point. And maybe she deserved that. But it didn't stop her from checking your messages every twenty minutes like something might've changed. Like your name might light up her screen again if she just stared long enough.

Then Monday came.

She never went to school on Mondays. That was her rule. She spent most weekends drinking, and Sundays trying to pretend it hadn't been a mistake. Mondays were her reset button. The day she used to feel like she was in control again. If she skipped school, made some coffee, cleaned her room, maybe she could pretend she had her life together.

But this weekend had been different.

She hadn't gone to a party on Saturday. Hadn't had a drink. The thought made her feel sick. Because that's what ruined everything. That's what took you away from her. That night. That version of her.

And all weekend, she'd told herself she'd talk to you. That she'd fix it. That maybe if she could just see you, just look you in the eye, you'd know. You'd feel it. The guilt. The regret. The part of her that still loved you, still wanted you, still needed you like air.

So she got up.

She got dressed.

And for the first time in months, she walked into school on a Monday—not because she wanted to, but because she didn't know where else you might be.

Because if there was even a chance of seeing you...

She was going to take it.

The hall was already loud by the time she got there—voices bouncing off lockers, shoes squeaking against floors that hadn't been mopped properly in weeks. Nothing had changed. The school looked the same. The same posters peeling off the walls, the same cracked corners of tile near the stairwell, the same slow current of students moving in predictable patterns.

But to Tara, it felt different. Off. Like she was moving through a memory that didn't belong to her anymore.

She scanned the corridor. Shoulders, backpacks, faces. A blur. Then—

You were there.

By your locker, pulling it open with that familiar twist of your wrist, backpack sliding halfway off your shoulder. Her chest squeezed at the sight of you—whole and present and real. You were here. Right in front of her.

She started walking, even though her feet felt too loud and her throat felt too dry. She hadn't thought this through. Hadn't figured out what she was going to say, or how. She just kept going.

"Y/N!"

You turned partway through pulling a notebook from the shelf. Your eyes met hers.

And you looked surprised. Just for a split second.

Of course you hadn't expected her to show up. She never did on Mondays.

But then your expression shifted—not into a smile, not into a frown. Just... dropped. Like the weight of her presence pulled something neutral even lower.

"Hey," she said, breath shallow.

"Hi," you answered, quiet. Flat. Not cold, not warm. Just... there.

And for a moment, that was all there was. Just the two of you, standing like strangers. Strangers with too much history in their bones.

Tara's hands were shaking.

"I—" Her voice caught. She tried again. "I wanted to say I'm sorry. I am sorry. I was so drunk, I didn't even know what I was saying, and I know that's not an excuse but—"

"It's fine, Tara."

Her mouth shut instantly.

You didn't even look at her when you said it. You kept your eyes on your notebook, like it had something more important to say. Like you didn't want to be here. Like she was just someone you had to endure, not someone you used to love.

It wasn't fine. God, it wasn't even close.

She stared at you, eyes wide, her whole face aching with something she couldn't name. She opened her mouth to try again, to explain herself better, to make you understand—

"I know I said awful things, but I didn't mean any of them, I just— I was drunk and mad and I—"

"I said it's fine," you repeated.

Not harsh, not loud. Just... final.

Tara opened her mouth again—something soft and desperate already forming—but you cut in first.

"I just—I think we're over for now. Okay?"

Tara's face fell.

You didn't wait for her to say anything. Just closed your locker with a soft click, the sound somehow louder than everything else in the hallway. Then you turned to her, offered a smile so faint it barely passed for one. It didn't touch your eyes, didn't soften your features, didn't mean anything at all.

And then you walked away.

Tara watched you go. The words sitting in her chest like they didn't know where to land.

Over for now.

She hadn't expected you to say that. Not like that. Not with a voice so calm, so certain, like you'd been turning those words over all weekend, holding them up to the light, already making peace with them.

She hadn't made peace with anything. Not even close.

Her stomach tightened, something bitter climbing into her throat. Her hands felt awkward—halfway to reaching for you, but she hadn't. She didn't even know if she had the right to.

The hallway kept moving around her, the usual Monday noise: sneakers squeaking, lockers slamming, someone shouting across the corridor. She could hear it all, but none of it felt real. It was background.

You had walked away from her like it didn't even hurt.

And maybe it didn't. Maybe it had already hurt when she said what she said to you. Maybe that part had already passed. Maybe this was just you... done.

She looked down at her shoes like they might offer an answer, but they didn't.

Her throat felt tight. Not enough to cry. Just enough to make it hard to swallow.

Over for now.

It echoed. Quiet, but constant.

It echoed. Quiet, but constant.

Tara stayed by your locker longer than she meant to, still standing there long after the conversation had ended—if it even qualified as one. She thought about leaving. Actually leaving. Just walking out the front doors and going home like she used to, like Mondays never mattered.

For a moment, she even started to.

But then she stopped herself.

She hadn't come all this way just to run again. And besides, going home would only make it worse. She'd lie on her bed and stare at the ceiling and think about your voice and the way your eyes didn't flinch when you said it—we're over for now. Like you'd already practiced it. Like it wasn't up for debate.

So she turned around, stuffed her hands in her pockets, and kept walking.

The rest of the day passed in a blur—not because she wasn't paying attention, but because she was too aware of everything. Of the way the classroom light bounced off the windows. Of how loud her footsteps sounded when she walked down the hallway alone. Of how her phone stayed stubbornly silent every time she checked it, like it was mocking her.

She thought about trying again. Maybe catching you by the cafeteria or outside the library, maybe trying to say what she actually meant this time. That it hadn't been true. That she hadn't meant a word of what she said at the party, not a single one.

But every time she pictured walking up to you, all she could think about was the look on your face this morning. The way you'd stood so calmly, so... settled. Like you weren't hoping for anything from her anymore. Like there was nothing left to fix.

She didn't want to humiliate herself.

So she didn't go looking. Not really. She just... let the day happen to her.

You passed her in the hallway once. Just once. Between fourth and fifth period. You were with someone else—Anika maybe, or someone from your math class, she couldn't remember. You weren't smiling, not really, but you didn't look sad either. You looked like someone trying to focus on something else. Or someone who already had.

Your eyes flicked toward her for half a second. Not enough to count as anything.

Tara glanced away first.

You didn't even have classes together on Mondays. That used to be another one of her excuses—not showing up because you weren't around to make it worth it. Now it just felt like another stupid thing she'd wasted.

The rest of the day passed in pieces. Lunch she barely touched. A quiz she couldn't concentrate on. Every hallway felt too narrow, like her body took up more space now that she wasn't walking beside you.

By the time the final bell rang, Tara felt like she was floating above herself—watching her own hands pack her bag, watching her own legs walk toward the front doors. There was a lump in her stomach that had been sitting there all day. Thick and unmoving. Regret, maybe. Or just the weight of everything she hadn't said soon enough.

The air outside was sharp. She didn't wait for anyone. Just walked straight home.

She dropped her bag inside the front door and went to her room without speaking. The house was quiet—Sam must've still been at work. For once, that was a relief. Tara didn't think she had the energy to pretend like she hadn't been holding her breath all day.

She lay down on her bed and stared at the ceiling. The regret didn't go away. It had a shape now. A voice. Yours.

And the worst part was... it made sense.

Tara didn't want to admit that to herself, but it was true. You had been patient. You'd tried. Again and again. She was the one who got defensive. Who snapped. Who said things she didn't mean just because she didn't want to feel small or scared or guilty. She was the one who drank too much, the one who forgot her limits—and then forgot how to love you properly when you were just trying to help.

You'd always been so gentle with her. Even when she didn't deserve it.

And now you were gone.

The days after that blurred together, just a slow repeat of the same heaviness. She thought about texting you constantly. Every morning she'd unlock her phone, stare at your contact, and tell herself not yet. That maybe you just needed space. That if she gave you time, maybe she could explain things better. Maybe you'd still listen.

But two days in, she gave in.

