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pearlywritings · 7 months ago

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Sometimes the name doesn't matter

synopsis: sometimes it matters that you are his wife. PART 3

pairings: Childe, Neuvillette, Pantalone, Wriothesley x fem!reader (separately)

tw: fluff, established relationship (married/engaged/mated), secret relationship, immortal reader in Neuvi's part

word count: 6.1k+ words

a/n: part 1 and part 2 can be read here!

Childe

Spurred by the whistles and a whip of a coachman three fine white horses are trotting along the snow-covered road, dragging a big sleigh. Made of the sturdiest wood and painted in red and gold, the construction is effortlessly sliding on ice crust, almost lulling you under all those warm blankets and furs Ajax has thrown over your half-sitting half-lying bodies. You are glad to have this instead of jolting in a carriage (not like it’ll even be able to ride through all this snow), sure to have an aching arse even under the thick sheepskin coat, and instead of whatever machinery your lover could’ve gotten his hands onto due to his position - otherwise it wouldn’t have been so romantic.

Resting your head onto his shoulder you sigh blissfully, puffing out a small cloud of warm air. The fluffy-looking firs, tall pines and naked larches are flashing past in a magical gleam of snow-covered branches; you think you see two grayish squirrels chasing one another on a tree on your left.

“Oh, little minxes. A couple of seconds later and that snow could’ve ended up on our heads.”

You giggle at the young man’s comment, taking your gloved hand out of the sable muff and reaching to adjust the hat with earflaps (which he once again refused to tie under his chin) on his head. Before you can retrieve, a bigger hand clad in mitten wraps around yours and brings it to the chapped pale lips. As if spellbound you watch him press a tender kiss just where your ring finger joins the palm - right where the engagement ring is hidden under the thick material.

Now it’s hard to tell if your cheeks are rosy from cold or the swirling emotions.

“A little bit more and we will be in Morepesok,” he says softly, deep pools of his blue eyes staring back at you adoringly. “I can’t wait to share the news with ma, pa, sisters and brothers…”

You know he’s written them a letter right after you said ‘yes” to him, too excited to wait. So excited in fact, that he couldn’t sit still in expectation for the response, so he solicited an impromptu week-long vacation with the help of Pulcinella, and here you are, on your merry way to his home village.

“I can’t wait for that too,” you smile, leaning up to peck his nose, eliciting the same smile from him. “But I worry a little - will they be happy for us? I mean, that it’s me who you are going to marry?”

“Absolutely!” He nods enthusiastically and you have to readjust his hat again. “They all love you very much, I promise you. And if I am being completely honest, mom and Tonia did keep asking me when I intended to make you my wife during the last couple of times we visited.”

“Wait, really? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I was already planning a proposal at the time - didn’t want to spoil it by accidentally letting my tongue loose.”

It’s hard to believe that this man is one of the Tsaritsa’s Harbingers. Childe is surprisingly good at separating his work and off work behavior, turning into a completely normal, maybe just a tiny bit unhinged, young man as soon as his family is involved. You know he’s built this facade to keep them and you away from harm, but you also know it comes from the heart as well.

“Then I can only hope we can bring the female members of your family to the capital soon - I want them to participate in the wedding dress shopping.”

You are immediately gathered into a tight embrace and your laughter is smothered by the fur on his collar. Yes, he is the Eleventh Harbinger, Tartaglia, Tsaritas’s soldier, Childe… But in moments like this he is just Ajax. Your Ajax.

His parents’ house meets you both with the quiet creak of the gates, the barking of two big fluffy malamutes outside, the clink of the horseshoe against the wood on top of the front door, the warmth of a well-heated inside and a bit taller than the last time you saw him Teucer, who runs full speed at his big brother, practically tackling him.

“Big brother is home, big brother is home!”

Ajax joyously laughs, somehow managing to take off his coat and dropping it to the colorful carpet at the front door before hoisting the exclaiming boy into his arms. Kicking off your felt boots to step from the anteroom, you watch with a smile as he squeals when your lover presses his cold cheek to the warm smaller one, squirming in the strong arms.

Not a minute later more of his siblings appear, closely followed by their mom - freckled, with her ginger with gray hair tied in a thick braid and an apron thrown over her green dress, the woman smiles brightly and, letting her children surround their brother, walks to you with arms spread, ready to embrace you.

“Mother, my clothes might be cold,” you try to warn her, but she doesn’t listen, hugging you anyway.

“As if it can affect me! Oh, I’m so happy to see you, my dear. How was your trip? Are you tired, hungry? I’m almost done with lunch, and in the meantime I can ask my husband to throw in the firewood and heat the bathhouse for you two.

“It’s very kind of you,” you smile, wrapping your arms to give her a hug in return. “But I think we’ll wash up in the evening - I really doubt Ajax’s sibling will let him go in the following couple of hours.”