It wasn't a long message. Just a string of apologies, one after the other. No punctuation. Just desperation.

im sorry i mean it

im so sorry.

please let me explain

please.

She sent another later that night.

i'll do better if you just give me a chance i swear i will

you don't even have to take me back i just want to talk

And still—nothing.

It was embarrassing, if she was being honest. Embarrassing to keep trying when you clearly didn't want to hear it. But she didn't know how else to fix it. She didn't want to get over it. Not yet. Not like this.

A few nights later, out of sheer habit, she almost typed goodnight ily before bed. Her fingers hovered over the keys, the words half-formed. But she caught herself before sending it. Sat there staring at the blinking cursor until the screen dimmed and she had to put the phone facedown on the nightstand, throat tight.

School was worse.

You didn't avoid her. That would've been easier. You still walked past her in the halls sometimes, head tilted slightly, as if acknowledging her was still polite. Sometimes you even offered a small smile—but it was the kind people give strangers they almost recognize, like you weren't sure if it was okay to look at her anymore.

And she'd ruined that. She knew she had.

So she started pulling back too. Not out of pride—God, if she had any pride left, she would've stopped texting a long time ago—but because it hurt too much to try.

By the time Friday came, she expected to feel the usual pull toward a party. Toward noise. Distraction.

But she didn't go.

She stayed home.

She didn't want to drink—not after everything it had cost her. And besides... she didn't feel like putting on the act. She didn't feel like pretending she didn't care. She just wanted to be quiet. Maybe even get better.

For you.

Or maybe just for herself.

You, on the other hand, didn't seem to care about limits at all.

But then came the posts.

It started as background noise — a flick through Instagram late Friday night, more out of habit than anything else. Her thumb slowed when she saw the first highlight cover. A familiar house. A too-familiar username. One of the people who never missed a party.

Tara tapped it before she could second-guess herself.

The video was short, chaotic. Flashing lights. Loud music. Phones in the air, bodies swaying in time with each other. But you stood out immediately. Right in the middle, drink in hand, surrounded by people she didn't recognize. Your head tilted back in laughter, someone brushing glitter onto your cheek.

Tara stared.

She hadn't even known you knew those people. Had never heard you mention them. Never seen them around you. You looked like you belonged, though—or at least like you were trying to.

The next story was even clearer. A video, shaky and zoomed in, your name tagged across the bottom. You were dancing with someone she definitely didn't know, spinning clumsily with a smile that didn't quite sit right on your face. Your eyes looked glassy. Your movements a little too loose.

And still... you looked good.

God, you looked so pretty.

Tara had locked her phone without watching the rest.

But the next day, there were more. Snapchat stories from random classmates, reposted clips, tagged photos. It wasn't even hard to find them—if she opened her phone, they were already there.

You weren't in every frame, but you were around. Lingering in the background. Leaning against kitchen counters, caught in mirror selfies, sitting cross-legged on someone's porch steps with a red cup balanced between your knees.

Tara couldn't stop looking. Couldn't stop searching, even when she wanted to.

It wasn't just that you were going out. It was how you were doing it. You didn't look like someone who was just tagging along. You looked like someone who was trying to forget. Someone who wasn't thinking twice about limits or consequences. Someone who wasn't afraid to lose control the way you used to be.

Back when you came to parties only to manage her. To make sure she didn't drink too much. To carry her home when she couldn't stand straight. Now you were drinking like she used to. Laughing too loudly. Stumbling in heels she'd never seen you wear.

And in the first few clips, you looked fine. More than fine. Flushed cheeks, bright eyes, hair a little messy like you didn't care.

But the ones that came after... they were different.

Your smile didn't quite reach your eyes. Your balance was off. You clung to people she didn't recognize just to stay upright. You looked... out of it. Not blackout drunk, not completely gone, but far from the version of you she remembered. The version who always left early. Who always texted Tara before bed to make sure she'd gotten home.

Now you didn't even look like you were going home at all.

And it hit her—sudden and cold—that you didn't seem to care about avoiding the same things that ruined everything between you. You weren't trying to hold back anymore. You weren't trying to protect yourself from the things you used to worry about when it came to her.

You were just... doing them.

Without her.

And somehow, that was harder to look at than anything else.

The school week blurred by, uneventful in the way only heartbreak could make it feel. Tara saw you in the halls, heard your voice in classrooms and across the quad, watched you smile at other people like nothing had changed. You didn't seem tired. Or off. Or even slightly hungover. If anything, you looked more put-together than usual. You laughed at things. You raised your hand in class. You wore your headphones walking to third period like always.

Like nothing had happened at all.

Tara tried not to watch you, but she always did. Quietly. From across a table in the library, or down the hallway by the vending machines. Just enough to see you. Just enough to miss you all over again.

By Friday, she told herself she wouldn't look at any posts this time. It would only hurt. It was pointless. You weren't hers anymore, and she had no place watching your life from a distance.

But the updates found her anyway. Snapchat stories, tagged posts, the same faces that always flooded every party's digital trail—and then, yours. Again.

There wasn't even a slow build this time. No half-tipsy smiles or blurry, harmless clips of you clinking a soda can against someone else's. You were just there, already gone, already drunk. Same new people she didn't know, same crowded background noise. Your hair was different. You were laughing harder. Holding a red solo cup like it belonged in your hand.

And maybe it did now. Maybe this was just who you were without her.

Because it kept happening.

Weekend after weekend, like clockwork. A new party. A new batch of highlights, loops, snaps, clips, reels. Different outfits, different people, same energy. And you—always there. Always part of it.

It became a cycle, almost. Tara didn't go looking for it anymore, not really. But somehow, it still made its way to her screen. A tag from someone she followed. A repost. A conversation she overheard. The same party people posting the same kinds of videos—bass-heavy soundtracks, glittery filters, dancing in bathrooms and kitchens—and somewhere in the middle of it all, there you were. Sometimes in the background. Sometimes front and center.

And she hated how used to it she got.

At first, she'd freeze when she saw you. Fingers still on her screen, chest tightening like something sharp was pressing into her. But now... she didn't freeze. Not in the same way. Now she just stared. Sometimes for too long. Sometimes zooming in, pretending there was something to focus on besides the obvious. Your face. Your drink. Your eyes, glassy and shining under someone's flash.

The way you leaned too hard into people she didn't recognize. The way your laugh stretched too wide.

She hated how easily her thumb remembered where the zoom button was.

And then came the ones where it wasn't just drinks. A haze of smoke trailing up in a dim-lit room. A photo someone captioned with nothing but a leaf emoji and a smiley face. You were there, sitting low on a couch, someone's phone camera catching the second you passed a joint into someone else's hand. Tara stared at that one longer than she should've. There wasn't even anything particularly damning about it.

You weren't passed out. You weren't doing anything wild.

But still.

She remembered every time you used to frown at her for smoking when she got too far gone. The way you used to tug cigarettes or joints out of her fingers and roll your eyes and tell her, "You're gonna feel disgusting tomorrow."

Now she wondered if anyone said that to you. Or if they even cared.

The hardest part wasn't the videos. Not really. It was school. Monday through Friday. It was seeing you walk through the doors with perfect posture and clear eyes. It was watching you sit in class like nothing in your system was still dragging you down from the night before. No headaches. No missed assignments. No yawning through lectures.

Tara used to be the one who held it together best. Now she couldn't even hold eye contact.

And then one day, it came out at lunch.

She wasn't even paying attention at first, just picking at a half-eaten sandwich while Chad and Mindy argued about something stupid. Her mind was elsewhere—where it always was lately. But then Anika leaned in, laughing a little, eyes wide.

"Okay, wait, did you guys hear about Friday night?" she said, voice low but not low enough. "Apparently someone saw Y/N, like—blacked out. I don't know if it was tequila or what, but she was literally carried into someone's guest room."

Tara blinked. She looked up too fast. No one noticed.

It felt like her stomach folded in half.