Before she can say anything, a tall, wide man appears from the other room. His beard and hair are gingerly brown with gray too, thick brows naturally furrowed. By the rosy cheeks, the remnants of snowflakes melting on his hair and the choice of clothing you guess he’s just returned to the house through the back door - probably after chopping wood.

Upon lowering his gaze to you, his facial features smooth out.

“If it isn’t my son and a dear soon-to-be daughter-in-law!” His gruff voice booms across the house, immediately redirecting everyone’s attention to you and making you blush. “I knew Ajax was too impatient and would rather come to visit and bring his fiance along than wait for a response letter.”

As he moves to greet you properly and help with discarding the outer clothes, you notice your gingerhead whispering something to his siblings, to which they giggle and throw glances at you. Catching the gaze of your lover, you lift an eyebrow, as if asking ‘should I be concerned?’. But he only shakes his head with a smile and ushers everyone to the dining room.

However, the curiosity is getting better of you, as throughout the evening you keep catching the glances, watch Tonia whispering something to her mom, and the woman giving Ajax a ‘really?’ kind of look, but with a fond smile, and then his dad slapping his back with a boisterous laugh, saying something along the lines ‘I was the same way with your mom too’.

So you confront him once you are left alone in the room.

“Hey, foxy, what’s going on?”

“Hm?” He lowers the blanket that he’s just tucked inside the duvet cover and reaches for the sheets. “What do you mean, bunny?”

“Whatever you’ve been doing,” you put one of the pillows down and reach out for the other as well as the pillowcase.

“And what’s that ‘whatever’ I’ve been doing?” You don’t miss the sly smile finding its way onto his face. You huff.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

The man hums, tucking the edges of the sheet between the mattress and the bed.

“Nothing you should worry about. I just asked them all to practice a little.”

“Practice?” Cocking your head, you throw both pillows onto the bed. “Wait, did you start planning something for the wedding?”

“Not quite. Rather for after it.”

Confused, but intrigued, you step closer when your lover sits down and beckons you, being dragged into his lap a second later. Blue eyes look at you in an unspoken fascination, as he leans forward to place a kiss to the corner of your mouth, prompting you to loosely wrap your arms around his shoulders.

“Since we are getting married, I deduced that it would be only right for my family to call you my wife. Thus I asked them to get acquaintanced with the term, so they could start doing it as soon as we are pronounced husband and wife.”

You blink at him once, twice. After the third time you exhale, shaking your head, but the lift of your lips doesn’t go unnoticed by your fiance.

“I should’ve known you’d pull something like this, I am not even surprised, let alone mad. But they could just keep addressing me by my name. Plus your siblings already call me ‘big sister’ and your parents made me an honor of acknowledging me as the ‘daughter’. It won’t change much.”

“But it will!” He pouts and you can’t resist the urge to pinch his cheek. “You will be my wife and I want everyone to help me show it! Does it bother you though?”

Looking into those uncharacteristically begging eyes, you really can’t deny him his little antics. Not like you were going to in the first place.

“No, no, I don’t mind, love. Honestly, it's very sweet how excited you are. Makes me look forward to it.”

“Yeah?” Look at him, smiling like a satisfied cat, who's had too much sour cream for its own good. His embrace tightens on you a little.

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes as Ajax enjoys the many kisses you pepper to his face, squeezing his eyes shut, grinning, boyishly eager for more.

“Do you think I should ask the whole village to do the same?”

“Ajax, no.”

Nuevillette

“Mother, do you mind helping me a little? I can’t reach over there…

“I’d be delighted, my dear.”

Neuvillette watches with a fond look as you put the tea cup down and stand up to walk closer to Verenata and assist her with whatever the potion maker needs. Your figure is ethereal, clad in the finest fabrics, flowing with every step and gently dropping as you crouch gracefully to hoist the melusine in your arms. From above the rim of his silver goblet the Hydro Dragon can't tear his eyes from the way one of your many “daughters” wraps an arm around your neck and reaches up, while the corner of your lips, which he can see from his position at the table, is turned upwards.

“Mother is so kind and patient,” Laume says just a step away from Neuvillette’s chair. When the man turns his head to look at her, there is Flo standing too.

“Yes, and she is so beautiful,” the other melusine sighs, clasping her hands together. “And she always brings us such nice and comfortable clothes…”

“Monsieur Neuvillette married a wonderful woman,” a couple more melusines nearby agree and there is a warm and fuzzy feeling takes place in the Judex’s chest.

Marriage… Such a beautiful concept humans came up with to validate the union of two. It begins with the wedding - a day full of happy tears and blissful smiles, shared vows to be together in sickness and in health, sweet claims of love and promises of joyful life ahead. Then this very life begins and for beings like you and your husband it’s a long, but welcome trip.

You’ve been claimed by each other for quite some time before the more ‘mortal appropriate’ ritual, and the melusines - the wonderful creatures Neuvillette once took under his wing - were aware and happy for your relationship. And it was actually their idea to hold a wedding too, once Sigewinne naturally asked how the two of you planned to introduce your bond in civil words to humans.

And it was their initiative to start calling you “mother”. With your actions you quickly became one for them anyway, and the girls actively sought your company when it was possible. Thus, such tea parties at the Merusea Village as today are a common occurrence (besides, you always welcome them because it's a great opportunity to dig your husband out of the pile of responsibilities he tends to bury himself under).

However, lately Neuvillette started noticing that when he heard the word leave the girls’ mouths, a strange feeling began rising in his chest. Even though not quite familiar with the concept of jealousy, the Judex was sure it was not the case - he loved when the melusines called you that. So, he could not really put his finger on why the action caused such an indescribable reaction.

He decided to observe. On his walks throughout the city, the man seeked the sights of parents with children to attentively listen and watch while leisurely passing by or stopping at the shopping booths to linger on the scene. He was quick to note that the interactions were hardly different from the ones between you and the girls - kids would call for their mothers in all the same tones: when happy, when asking for help, when seeking comfort and many other typical occurrences he’d seen a handful of times before.

What really caught Neuvillette’s eye was the way the parents behaved. And soon his focus shifted to the married couples instead. As reserved as the nobles seemed to appear, the ones in love still managed to slip a murmured ‘my dear’, or ‘beloved’ or ‘my sweet [Name]’ in their speech. All the things the Hydro Dragon was all too used to call you too, relishing in the image of your loving smile and joyfully crinkling eyes as you responded in kind.

But it is like a waterfall pours on him when a week later, after that tea party where he once again sunk deep in thought, a keen pointy ear makes out a simple word in the crowd.

"Wife"

Male’s heart flutters. The understanding quickly dawns on him, even more so when his eyes find the couple on the other side of the road, - it was no simple term to introduce the partner to the third party. No, the tenderly spoken word was used by that man to address his lover, to softly draw her attention to him, to remind her he is happy she is holding such a position in his life…

At least that’s what kind of puzzle pieces together in Neuvillette’s head. The couple is long gone, yet he is still standing there, hand resting on the handle of his cane and eyes staring into space.

He starts to remember all the sweet names he called you, each and every one stored in his memory with the heart-warming images of your reactions. There are all kinds of those: my love, my pearl, lizzy (affectionate from ‘lizard’; you used to tell him that dragons are just big lizards and it kinda stuck), kisses-stealer, fairy-tail nymph… The man is surprisingly creative with his words when it comes to you.

Sure, he calls you his mate, quite often too, but to his chagrin it has never occurred to him that he could call you ‘his wife’ too! It’s so simple, so absurdly logical, yet it took him weeks to figure out.

Humans are truly fascinating.

When Neuvillette returns to his office in the Palais Mermonia you are already there, lazing on a sofa with a bunch of papers, in which your husband guesses the script of probably another upcoming play of Furina. And judging by the more than a half pages turned you’ve been waiting for him for a while.

When the door closes and the cane disappears in the myriad of sparkling bubbles, you lift your gaze, and a smile immediately lights up your lovely features.

”Neuvi,” You speak softly, getting on your feet and leaving the script behind, “I hoped we’d depart on the afternoon stroll together. So imagine my disappointment when Sedene told me you had left just ten minutes ago! Oh, I knew I’d be late if Lady Furina had kept me for another minute, yet I still hoped I’d be on time…”

As you are approaching him, the Judex remembers the melusine’s words upon arrival: “Mother waits inside”. This makes all his previous thoughts resurface, and when he meets you half-way and reaches for both your hands to place a kiss to the back of each, Neuvillette has half a mind to try out his new discovery.

“Our Archon enjoys your company a lot, and, knowing you, you are not really mad,” you roll your eyes playfully, tiptoeing to peck the tip of his nose, murmuring a quiet ‘hush, let me be a tiny bit indignant’. “And I’d be honored to keep you company for the evening stroll,” and then, after a little pause of hesitation, he adds, “wife.”

He watches as the previously present smile on your face grows even bigger, but after a couple of seconds starts to fade slowly, eyes squinting a little bit to stare at him in hardly-concealed curiosity.

“What was that?”

“What was what, dear wife?”

“This!” As if to emphasize your words you point your finger to his mouth, and it’s Neuvillette’s lips’ turn to curl in a small smile.

“It’s something I hoped to discuss with you,” his gloved fingertips soothingly brush over your knuckles and soon your hand is clasped into his, as the man leads you both back to the sofa. “You see,” he starts when you sit down, “I am fascinated with the notion hidden behind the word ‘mother’ the melusines like to call you. That’s who you are for them both in reality and in terms. I’ve made some observations, and figured that sometimes humans in marriage also use the…familial terms to address one another. It seemed lovely to me and I wanted to try it out with you. What do you think?”