Blacked out.

Carried.

She didn't ask questions—couldn't. She didn't trust her voice to come out right. But her chest wouldn't stop squeezing. She stared at her tray and didn't say a word, not while Mindy nervously laughed and worriedly said, "No way," not while Anika swore it was true and rattled off which party it was.

Not even when Chad nudged her and went, "Hey, you good?"

Because she wasn't.

Hearing it like that—casual, passed between bites of cafeteria food—it made her skin crawl. It made her ears ring. It wasn't the blacking out, even. She'd been there before. She knew what too much looked like. What being carried felt like.

But hearing it about you... from someone else?

That was new.

That was her thing. That used to be her. Getting too drunk. Getting carried. And you—you were the one who always knew when enough was enough. You were the one who used to pull her away from drinks, press your hand to the small of her back, walk her out before things got messy.

And now she was hearing stories about you.

It felt like a slap. Not just because you'd gone too far—but because it wasn't her you came home to after. It wasn't her you trusted with your head in a toilet bowl or your limbs limp and useless. It wasn't her you needed anymore.

Maybe you didn't want her around.

Maybe you were doing fine without her.

Maybe this was easier for you.

But Tara wasn't fine. None of it was easy. And every new post, every hallway glance, every quiet laugh across the cafeteria just made it clearer:

She'd ruined the only good thing she had.

And now she had to watch you become her... without her.

But it wasn't really you.

Not the you she knew. Not the you she used to wait for outside the library or tug into her side at parties. That version of you was always alert, always grounded in something. Even when you were tired or overwhelmed or annoyed with her—you were there.

Now, you looked like a shell.

It was subtle, at first. You still showed up. You still did your work. You still nodded when teachers asked questions and said "Hey" to friends in the hallway. But Tara could see it. From miles away, she could see it. The quiet behind your eyes. The way you stared at your phone too long between periods. The way your steps weren't light anymore—they were routine. Just part of the floor. Like you were following a path someone else had mapped out, not even bothering to look where it led.

Your smiles didn't reach anymore. They didn't curl at the edges or soften your eyes. You laughed sometimes, sure, but it was short-lived—cut off too quickly, like you were afraid of being too loud.

And your posture... God. Tara remembered how you used to carry yourself like you were always ready to speak up, even if you didn't. Now your shoulders sat lower. Like you were shrinking. Or maybe just tired of standing straight.

She noticed it every time you walked past her. Every shared class. Every time you sat in front of her, and she stared at the back of your head like it held answers she didn't have the courage to ask for.

And it hurt.

Because part of her had wanted to believe that you were better off. That letting you go had at least saved you from her. But it didn't feel like you were free. It felt like you were drifting. Lost.

And she missed you.

God, she missed your voice. Missed hearing you say anything at all that wasn't a deadpan "I don't know" when you got called on in class. Missed your sarcasm. Your weird little tangents. The way you used to whisper answers to her even when she didn't ask.

She thought about talking to you all the time.

Not just in the passing, wishful way—but in the real, gut-pulling, I have to say something kind of way. She'd almost done it, more than once. She'd gotten up, actually started walking toward you in the hallway, only to stop when she saw how closed off your expression was. Like you weren't open to anything. Not from her.

One time, she hesitated for too long—watched you gather your things in a quiet rush and accidentally walk out of English with the wrong book tucked under your arm. Math instead of Lit. She could've called out. Could've said something.

She didn't.

She just stood there, heart in her throat, fingers clenched around her desk.

You looked so tired.

She could see it in your eyes—red around the edges like you hadn't slept. Smudged makeup. Skin a little duller than usual, like your brightness was burning out from the inside. You weren't falling apart, not in any dramatic, public way. But you were... fading. Quietly.

And she hated herself for it.

Because she had done this. She'd driven you to the edge and left you there. She was watching you spiral from the outside now, helpless and paralyzed and ashamed.

And more than anything, she just wanted to go to you. Reach out. Fix it. Make it stop.

But she didn't know how to fix something she'd destroyed.

She didn't know how to talk to someone she'd broken.

And after what felt like weeks of noticing, watching, thinking, missing—after too many glances across crowded hallways, too many "almost" moments where she came so close to saying something—

Tara found out the same way everyone else did.

In the middle of lunch.

"Hey, did you guys hear Y/N got the publishing internship? That's so sick."

It was Chad's voice, half-distracted while he scrolled through something on his phone. Like it was nothing. Like it wasn't the most confusing thing she'd heard in weeks.

Tara blinked. "Wait, what?"

Maybe she said it too fast. Too loud.

Mindy glanced up. "Yeah. She got one of those senior prep placements. For English, I think? That place on Fifth? It's apparently hard to get into."

Tara didn't respond. She just sat there, blinking at her tray like it had answers hidden in the cracks of the plastic.

English.

You didn't even like English.

You liked movies.

You loved movies.

That was your thing. Always had been. It was what you two built your entire friendship on—what bled into whatever mess the two of you had become. It was every sleepover, every late night on her laptop, every ridiculous horror film marathon neither of you had the attention span for. It was what you talked about more than anything else. What you dreamed about when you thought no one was listening.

What you whispered about between kisses.

That was your future.

Tara knew that. She knew you.

So what the hell were you doing applying for an English internship?

And then she remembered.

Your parents.

They never liked the movie thing. They never took it seriously. Tara had heard them once, standing outside your room when you didn't realize she was still over—how they talked about stability, and careers, and being "practical."

How they said film was fine as a hobby.

How they said no one builds a real life off watching movies.

They always had the last word.

And you always let them.

Tara's stomach turned.

Because you hadn't just changed.

You'd given up.

And it wasn't just the alcohol or the parties or the way your smile didn't quite reach your eyes anymore—it was this.

This quiet, quiet thing.

This way of folding yourself in. Of giving in.

Of losing the part of yourself that still believed in anything.

She didn't even finish her lunch.

And then, later that day, she saw it again.

She was walking past the bulletin board outside the counselor's office—something she usually ignored—when your name caught her eye. Typed in bold beneath the words Student Internship Program – Spring Placements Confirmed. A list of names and positions. Some for hospitals. Some for banks.

And there you were.

Y/N L/N – Fifth Street Publishing, Editorial Intern.

She stopped in the middle of the hallway. Just stood there, surrounded by people who kept walking, like the world hadn't just tilted sideways.

It was real.

It was happening.

And you'd never even told her.

But maybe she didn't deserve to be told.

Because deep down, some part of her already knew why you'd said yes to something you didn't want. Why you were willing to settle for a path that didn't belong to you.

It was her.

Tara remembered every word she'd thrown at you that night—slurred and mean and sharp in all the places she'd never been with you before. The way she'd looked at you like she hated you. The way she'd said that you didn't know what you want, that you just followed her around, that you weren't going to become anything.

She could still hear it. Still see the way your face changed, that split-second where the light left your eyes, and you didn't even fight back.

She'd told you you had no future.

And now here you were, proving her right in the worst way possible. Not because it was true, but because maybe you believed it now. Maybe you'd started listening to all the people who told you not to dream too big. Maybe her voice was the loudest in your head.

Tara's chest tightened.

You'd let them choose for you. You'd let her words shape what you thought you deserved.

And somehow, this—this dull, careful future—felt like her fault too.

___

Tara had always hated Thursdays.

Something about them felt wrong. Sluggish. Not quite the end of the week, but far enough from the start that everything just felt tired. She never liked the classes stacked on those days, either—double bio and that pointless required seminar that felt more like a punishment than a credit.

But she hated this Thursday more than most.

She'd woken up twenty minutes too late, missed her usual coffee stop, and couldn't find her hoodie—the one she wore on every bad morning like armor. She'd barely gotten out the door before snapping at Sam for no reason. Her headphones weren't charged. The train smelled like piss. She'd spilled water down her jeans before second period.

And still, none of that was what made the day unbearable.

She only realized that when she turned the corner behind the north building.