You hum in thought, replaying in your head the way Neuvillette spoke to you twice. It is hard to explain, but you somehow immediately see the appeal and understand why your lover got hooked on it. Seems lovely indeed. You wonder, what if you…

“Will you tell me more about those observations on our evening stroll, husband? Ooh, it does sound wonderful!”

Mark him stunned, but for a moment Judex grows speechless. The violet depths of his eyes swirl with adoration as you clap your hands gleefully, and he knows, that from now on your everyday routine will never be the same

“With pleasure, wife.”

Pantalone

Dancing snowflakes are slowly descending in their tender waltz and are gleaming like the tiniest of gems in the streetlights’, enveloping the already magical winter capital of the Cryo region in a solemn atmosphere. The white cover of the ground is crunching with every step of a passerby and every wheel rotation of the fancy-looking carriages, while the street is a jumble of fur coats and heavy military overcoats, finally breathing life into the afternoon-quiet city.

It’s a wonderful evening, too marvelous to spend it at home, too enchanting to miss the new ballet at the Bolshoy Theater, the true accumulation of the Tsaritsa’ nation’s nobility and intelligentsia. The wonder of Snezhnayan architecture is both the place to rest and enjoy the purest form of art and home to many gossip circulating in society. Some fresh and just hours old, some ancient and undying, like the topic of the Ninth Harbinger’s lovers.

Lord Pantalone is well-known and often-praised for his contribution to the Snezhnaya’s economy, along with extending the Fatui influence all across the Teyvat. But also he is quite famous for the women he appears in public with. It’s always someone new, it’s never the same one as before. Different shapes, different hair, different style - it is impossible to guess the raven-haired man’s tastes. However everybody knew - the Harbinger never entertained the company of the ladies who made attempts to catch his attention. Those ladies themselves say as much.

The Regrator’s companions never open their mouths, never utter a word - at least not when there are people around. There has never been a single name, never a remembered face - all women wear the mask covering the upper half of it, concealing the identity of yet another lucky choice of the rich man.

Never the same woman - always the same mask.

This evening does not disappoint the gathered crowd - lifting their gazes, directing attention to the Harbinger’s personal box, they once again see the notorious mask. The long fringe of wine-red hair is coquettishly framing the ever-lasting piece of leather, similarly flaming lips are tugged in a haughty smile - as if the young lady doesn’t realize that once the night is over, she’s going to be discarded like many others before her. The dress according to the latest fashion trends and the beautiful garnet necklace do not surprise the audience anymore - even known for his love for replacements, Lord Pantalone dresses his partners royally.

The man himself has chosen yet another black costume, with a dark burgundy shirt hidden underneath and bird-shaped garnet brooch on the left side of his chest. Multiple beautiful rings catch the light when he lifts his gloved hand to adjust diamond-shaped glasses, before turning his head and addressing something to his tonight’s escort. She boisterously laughs, saying something in response, but even if attendants tried to strain their ears, they wouldn’t hear anything so far away. Even harder it gets when the third ring of the bell echoes across the theater chamber and both the Harbinger and the woman are forgotten, until the performance is over.

So no one sees when the ring-decorated hand reaches for a smaller female one, fingers sliding under the chintz-covered palm, thumb immediately reaching to tug on the hem of the glove, so the thin cool lips could press against the small patch of bared skin. A glimpse of a smile is what Pantalone gets when you glance at him with amusement playing on your lips.

Always the same mask, never the same woman, huh?

Pride has long slithered into your heart, yet it still lifts its snake-like head every time your act of decisiveness succeeds, happily hissing. Every time it’s a test of your skills, a gamble with the eyes of ones around you, and every time you hit the jackpot, leaving the people guessing, staying the only one in possession of the banker despite the speculations.

As long as Her Majesty Tsaritsa is aware of your existence and the place you occupy next to Pantalone, you are free to do anything you want with his reputation relationship-wise. And he allows it, because should you desire the whole world - he’ll throw it to your feet like the cheapest trinket. One would say it’s because he is prideful too - he knows it’s because he loves his wife.

Loves to the point of entertaining the masquerades she stages whenever the two of you need to appear in public. It plays wonderfully into his possessive nature and desire to keep his precious beautiful wife to himself and helps with the enemies - “changing the ladies” minimizes the chances of putting at risk his one and only. Not like many know of you in the first place.

It’s a win-win arrangement for you as well - there is still an opportunity to cling to his arm, to use his expensive cologne, to play with the rings on his fingers and sneakily make out in a dark corner where no one can see. To be tugged into his lap in the carriage on the way back to his mansion, to have his long fingers undo the strings of the mask, and once the piece of leather falls onto the floor, have the palms slide down the sides of your neck, swiftly fiddling with the heavy necklace, only to let it be, the caress the shoulders, pushing the sleeves down…

…to leave them at the elbows and grab your arms to push your back into his chest as the warm lips press to the juncture between the neck and the shoulder.

And what if you’ve lost your name in the process of this disguising? Having been an actress a long time ago made you used to it. But isn’t it fun to come up with the new ideas for your next performance? Your husband gifts you way too many dresses and jewelry sets - you must find use to all of them! He now has to simply spend a bit more on the wigs and makeup to fit each combination of fabric and gems.

“Did my wife have a pleasant evening?” The velvet voice of the man behind you caresses the ear and you meet his gaze in the full-size mirror in front of you. Amethyst eyes sparkle in the bedroom light and you smile coquettishly, red lips stretching seductively.

“Did she? How could I know?” You tease, reaching to your back to undo the corset, just to be stopped by his hands, fingers digging into the dozens of strings. “And don’t you know, Mr Harbinger, that it’s very offending for the woman, when the man speaks about another lady in her presence?”

“Oh, I wasn’t aware,” he muses, tugging a bit harsher on the ties and making you gasp, “that my dear wife can be jealous of herself.”

“When you know her poorly. Tsk-tsk, what a bad husband you are.”

Pantalone laughs behind you, shaking his head at your untrue words, and you reach to your head to remove the fiery wig. By the time Pantalone is done with your corset, you are done letting your naturally beautiful locks down, sighing in relief from both the released ribcage and hair roots.

The dress, having lost its vital support on your body, falls to the ground next to the wig and quickly becomes forgotten as you two step away from the mirror.

Your husband is still mostly clothed, having only eased out of his coat and unbuttoned the jacket, so you busy your hands with tugging the black article off and then reaching for the gleaming tiny buttons on the shirt. Your figures bask in the warm light of the room as you continue undressing the man - your eyes concentrated on the expensive fabrics, his - on the lovely expression of your face.

“But if you must know,” Pantalone raises his brow, when you look up at him, a much sincere and tender smile lighting up your visage, “your wife loved the evening very much.”

And that’s everything he’s ever wanted to hear. Fingers tangle in your hair, you harshly inhale, and his lips are on yours. Lipstick is smudging, your fingers accidentally catch the silver chain, and his glasses get slightly askew, but it doesn’t matter. His wife loved another thing he’s done for her. The banker’s day has ended in a great profit.

Wriothesley

Fortress of Meropide is a huge metal labyrinth of floors and corridors, where noise is never-ending even in the late hours of the night. The metal box which is the Duke’s office however, is constructed to mute the annoying sounds or else the one inside would have a very hard time concentrating.

Usually, even the ruckus happening outside and the clanking of the heavy machines underneath can’t sway Wriothesley’s attention if he has his mind set on doing the paperwork, even something as boring as bills. Today, however, the man has caught himself multiple times glancing at the clock he’s hung up a couple of years ago - there is no way to tell the time all the way down underwater, true, but it serves him a greater purpose. It helps him count hours and minutes before you arrive.

Tuesdays and Thursdays are the days when you take a half of the day off to come down to the Fortress to meet up with your husband. You both quickly realized that traveling back and forth together in either of the directions (fortress or home in the city) would be way too inconvenient. So, you improvise by visiting him throughout the week a couple of times and then he comes home to properly spend the weekend, having learnt to delegate his responsibilities to the most trustworthy guards. So far you’ve been extremely pleased with the arrangement, and the Fortress’s crew have learnt your face by heart to not cause you any obstacles in reaching your beloved’s office.

Today, nevertheless, something must’ve gone wrong. Pale blue eyes are practically drilling the minute hand of the previously mentioned clock, watching it moving further and further from the tiny 10-minute bar, which should’ve marked your appearance at the top of his stairs. And he gets it, everything could’ve happened, something as trivial as the queue at the pastry shop that might’ve gotten longer today, but when the delay surpasses the half-hour mark, the warden puts his fountain pen down and follows it by the creak of the chair legs on the metal floor.

As he descends down the stairs - each clunking under the heavy soles of his boots - a fleeting thought of you stopping by at the medical bay first is immediately brushed aside - his office is right on the path of entering the Fortress’s main body, and you love your husband too much to let him sulk in his longing.

When he pushes the colossal doors open, eyes instantly start searching the area ahead of him. However, nothing unusual is spotted - two guards are standing at the front of his abode, not even flinching at the unpleasant scraping noise the metal makes; a couple of inmates are walking past them, bowing their heads right as they see the appearing the figure of their warden - Wriothesley simply nods and sends them off with a flicker of his hand; then there is Monglane’s desk with its irreplaceable owner. And no trace of his beloved wife.