It was just supposed to be a shortcut. She always took it when she was running late—it cut around the back parking lot and led straight to the side doors near the locker hall. She hadn't expected anyone to be there. Maybe some upperclassmen ditching again, or someone sneaking a vape before the bell.

But then she saw you.

At first, just a shape—half-obscured by the morning fog clinging to the side of the building, posture slouched, head tipped back against the bricks like you were trying to keep yourself from tipping over completely.

She stopped walking.

For a second, she didn't believe it was you.

You were alone. A hoodie too big on your shoulders, sleeves pulled over your hands. One boot untied. A crumpled plastic water bottle beside you on the ground. And in your fingers—held loose, like it barely mattered—a cigarette. Burning slow between soft knuckles.

Tara froze.

You didn't even see her. Or maybe you did. Maybe you had the whole time.

But you didn't flinch, didn't scramble to hide it, didn't give her even the courtesy of surprise.

You just looked at her. Not confused. Not startled. Just... distant. Detached. Like maybe she was someone you used to know, like maybe she meant nothing now.

And that was the part that gutted her.

Because you used to hate smoking.

You hated the smell. Said it made your clothes stink, your throat itch, your lungs ache. You used to joke that Tara was going to give herself cancer by twenty-five. You'd wave your hand dramatically in front of your face every time she lit one up, and steal her lighters just to "protect her." You hated it.

You hated watching her do it.

And now here you were, shoulders curled inward, lips parted around smoke, exhaling like it was the only thing keeping you together.

Tara didn't know what to do.

Her chest ached—quiet at first, then harder. Like someone had placed a heavy stone right in the center and left it there to settle. She didn't move. Didn't breathe. Her feet were glued to the ground and she was staring, and you were staring back, and everything about it felt wrong.

You didn't look angry. You didn't look guilty.

You just looked tired.

Tired in a way that scared her.

Your eyes were glassy, a little unfocused. Dark rings pressed beneath them like bruises. You didn't look like someone skipping class for the thrill of it, or someone high for the sake of rebellion. You looked like someone who didn't care anymore.

And maybe that was the worst part.

You used to care about everything.

Now you just stood there, barely moving, smoke slipping past your lips in slow, tired clouds. The kind of quiet that didn't feel peaceful—just empty.

You saw her. She knew you saw her.

And still, nothing changed.

Not your expression. Not the slope of your shoulders. Not the way you held the joint like it wasn't worth the effort to hide.

You looked at her—but not really. Like she was a window and not a person.

And Tara just... stood there.

Her throat felt tight, dry. Her palms too warm.

She looked around, heart thudding, realizing slowly and sharply that there was no one else there. Just you. Just her. Just the silence.

This was it.

She'd been thinking about this for weeks.

When she could talk to you. How. What she'd say. If it'd be in one of the classes you still shared. If she'd catch you at your locker, or maybe after school when you always left five minutes early now. She'd imagined a dozen versions of it—how she could ask how you were, if you were okay, if maybe you still had room for her somewhere under all the distance she'd shoved between you.

She'd almost done it before. Twice. Once in the hallway outside chem, when she saw you walk in with the wrong book tucked against your chest. Another time in the cafeteria, when you sat with Mindy and didn't look up once. She'd taken actual steps toward you. Felt her mouth open and close again. Chickened out before she even crossed the room.

But now...

Now there was no crowd. No audience. No excuse.

Just a gray, cold corner of the building. Just your tired eyes.

She inhaled—shallow, nervous. Gave the smallest, awkward smile. It felt too hopeful on her face. Too soft. Like it didn't belong in this version of the world.

Still, she tried.

"Hey," she said.

The word cracked slightly on its way out. She could hear her own voice and hated how small it sounded.

You didn't answer right away. You let the smoke drift again. Your fingers curled tighter around the cigarette—just enough to steady them.

Then you turned your head.

Not fully. Just a little. Like you were acknowledging something without inviting it in.

"Hello."

Quiet. Hoarse.

Your voice was lower than she remembered. Not in sound, just in weight—like it was coming from far away.

You didn't smile. You didn't frown. You didn't meet her eyes.

And that somehow hurt more than anything.

You were right there. Close enough to touch. To smell the smoke and the cheap detergent on your hoodie. But you wouldn't look at her.

Tara shifted her weight—awkward, uncertain. She leaned her back against the brick wall beside you, trying not to stare, trying to ignore how much of you she didn't recognize anymore.

You had red waterlines in your eyes. Like you hadn't slept. Or had cried. Or both.

She swallowed hard, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets to keep from fidgeting.

It wasn't supposed to feel like this.

She didn't know what she'd expected—maybe something softer. Something familiar. Something like the old you, the one who used to grin when she showed up late to class and mouth you owe me a coffee from two rows over.

But this wasn't that.

This wasn't soft.

This wasn't you.

And it was her fault.

Tara looked at you again. Your cheekbone was sharp in the morning light. Your jaw tense, flickering like you were biting back a thought you didn't care enough to say out loud.

She wanted to say something else. Ask something. Anything. But she couldn't remember how to talk to you anymore.

Couldn't remember if she was allowed.

So she just stood there, swallowing past the tightness in her throat, pretending the bricks digging into her back didn't feel like punishment.

Then, quietly—dryly—she said, "Didn't know you smoked."

It came out flat. Not judgmental. Not curious. Just true. A tired truth.

You didn't look at her. Not really. Just shifted your weight slightly against the wall. Brought the joint to your lips again, then paused, like the sentence was too dull to deserve a reaction.

You shrugged. "I didn't."

Then you took a drag.

Exhaled slowly. The kind of exhale that felt more like a habit than a relief.

And she couldn't help it. Couldn't stop herself. The words came out before she could filter them into something less obvious.

"How are you holding up?"

It felt hollow the second it landed.

Because she knew.

She'd seen the answer already.

In the way your old posts disappeared.

In the blurry party pictures Mindy had once accidentally shown her on a story.

In the hallway, where your eyes always looked somewhere else, like you were already halfway gone.

In the way you never spoke unless called on. In the way your shoulders never seemed to relax.

You let out a sound. Small. Dry. Almost like a laugh, if it hadn't sounded so sharp.

"Fine," you said. Voice rough. Edges blunt. "You?"

She blinked.

Caught off guard by how quiet you were. How empty it sounded.

"Uh..." She hesitated. "I'm well."

The words didn't sound right coming out of her mouth.

They sounded like a lie. Or worse—like something an adult would say in the middle of a job interview.

You finally turned your head slightly toward her again. Your eyes still didn't meet hers, but she could see them better now. Could see how tired they looked. How tired you looked.

It hit her in a new way—how much she'd missed. How much she hadn't let herself see until it was too late.

You dragged the cigarette between your fingers again. Slowly. Like you were trying to make it last longer just so you wouldn't have to move.

And Tara... just stood there.

Hating the silence.

Hating herself.

Wishing you'd say more.

Wishing she knew how to make you.

So she grasped at the only thing she could think of.

"Congrats," she said, quietly. Her voice was thin, like she was afraid it might break if she tried to sound more certain. "By the way. For, um... the internship."

She risked a glance at you.

You didn't look surprised. You didn't look anything.

"I saw the list," she added, softer.

There was something stiff about her posture now, like saying it out loud made her aware of every inch of space between you. But she meant it. She meant all of it. Even if it sounded like nothing.

Because she had wanted you to get something good. Even after everything—after all the things she'd said, the things she hadn't said—she still wanted you to succeed.

She knew you could. You always could.

She just hadn't made that clear.

Quite the opposite, actually.

You exhaled smoke, slow and careless, before answering.

"Yeah," you said. Then after a pause, added, "Didn't really ask for it."

Your tone wasn't bitter. Just... matter-of-fact.

You flicked ash off the end of the joint, watching it fall. Your fingers were trembling slightly—just barely—but steady enough to keep holding on.

"They thought it'd be good for college apps," you went on. "Looks clean on paper. Reads like ambition."

You didn't smile.

"And I'm good at pretending."

Tara's heart sank.

Not because she hadn't already suspected it. But because it sounded like you didn't even care that she knew now. Like it didn't matter anymore—if she saw it, if she didn't.

You weren't hiding it.

You weren't hiding any of it.

And it hurt more than she could say.

She shifted her foot against the ground, scraping the toe of her shoe along the concrete without thinking. She wanted to say something back—something that would mean more. But her throat felt tight again.

You were still leaning there, distant and quiet and so far from the girl she used to talk to until 2am about directors, indie films, dumb slashers you both claimed to hate but secretly loved.

The same girl who once told her she didn't want a life that looked good on paper—just one that felt good to wake up to.

Now here you were. Holding someone else's idea of your future. And smoking through it.

Tara felt like she might be sick.

But she stayed quiet.

You didn't want her comfort.

And she didn't know how to give it without breaking.

Tara shifted again, her shoulder brushing the wall beside yours.

"I—" she started, then stopped. Her tongue felt too big for her mouth, her mouth too small for the words. She swallowed. Tried again.

"I just... I wanted to say I'm sorry."

It came out soft. Awkward. She didn't look at you when she said it.

She didn't know if she could.

Your eyes stayed forward, pinned somewhere across the parking lot, unfocused but alert in that strange, quiet way people got when they were waiting for something they didn't believe would happen.

"It's fine," you said.

Not cold. Just automatic. Like you'd practiced it. Like it had been said too many times already—It's fine. It's fine. It's fine. Until it meant nothing.

Tara's jaw tensed.

"It's not," she said, quieter now. "I know it's not."

You didn't respond. Not right away. Just took another drag, letting the smoke pool at the corner of your lips before exhaling slowly, like the whole thing bored you.

And then you chuckled. Dry. Not real. Not you.

"I should actually thank you," you said, still not looking at her. "I mean, who needs confidence anyway?"

It wasn't loud. It wasn't even particularly mean. But it landed harder than if you'd screamed at her.

Because it was the kind of thing someone says when they've been sitting with a bruise for too long—when they've learned to stop touching it, stop flinching.

Tara's breath hitched.

The guilt hit harder than it ever had. Not just guilt for what she'd said that night—though God, that alone was enough to drown in—but for what it had done to you. For what it had made you carry.

She'd changed you.

"I—"

"I have to go," you cut in. Not harsh, just flat. Final.

Then, a pause. "English. Gotta show up for the future that's apparently waiting for me."

You turned your head toward her at last. Your eyes finally met hers—and God, there was something in them that gutted her. Not anger. Not sadness. Just that emptiness.

Like you'd stopped expecting anything else from her.

You pushed yourself off the wall, the movement smooth but weighted, like your body was full of bricks. Your cigarette dropped from your fingers, still burning faintly as it hit the concrete.

You crushed it under your boot.

Didn't say another word.

Didn't give Tara the chance to say anything else either.

You just walked, slow and steady, like the conversation hadn't taken a chunk out of you. Like the cigarette had never been in your hand.

Leaving Tara standing against the wall alone.

The air still smelled like smoke. It clung to her sleeves, her hair, her skin. She could still taste it in the back of her throat—burnt and bitter, like everything she hadn't said.

The silence around her was loud. Too loud.

You were gone. And she was still standing there like an idiot, staring at the space where you'd been, like maybe you'd change your mind and come back. Like maybe this time she'd know what to say.

But you didn't.

And she wouldn't.

Maybe this was how it was always meant to be.

Maybe this was what she'd earned.

You had loved her—fully, stupidly, bravely. You'd held her hand when no one else did, stayed when she gave you every reason to leave, forgave her for things she wouldn't forgive herself for. You were the best thing that had ever happened to her, and she had torn it to shreds because she didn't know how to be loved without ruining it.

Because she didn't know how to stop destroying things that made her feel.

And maybe that was it.

Maybe this was her punishment.

To watch you disappear. To have had something real, and to know she'd wrecked it.

And it was then and there that Tara Carpenter realized she was destined to be alone.

[djlj-panda]

Conjuring

Synopsis: What If Reader And Wednesday Relationship Was Like Ed And Lorraine Warren

A/N: Spoilers For Wednesday And Was Inspired By Some Scenes In The Conjuring Movies. Female Reader In Mind When Making This.

For you when you first saw Wednesday it was like love at first sight. Just seeing the way she carried herself and her intelligence made you want to know more about her.

Wednesday always thought you were a bit cute, like a wandering puppy looking for an owner. Even if she won’t say it out loud she loved how you are really one of the only people to always smile at her.

And at the time when people thought she was lying about Rowan, you were the first to hear her out and believe her. You promised to be by her side and help her with the case.

So you two became partners in crimes and Wednesday was surprised by allot of things you know about Nevermore and Jericho.

Wednesday loved seeing your mind work she loved the look on your face when you were thinking.

But the relationship did have some bumps especially when Wednesday let Tyler take her to the dance you were heartbroken. When Wednesday realized what she did she asked you to come into her room as she played a song and you two began to dance.

It was than you and Wednesday both smiled as you would twirl and dip her to the music. Your bodies moved together in sync as if you both were made for each other.

The dance ended with a kiss and a promise to stay close with each other.

-

Now during the fight with Joseph Crackstone even when you were having trouble moving due to fighting when seeing Wednesday in danger your body couldn’t help but move in to make sure she was safe.

And when Wednesday was thrown out of a window at Willow Hill you wouldn’t leave her side. Morticia said to go home and get some rest as Wednesday would understand. “My home is with her Mrs.Addams. Has Wednesday ever told you how me and her first met?” “Well all I could get from her was you both saw each other during her first year in Nevermore”.

“Well I was talking with some of my friends when I bumped into her as she was walking with Enid. Later after becoming friends and after the Rave’N. She took me out for ice cream only then it started to rain so we went back to her dorm. Then we both danced as we became a couple that night”. You said with a smiled as you looked at Wednesday. “So yes I could go home but she’s my home”, you said smiling as you wanted to be here for Wednesday making sure you would be here when she wakes up.

And you were as when you went to go check on her again you saw awake. You ran to her hugging her so tight you were afraid once you let go she’s leave again.

The first time she got her visions back it showed her you badly injured. Wednesday didn’t want to lose you and Enid so she kept trying to make sure your both safe.

Wednesday did open up to you about her visions and you promised her you would be careful.

“I had a vision back in the hospital it was like the same one I had with Enid. I had a vision of what seems of your death” “Wait that’s why you didn’t speak to me that whole day, you saw my death?”, you said as you walked closer to Wednesday. “Y/n it’s a warning if you keep helping me you are going to die” “Your visions are a gift and if you are getting these visions then they are for a reason. Maybe is meant to help you prevent it from happening”, you said holding both of Wednesday’s hands in yours.

“Come on Wednesday we don’t run from fights”, you smiled pulling Wednesday closer to you giving her a kiss on her forehead. “If we do this you have to promise me you’ll be safe and be by my side. If this turns way too dangerous you are getting out, promise me?”, Wednesday looked up at you as you both locked eyes. “Promise me Y/n” “I promise”.

Wednesday has never said much “I love you”, but you knew she loved and cared about you deeply she just did it in her own way. But the first time she did was when she thought she was gonna lose you.

It happened when you and Wednesday were separated by a locked door as you and her were gonna go help Enid but the door shut separating you both.

You both tried to get it open but it wasn’t working. “Y/n, dear wait right there, wait someone’s gonna come to help us” “I can’t wait, I’m going on ahead”, you said as you banged on the door about to run ahead. “No! Y/n don’t! Stop! You can’t fight this alone”, Wednesday screamed as she banged on the door as you came back. “She needs our help” “Y/n please, please just wait for me. Please wait for me”, you rested your head against the door Wednesday did as well as she spoke up again.