Closing the doors behind him, Wriothesley comes up to the guards, inquiring if they’ve happened to see you. Getting a negative response, he hums and starts walking forward, to the corridor leading to the elevator, not bothering with asking the very same questions to Monglane.

With every passing minute, especially while waiting for the elevator, the man starts realizing how impatient he is growing, if the tapping of his foot and crossed arms are not an indicator enough. Even with just one day apart, he’s missed you so awfully much, your adoring smile, your soft voice and cute little giggles, that he feels rightfully robbed since you are not yet in his embrace, showering his face with kisses and then whining pretentiously because he’s forgotten to shave once again. Sometimes you swear he is not a big bad wolf, but a mean huge hedgehog.

He almost stomps inside the cabin the second its doors slide open and pushes the button to the reddening of his fingertip. It is a long trip up to the next level, and he admits he’s tugged on his leather straps wrapped around his arms a couple of times, but Archons, how little it all matters, when, exiting the elevator, he finally hears such a familiar voice. Your voice.

Your husband’s legs carry him like they obtained a mind of their own, following the full of amusement lilt he knows can belong only to you, just to come to a halt next to the wooden boxes piled up on the side of the path.

He can see you, quite clearly, adorned in a cute pair of pants and a shirt, shoulders covered in a crocheted shawl - always ready for the cool air of the Fortress, yet looking so comfy, that Wriothesley can't help but desire to tackle you to the sofa in his office and cuddle this instant. And he would've done just that, if the conversation you've been having didn't catch his attention.

“No, it's wrong again. It's not Britney, it's Brytnneigh.

“But you are saying the same thing!"

"No, it is not B-r-i-t-n-e-y. It's B-r-y-t-n-n-e-i-g-h."

"Slower, please."

In the second voice the warden easily guesses a new guard that has just been employed a couple of days ago. He remembers signing the papers his weekend substitute brought him on Monday. Wriothesley also remembers how the man swore that he’d passed on to the newbie all the information and training he needed to know. But, it appears, he forgot to mention the most important thing…

“Did you make sure to write my name with two N’s?” Your voice is laced with hardly concealed mirth, and, though he can’t see the face of the guard talking to you, your husband is sure the poor young man looks quite miserable.

“Yes, mademoiselle, I did.”

“Wonderful, but it’s ‘madame’, I am a married woman after all. But no worries, I am flattered you think I look so young,” Wriothesley shakes his head with a silent chuckle. He adores you so much, but maybe it really is time to stop your little play of a new inmate, or else he’ll surely have to call for Sigewinne to check on the poor guard.

“And your last name, madame?”

“I am Brytnneigh Deirdrophnea de Troistêtesloup. Do you want me to spell it for you, dear?”

Yes, he really should stop you.

Before you can open your mouth again, you see in your peripheral vision a figure moving. Upon turning your head slightly, you are graced with the sight of your beloved husband, walking towards you with a quirked thick brow, and crossed arms. All you can do is sheepishly smile, waving at him.

“O-oh! Duke Wriothesley, Sir!” The guard behind the registration desk immediately jumps to his feet, squaring his shoulders and saluting at the arrival of his superior.

“At ease, young man,” Wriothesley nods, stepping even closer, practically invading your personal space, icy blue eyes looking at you unblinkingly. “What is going on here?”

“Nothing much, Mr Warden,” your eyes crinkle in the corners, a sight so infectious, that the man’s lips turn into a small smile. “Just a cute old me, ending up in the Fortress for Archon knows what time.”

“M-madame!” The guard exclaims rather loudly, that even your husband turns to look at him. “Even if it's not your first stay here, you shouldn’t be taking liberties with the Duke!”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Wriothesley raises his hand. “She is no longer your headache-”

“Hey!” You elbow his side to the bewilderment of the guard. In his shock he doesn’t even reach for his weapon.

“-I will personally escort this troublemaker inside. And cross out that abominable name out, would you? It’s not her name.”

“It’s not..?” Now Wriothesley really sympathizes with the guy, he looks utterly lost.

“It’s not. But,” a big scarred hand gently cups you under the chin and turns your head more properly towards the guard, “be sure to remember this adorable face very well for the next time. You’ll need that to let her in and out.”

“...out?”

“Yes, indeed. This woman is my wife.”

As the elevator doors slide close and the cabin starts moving down, you turn to Wriothesley and throw your arms around his wide frame, face burying into his chest.

“Are you proud of me for coming up with such a long and difficult name in a single thought?”

“Oh, for sure,” strong arms circle your waist and chapped lips press to the top of your head, “I bet you would be hard-to-catch if you were a criminal. But why did you decide to play such a prank on a poor man?”

“Well… I just wanted to see his face when he found out that I am the wife of the Duke of the Fortress of Meropide himself. Another reason is that there was no guard who knew my face and I doubt he would’ve believed my word. I just got creative with the way of making him summon someone else. You simply got here before anything could happen. Plus, it’s good to keep them on their toes with a job like that. Besides, I did apologize and praise him for his patience.”