“I can’t lose you, I’m so scared and not when I save for killer dolls” “I know, me too but I have to help her”. Wednesday voice started to shake a bit as she said “But what about my vision” “I know I made a promise to you but I have to do this, I love you Wednesday”, you said as you ran off hearing Wednesday scream and banged the door for you and before you were truly far away from the door you can hear her scream on how much she loves you and to not leave.

-

Now when you and Wednesday left Nevermore while Wednesday wrote her novels you started your on detective business. Mainly with the encouragement of Wednesday who believed in your skills.

You both mainly focus on the supernatural. You would hunt down demons and monsters making sure they don’t cause havoc with regular humans.

You would help families or whole towns that are getting attacked by some kind of spirit or monster.

But even with all the chaos in your lives you always do make time for each other.

“My love when was the last time we danced?”, you said as you reached your hand out to Wednesday as she took it in her own. “Hours”. You pulled her in close as you both began to sway together.

You both know that no matter what happens you both will be together. No monsters or demons can keep you two apart.

[fanficlolsblog]

JUST A LITTLE BITE

back to my main masterlist

pairing: vampire fem!reader x wednesday addams

summary: Y/N, a vampire, returns to wednesday addams' dorm after a day out, sensing her girlfriend's hidden frustration at being apart. as Y/N teases wednesday about her vampire nature, they share playful intimacy through biting. their connection deepens, revealing wednesday’s vulnerability and desire, ultimately strengthening their bond in the shadows.

warnings: mentions of light bitting, vamprism, blood play.

It had been a long day out with my friends, filled with laughter and sunlight, both of which always seemed a little too bright for my liking. As a vampire, I thrived in the dark, where the shadows embraced me like an old friend. But today had been different. I wanted to enjoy life outside my usual midnight escapades, if only for a while. Still, all I could think about was getting back to her.

As I stepped into the dimly lit hallway of Nevermore Academy, a chill ran down my spine, a mixture of excitement and anticipation. I moved silently, my footsteps barely making a sound against the polished floor. Wednesday Addams’ dorm room was just a few doors down, and I could feel an inexplicable pull toward her, one that always seemed to intensify the longer I was away.

I pushed open the door, the hinges creaking softly. The room was just as I remembered it: dark, cluttered with peculiar artifacts and a hint of the macabre. Wednesday was sitting on her bed, a book sprawled open in front of her, but her eyes were glued to the window, lost in thought.

“Hey,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

She turned slowly, her expression unreadable. “You took your time,” she replied, her tone flat but with an undercurrent of something deeper.

I could sense it immediately. There was a heaviness in the air, a tension that I recognized well. Wednesday often masked her emotions behind a veneer of indifference, but I could see through it. “Did you miss me?” I asked, trying to keep the teasing light.

“Hardly,” she retorted, but her eyes flickered with something that felt like longing.

I moved closer, noting the way she shifted slightly, an unconscious invitation. “You know it’s not the same without you,” I said softly, my gaze locking onto hers. “I hate being away from you.”

For a moment, I thought I saw a flash of vulnerability in her dark eyes, but she quickly masked it with her usual stoicism. “Well, you’re back now. That’s all that matters.”

I perched on the edge of her bed, the tension between us palpable. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Wednesday. I can sense how you feel.”

Her lips twitched, but she suppressed a smile. “You can’t always read me like an open book, Y/N.”

“Maybe not, but I know you well enough to tell when you’re upset.” I leaned in closer, catching the faint scent of her shampoo mixed with something uniquely her. “What’s really bothering you?”

She paused, her gaze drifting to the book in front of her, avoiding my eyes. “I just... don’t like being ignored,” she said, the faintest hint of frustration creeping into her voice.

I reached out, brushing my fingers against hers. “You weren’t ignored, I just needed some time out. But I’m here now.” I hesitated for a moment before adding, “And I think you secretly love it when I bite you.”

A smirk tugged at the corners of her mouth, but she quickly suppressed it, her facade slipping momentarily. “I don’t ‘love’ anything,” she said, but I could hear the teasing lilt in her tone.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” I leaned closer, my fangs grazing her neck. She shivered slightly, and I could see the rush of excitement in her dark eyes.

“Y/N,” she murmured, her voice a mix of annoyance and thrill. “You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe, but you enjoy it.” I brushed my lips against her skin, just above where my fangs would pierce. I could feel her heartbeat quicken, a rhythm that matched my own in a way that was both intoxicating and terrifying.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, but the breathiness in her voice betrayed her.

“Then let me show you.” I pressed my fangs against her neck, teasingly light, just enough to make her breath hitch. I could feel the tension in her body, the way she leaned into me, craving that small bit of pain mingled with pleasure.

“Just a little bite,” I whispered, allowing myself the indulgence of sinking my fangs into her skin for the briefest moment. The taste of her blood was warm and inviting, and I pulled back, a satisfied smile on my lips. “See? Not so bad.”

Wednesday’s expression shifted, her usual stoic demeanor faltering as she tried to regain control. “You’re a menace,” she said, though her eyes sparkled with something darker, something that told me she wanted more.

I couldn’t help but chuckle, feeling a surge of warmth at the sight of her struggle to maintain her composure. “Maybe, but you like me just the way I am.”

“Perhaps,” she said, feigning nonchalance, but her gaze betrayed her interest. “You’re certainly not boring.”

“Glad to hear it.” I brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering on her cool skin. “And you’re definitely not boring either.”

She leaned into my touch, and for a moment, the distance between us vanished. I could feel the weight of her longing, the unspoken words hanging in the air. “What are we doing, Y/N?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

I smiled, my heart racing. “Whatever we want. As long as you’re with me.”

For the first time, Wednesday’s defenses seemed to crack just a bit. She smiled, a small, genuine smile that made my heart flutter. “Then let’s not waste any more time.”

[thedemoninme141]

It doesn't matter. (anon asks)

Pairings: Wednesday x Female reader.

Theme: Angst. Warnings: Discussions of suicide, depression.

Wordcount: 3.5k.

Wednesday sat on the railing of her balcony, her legs hanging over the edge, boots scraping against the cold stone.

Enid was sleeping softly in her side of the dorm. Peaceful. Oblivious. Even Thing had curled up on his little makeshift bed, unmoving, trusting that she would do nothing drastic. They thought they understood her.

They thought she was above weakness, above fragility.

Fools.

She had studied death. Pored over it. Dissected its meanings, its finality, its inevitability. She had wielded it in her hands like a sharpened blade, used it as a threat, a weapon, a fascination. But now, she wondered: was a fall from this height truly lethal? Would her bones shatter on impact? Or would she suffer, twitching on the cold stone until the void finally claimed her?

The world below seemed so far away, yet so close. A single misstep, a slight shift in weight, and she would no longer be perched between life and death, she would simply fall.

She had read about people who had jumped. Some regretted it before they hit the ground. Some had died on impact, their bodies broken beyond recognition. Some had lived, haunted by the knowledge that they had failed at escaping.

Would she regret it?

A foolish question. She didn’t believe in regret. She believed in action.

It didn’t matter.

It really didn’t matter.

She sat in the quad, her fingers curled over the spine of a book she had long since stopped reading. Her dark eyes were fixed on a single point across the courtyard.

You. It had been a year since she talked to you, that day.

She was watching you again.

Why?

She didn’t know.

She wasn’t even aware of when it started.

You were reading. Or, at least, you had been.

Now, your book was gone, ripped from your hands by a sneering group of students who thought themselves superior. She had seen this before. Watched from a distance. The same group. The same scene, playing out like a wretched cycle. A hand shoved at your shoulder, another voice laughed in your face. Your lips pressed into a thin line, your fingers curling into fists, but you did not fight back.

You never did.

You had been like this for a while now, silent, withdrawn, smaller. You never stood close to her anymore, hadn't been for the past year since that day. You never hovered near her anymore.

It wasn’t the first time she had seen this.

She had been seeing you, as you closed yourself from.. everything.

Wednesday could end it.