At that Wriothesley just sighs and then chuckles, raising one of his hands and threading his fingers through your hair, pressing your head even closer to his chest. He is not even feeling iffy about the lost half an hour of your time together anymore. Because you gave him an opportunity to introduce you as his wife once again.

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #childe x reader #childe x fem!reader #tartaglia x reader #neuvillette x reader #neuvillette x fem!reader #pantalone x reader #pantalone x fem!reader #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley x fem!reader #childe #tartaglia #neuvillette #pantalone #wriothesley #genshin impact fluff

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saeyoungchoismaid · 11 months ago

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I…I need yall to look away…cause I’m about to lose my fucking goddamn mind…

Childepool at your service ‼️

ohhnn my god ohhhhhoohohh i just, ,,, my pen.s, ohm yog,,ggg,,,,,,,,,,,,,, y,.ss,e,s,,,yes,,...,,, he,hehhhhehhh,,ehehehh..h.hhehhe. mypeeis , so ,. ha.rd.,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, bust

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thedemoninme141 · 2 months ago

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Are Flowers Even Real?

Pairings: Wednesday x Female reader. Wordcount: 8K-ish.

Summary: A florist’s voice brings color to Wednesday's world—until all that remains are flowers, silence, and a question that won’t stop echoing in her mind.

Theme: Angst, Heavy Angst! Loss. Blood.

Warnings: Some might already guess the plot with the pic above, the theme's a bit vague here too but it will be all clear at the end kinda like my Restless dreams or lost valentine's.

She used to hate this.

People who couldn’t help themselves—who spilled every thought like it mattered, who narrated their lives in real-time like the world was desperate to listen. Enid had done that every day of their shared dorm years. “Oh my God, you won’t believe what Ajax said,” and “I saw the cutest squirrel near the quad!” and “Wednesday, are you even listening to me?” She wasn’t, mostly. Not really.

Back then, she counted words like falling leaves in autumn—an inevitable mess. She hated the noise, the color, the feeling. Enid had been loud and bubbly and relentlessly present.

But you?

You made noise feel like quiet. Like it mattered.

Now she held the phone to her ear like it was lifeblood. Like it was you.

And your voice was soft today. Soft, but fast—your usual pace when you were excited or tired, or both. The hum of your flower shop drifted into the background.

“Okay, so—today was chaos. And I know I say that every time, but I mean it, this time? Pure chaos.”

Your voice was light, and she didn’t interrupt. She doesn’t roll her eyes. She closes them. Leans back against the cold bark of the tree behind her, the night wind slipping through the forest like a hand across skin.

There’s blood somewhere nearby, but she’s not thinking about that yet.

"This bride walks in—and I mean, she had this energy, right? Like she’s never heard the word ‘budget’ in her life. She’s dragging her fiancé behind her like he’s an old suitcase, and she’s listing every flower under the sun. Roses, peonies, baby’s breath, lavender, delphinium, freesia, tulips—I mean, Wednesday, she wanted them all. For one bouquet. Who does that?!"

Your voice had that kind of bright rhythm she’d never admit she looked forward to. The pitch of it changed depending on the flowers you were talking about—soft when you said “lilies,” amused when you said “sunflowers,” reverent when you said “gardenias.” You loved your flowers. You were annoyingly loyal to them, like they were alive, like they had personalities.

“...I told her it wasn’t going to look like a bouquet if we threw in every single bloom from every hemisphere,” you continued, laughing to yourself. “I even suggested doing a seasonal theme instead, but she looked at me like I just asked if she wanted a bouquet of weeds.”

You laughed, breathy and exasperated. Wednesday closed her eyes. Just for a second.

"Have you ever had to calculate fifty-four table arrangements, not including the bridal arch and the aisle runners, in under thirty minutes? Because I have. Today. Today, I did that.”

She could hear the smile in your voice, even through the stress.

“And then, oh—oh, get this—her fiancé shows up with a last-minute request for a boutonniere made of succulents. Succulents! For a winter wedding! Who even—?!” You groaned, a theatrical sigh. “Anyway. I didn’t say no. Of course I didn’t. I just nodded and smiled like a professional while internally praying for divine intervention.”

She doesn’t respond. Her jaw clenches, the silence between your sentence and her reply longer than it should be. But you don’t comment. You never did. You understood her silence was never empty—it was just crowded with too many words.

“I’m gonna be late tonight,” you say after a pause, your voice dropping into a soft kind of tired. “Definitely pushing midnight. I still have to sort out the invoices—do math, ugh—and call the supplier who keeps sending me crushed orchids. I swear I’m gonna fight that man.”

“Do you want me to kill him?” Wednesday asks flatly.