It would be easy. A single glare, a few well-placed words, and they would scatter like cockroaches under a harsh light. She could terrify them, send them running, make them regret every second they had spent trying to break you down.

But how could she?

How could she, when she had done the same to you?

The wind was colder now, biting at her skin as she sat motionless on the railing. Wednesday didn’t move, didn’t blink, only stared at the ground below. She understood now. Why you had chosen her. It wasn’t because you were fascinated by her, nor because you admired her, no, you did admire her but not in the way the others did.

The Hyde investigation had reached a standstill.

Wednesday gritted her teeth, Yesterday’s rain had washed away what could have been critical evidence. It was infuriating. She hated inefficiency, hated wasting time, hated failure.

And then there was you.

Trailing behind her like a shadow, quiet but persistent.

“…Maybe it’s not someone from this school at all, but an outsider?” Your voice was soft, hesitant, barely loud enough to rise above the sound of her footsteps.

Wednesday didn’t reply. Her mind was a swirling storm of deductions, dead ends, and mounting irritation.

“I mean… you’re so smart, Wednesday. I’m sure you’ll figure it out soon.”

A compliment. Empty words, spoken with sincerity, but meaningless in the grand scheme of things.

Wednesday stopped walking.

“Stop talking.”

Her voice was flat, sharp, laced with barely contained irritation.

She didn’t have time for this.

You flinched, but you didn’t leave. Instead, you simply adjusted the grip on your notebook, as if grounding yourself, as if trying to take up less space. Your footsteps became softer, your presence dimming, but still there.

Still following.

Still clinging.

By the time they reached the main hallway, the low hum of students passing through only made the irritation coil tighter inside her chest. The voices, the movement, the constant press of bodies—it was suffocating.

And then—

“…I could help if you need someone to brainstorm with…”

She still doesn't understand what was wrong in that sentence that caused her to lash out.

Wednesday stopped abruptly.

You hadn’t been expecting it. You barely had time to react before you bumped into her shoulder, the force of it barely anything, but it sent a fresh wave of irritation through her already frayed nerves.

She spun around, her hand latching onto your arm before she shoved you against the nearest wall.

“You are insufferable.”

Your back hit the cold stone, you froze, your notebook still clutched to your chest.

“Do you not understand the concept of personal space?” Her voice was rising now, sharp enough to cut. “Or basic social cues? How many more insults will it take to penetrate that thick skull of yours and make you realize I am not interested in your pathetic attempts at friendship?”

She remembers she noticed it.

The way your eyes flickered around, the way you took in the students stopping, whispering, watching.

She didn’t care back then.

“I don’t care about your feelings. I don’t care about your problems. And I certainly don’t care about your pitiful attempts to get closer to me.” Her voice was ice, unwavering, merciless. “So why don’t you do us both a favor and stay the hell away from me?”

She didn’t wait for a reaction.

Didn’t wait to see the way your fingers trembled around the edges of your notebook.

She just turned and walked away.

And now, sitting on the railing of her balcony, she understood.

You had clung to her because she was a wall, an impenetrable fortress of indifference and cruelty, and as long as you stayed near her, no one else could touch you. No one else could hurt you.

You weren’t trying to befriend her. You were trying to survive.

She had been your shield.

You had felt safe around her.

Safe.

Wednesday stood outside your dorm, the same day she had watched as they surrounded you, as they tossed your book aside like it was worthless, as you stood there and did nothing, accepted it like it was as natural as breathing.

And now she was here, because… because what? Because she felt responsible? Because she had spent a year noticing the silence you left in your absence? Because something about the way you had looked, empty, resigned—had made something inside her twist unpleasantly?

Her hand hovered for only a second before she knocked twice.

“Wednesday?” you asked, your voice quiet, indifferent.

Wednesday opened her mouth, then closed it.

She had spent the past hour deliberating over this moment, she had thought of this moment in her head, had run through different variations of how this conversation might go, but now, standing in front of you, she realized she had no idea what to say.

She expected—no, she had prepared for—the possibility of anger, of bitterness. Perhaps even avoidance, a door slammed in her face, a sharp remark thrown back at her in retaliation for last year.

But this?

This quiet, unreadable calm?

It made her skin crawl.

How can she bring this up? How could she string together words that didn’t sound weak, didn’t make her feel foolish?

You tilted your head slightly, waiting. Then, after a beat, “Do you need something?”

Wednesday finally forced herself to speak.

“I saw some students bothering you today,” she said, her voice clipped. “Why didn't you even try to fight back?"

It was a simple question. A reasonable one. And yet, the moment she said it, something in your expression shifted.

You looked… surprised.

As if the very idea of someone asking had never even crossed your mind.

Then, slowly, you smiled. A sad, small thing that barely touched your eyes. "It doesn't matter. I'm used to it."

Wednesday studied you carefully, but there was no tension, no bitterness, no frustration—just quiet acceptance, like this was simply a fact of life, an inevitability you had long since resigned yourself to.

“I’ve learned not to fight battles that don’t matter,” you added.

Wednesday narrowed her eyes. “That sounds like cowardice.”

She expected a flinch, a glare, some kind of reaction at the insult.

But you only looked at her, that same faint, almost knowing smile on your lips. "Maybe," you said. "Or maybe I’ve just realized there’s no point."

There was no weight behind the words, no emotion for her to latch onto. Nothing.

That should have pleased her. Wednesday had always hated dealing with overly emotional displays, found them exhausting, unnecessary. But this wasn’t peace. This wasn’t calm.

This was a void.

And it unsettled her more than anything else could have.

Wednesday held your gaze for a long moment. Then, before she could stop herself, before she could convince herself it wasn’t necessary, she forced the words out

“I haven’t spoken to you in a year,” Wednesday said, her voice uncharacteristically soft, though still blunt. “That day in the hallway…”

You tilted your head slightly, as if trying to recall something distant. “I don’t blame you, Wednesday. You don’t need to apologize.”

The statement caught Wednesday off guard. She hadn’t been planning to apologize, not exactly. But the fact that you brushed it off so easily, as if it didn’t matter at all, made her feel even more uneasy.

“I wasn’t going to apologize,” Wednesday said quickly, more to reassure herself than you. “I don’t apologize. I just..." she sighed, taking a deep breath.

"I just wanted to say I am not one to dwell on past mistakes, nor do I often feel the need to correct them. However…" A pause. Her fingers twitched at her sides. "I shouldn’t have said what I did. Last year."

Nothing.

No flicker of relief, no sign that this meant anything to you at all.

You simply nodded, voice as steady as ever. "It’s fine."

It wasn’t.

"It really doesn’t matter," you added.

Wednesday’s jaw tightened.

It didn’t matter.

That was what you had said.

The same way you had said it about the group who bullied you.

The same way you had said it about yourself.

It should matter.

But you spoke like someone who had already accepted things would never change. Like someone who had given up long ago.

She didn’t know why that bothered her so much. Wednesday exhaled slowly.

"If they bother you again, tell me."

Your polite, practiced smile returned.

"I’ll keep that in mind."

You wouldn't.

Wednesday was feeling tired now, she hadn't been able to sleep for the past few days. And there was the round glowing thing, up there in the sky, judging her.

So the next time Wednesday didn't hesitate. “Are you all incapable of finding something more productive to do than harass the same person every day?” she said, her voice cutting through the air like a blade.

The bullies froze, their smug expressions faltering as they turned to face her.

“Look, Addams, we’re just—” one of them began, but Wednesday raised a hand, silencing them.

“I don’t recall asking for an explanation, if you want to keep your body parts intact, I would suggest moving away now.” she said icily.

Before she could take another step toward them, you stood abruptly, placing a hand on Wednesday’s arm.

“It’s okay,” you said softly, your voice steady.

Wednesday frowned, her eyes narrowing. “It’s not okay.”

You shook your head, your gaze meeting Wednesday’s for a brief moment before dropping again. “Please. Just leave it. It doesn’t matter.”

Those three words, and here she thought she hates the other set of three words.

She was beyond frustrated. “Of course, it matters—”

But you cut her off with a faint, almost pleading smile. “Thank you, Wednesday. But I can handle it.”

Your calmness only made Wednesday angrier, but she allowed herself to be stopped. The bullies muttered something under their breath and walked away, clearly unwilling to push their luck further.

You let go of Wednesday’s arm and gathered your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. “I’ll see you later,” you said quietly, before walking away without another word.

Wednesday watched as you walked away, the ghost of that practiced smile still lingering on your lips.

It unsettled her.

She should have felt satisfied. The bullies had left. You were no longer being bothered. By all accounts, this was a resolution. Yet, as she stood there, the frustration in her veins had not lessened. It had thickened.

Because you weren’t relieved. You weren’t grateful or upset or anything at all. You were just… neutral. Indifferent. As if nothing that had just happened actually mattered.

And that was what disturbed her the most.

She hadn’t intended to seek you out again that day, but as evening settled over Nevermore, she found herself in your presence once more. It was not premeditated. At least, that was what she told herself.

You were at your usual spot in the library, tucked away in the corner where few people ventured. Your book was open, but Wednesday could tell you weren't reading, your thoughts were elsewhere.

Wednesday sat down across from you without invitation. You looked up, but instead of questioning her presence, you simply nodded in acknowledgment before returning to staring at the pages in front of you.

She waited for you to speak.

You didn’t.

“I assume you have no opinion on this novel?” she asked, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

You blinked, finally lifting your eyes to hers. There was no confusion, no curiosity—just quiet patience, as if waiting for her to get to the point. “It’s fine,” you said simply.

Fine.

Wednesday studied you for a long moment.

A year ago, you would have said more.

A year ago, you would have tilted your head, started a conversation, told her what you thought, even if you knew she might not respond.

But now?

She felt a strange, unfamiliar irritation.

Wednesday exhaled sharply. "You used to be more talkative."

You blinked, tilting your head slightly, as if this was a strange observation. "Did I?"

Wednesday's lips pressed into a thin line. "Yes."

You hummed, as if considering it, before turning the page of your book. "I guess I don’t have much to say anymore."

There was something deeply, profoundly wrong about that.

"You always had something to say before," Wednesday pointed out.

“I suppose I grew out of it.”

Wednesday didn’t believe that.

Not for a second.

But she didn’t know how to make you tell her the truth.

Wednesday had never been one to admire beauty—she found it frivolous, a distraction from the inevitable decay that awaited all things. And yet, she could not deny it.

The moon did look beautiful tonight.

And perhaps it's too late to notice this... has she always been too late to notice things?

It's alright, it doesn't matter.

Somewhere in the months that followed, she had begun to notice things.

Small things.

The way she was drawn to your presence more than she cared to admit. The way her mind wandered when you weren’t near. The way irritation clawed at her when she saw you retreat into yourself, as if part of you was slipping away, disappearing into the quiet that had settled around you for the past year.

She found herself seeking you out, not out of curiosity or obligation, but because she wanted to.

It was unnatural.

It was wrong.

But it was happening.

And she noticed that something else was happening, too.

You were changing.

At first, the silence had been suffocating. Wednesday had spent months trying to pry something—anything—out of you, trying to provoke a reaction, to hear your voice the way she used to. But it had been slow, painfully so, like pulling teeth.

Then, one day, she made a comment about Xavier's iq, and you—

You laughed.

It wasn’t much, just a quiet huff of amusement, barely even there. But it was real.

Perhaps that's what pushed her over the edge.

It started happening more often after that.

Little things.

A subtle smile when she made a dark observation about the world. A quiet response when she asked you a direct question.

You weren’t how you used to be. Not completely.

But you were less silent.

And Wednesday—who had spent her entire life preferring silence—found herself desperate to hear more.

One evening, as you sat across from her in the library, she caught herself staring.

You were focused on a book, your expression calm, lips slightly parted in thought. A stray strand of hair fell in front of your eyes, and without thinking, you reached up and tucked it behind your ear.

It was an utterly mundane action.

And yet, something inside Wednesday twisted.

She dropped her gaze immediately, pressing her nails into her palms.

This wasn’t right.

She knew what this was. She wasn’t stupid. She had read about these things, seen them infect others like a slow-spreading disease.

She was falling for you.

And it was unacceptable.

But the realization did nothing to stop it.

She still sought you out. She still lingered in your presence. She still noticed every detail about you—the way you fidgeted when deep in thought, the way your voice softened when you spoke to her, the way you had begun to meet her gaze a little more often.

She noticed how you were changing.

And she noticed that she was, too.

She had tried to fight it. Tried to ignore the way something inside her clenched whenever you smiled—really smiled, not the polite, practiced one you gave so often.

But it was pointless.

Because this had been building for months now, like a slow-burning fire that refused to be smothered.

And perhaps—

Perhaps she didn’t want to smother it anymore.

Wednesday wasn’t blind to the world. She knew what affection looked like, even if she had never experienced it herself. She had read of it, studied it, dissected it through history and literature and human observation.

And now, she was living it.

There was something deeply unsettling about the realization.

But there was something else, too. Something almost… comforting.

It wasn’t so bad, she supposed, to have someone she didn’t mind being around. To have someone who had seen the worst of her and still—still—remained.

Maybe she could allow this.

Maybe, for once, she could let herself have this.

The Raven was approaching.

Wednesday had never cared for such events—meaningless social gatherings. It was an evening of vanity, of shallow declarations and fleeting romances, none of which had ever interested her.

And yet, for the first time, she found herself anticipating it.

Because this year, it had a purpose.

This year, she would ask you.

The realization should have unsettled her, but it didn’t. Not anymore. She had spent months fighting this, dissecting it, rationalizing it, but there was no use in denying the inevitable. She had fallen for you. The thought of it no longer felt like a weakness.

Perhaps, in some ways, it was a strength.

She had spent so long trying to bring you back—trying to restore the version of you that had been buried beneath silence and indifference. And it was working, wasn’t it?

She could already picture the moment in her mind—she would find you alone, somewhere quiet, away from the noise of the others. She would state it plainly, without unnecessary theatrics or hesitations.

You would say yes.

And after the Raven—

She would tell you.

That she had fallen for you. That somewhere between your silence and your soft smiles, between the way you had once tried so hard to reach her and then stopped entirely, she had found herself tangled in something she could not escape.

She wasn’t sure what she expected to happen afterward. But she would deal with it when the time came.

For now, she just needed to ask you. She just needs to go to your dorm and ask you. She just needs to go to your room and find you.

Wednesday sat on the edge of the balcony railing, her legs dangling over the side.

In her hand, a letter trembled, one she had found beside you.

Her fingers curled tightly around the paper, the words smudged in places where she had gripped it too hard, as if by crumpling it, she could change what was written, change the reality of what had happened. But the ink did not bleed, and the words did not disappear.

They stared back at her.

"I'm sorry."

""I'm tired, Wednesday."

"It wasn't your fault. It wasn't anyone's fault."

"Don't blame yourself."

But Wednesday did.

How could she not, when she had seen the signs too late? When she had spent so long convincing herself that you were getting better, that the quiet was no longer something suffocating? When she was the reason you got away?

You were smiling more. Talking more. Responding when she reached out.

For all her investigation skills, she should have known better.

It was never real.

She had studied death all her life, dissected it, understood it in ways most people never could.

And yet, she found herself wondering—

Would a fall from this height be lethal?

It doesn't matter.

She was going to find out soon anyway.

[Author's note: This was a one-shot ask. So blame anon for the heartbreak. I can't believe I wrote all that in one sitting lmao.]

[Worklist.]

Taglist: @ognenniyvolk@mally-ka@protozoario@machyishere@freakshow2501@101rizzlrr (If you guys don't wanna be tagged in one-shot asks, inform me, I don't mind.)