A beat of silence on your end. Then: “Mm… tempting. But I think you should save that kind of rage for someone who deserves it more.”

She opens her eyes. Watches her breath ghost into the cold night air. “I do.”

“Oh, and get this—” you pause suddenly, voice pulling away like you're shouting over your shoulder, “Sorry, we’re closed! Yeah, we stay open from eight a.m. to eight p.m. No exceptions! Thank you! God, I need a sign that actually scares people away.” You came back like you’d never left. “Where was I? Oh right. Hell orders. Seriously, though, this bride is lucky I didn’t charge her a stress fee. I should start doing that. I’ll call it the ‘flower frenzy’ tax. Like, if your expectations are out of control, that’s ten percent extra for emotional damage.”

Wednesday finally spoke, her voice low and dry. “You’d never charge anyone extra for being overwhelmed. You like chaos. You call it ‘natural.’”

“I do not!”

“You do. You said that exact phrase last week.”

You laughed again. “Okay, maybe I did. Once. But I was high on pollen and caffeine. Not a reliable source.”

The call was winding down now. She could feel it. The energy in your voice had started to fade—just a little. Still bright, still you, but… slipping. Like the sun behind curtains.

“Anyway. I should get back to it. I’ve got calculations to do, receipts to cry over, and oh—! I almost forgot—one of the orchids bloomed today. The one I thought was going to die last week. It just needed a bit more light, apparently. Go figure.”

Wednesday stared at the moon. Didn’t blink.

“Oh—and I love you, by the way. Just in case I forget to say it later. You should try it sometime too, you know. I promise your tongue won’t turn black and fall off.”

Another beat. Then a quieter, sheepish: “Okay. Talk later.” The line went dead.

Wednesday doesn’t move for a long moment. She keeps the phone to her ear even after the silence settles.

Then, slowly, she lowers the phone. Pockets it with the careful reverence of an addict putting away the last dose.

Her hand brushes against cold steel. She wraps her fingers around the handle of the knife. Pulls it out.

There’s a sound—scraping, desperate.

The man in front of her, half-covered in dirt, is trying to crawl away. He’s bleeding from the mouth, knees shredded from dragging himself over rocks.

He looks back. Sees her. Freezes.

She doesn’t say a word.

Just steps forward, slow. Controlled.

The knife glints.

Her voice, calm as ever, cuts the silence.

“One finger at a time now.”

She had come to your shop out of habit. Or maybe it was curiosity. Or the way you said, “You should visit sometime,” like it was just a law of nature. You’d said it with your hands buried in soil and a daisy tucked behind your ear, completely unaware of the chaos you caused with every smile.

The bell above your door had jingled, and the moment she stepped inside, she was swallowed whole by a riot of scent and color. Flowers bled from every surface—sunlight dripped through windows onto baskets of wild blooms, and you were already at the counter, fussing with a vase like the world wasn’t quietly tilting on its axis.

She stood in the doorway for too long. You looked up, grinned

“Good evening, Miss Addams. You stalking me again?”

Wednesday stepped forward slowly, arms crossed behind her back. “I was in the area.”

“You were never in the area before we started dating. Anyway come here. I need help deciding which of these flowers gets to be sacrificed for a bouquet.”

She stood beside you, looking down at the spread of colors and chaos. It was an overwhelming mess—vibrant and overstuffed—but in your hands, it was art. She admired that about you, though she’d never say it. Not out loud. Not directly.

You handed her two stems. “These are Ranunculus. One means charm, the other means attraction. Which one looks more ‘mysterious woman who possibly has a knife in her purse’?”

Wednesday arched a brow. “Neither.”

You fake-gasped, putting a dramatic hand to your chest. “You wound me.”

“Not yet,” she replied, and you laughed like she’d told a joke.

She didn’t correct you.

You picked up a small bouquet and began trimming stems. “Did you know bleeding hearts mean undying love?”

Wednesday blinked slowly. Of course she knew. She learned the language of flowers in her second year at Nevermore—before she met you. She could read petals like poetry, dissect colors like motives. She memorized the meanings the way most kids memorized multiplication tables.

But she didn’t say that. Instead, she looked at the flower you held up and said, “They look like they’re crying.”

You beamed. “Exactly. They’re dramatic. Just like you.”

“I’m not dramatic,” she said coolly, stepping aside as you nudged past her to reach a coffee cup. “I’m precise.”

“Sure,” you said. “And this isn’t my third cup of coffee.”

You chuckled. “And what about this one?” You picked up a marigold. “It means grief. Despair. Remembrance.”

Her eyes moved from the marigold to your face. You were smiling again, soft at the edges like you always got when talking about meanings, stories, symbolism. You swore half the fun was in the mystery.

Wednesday knew the meanings already.

Of course she did. She’d studied them in Botany. But she never said a word. Never once interrupted you to say, “Yes, I know.” Because she preferred to hear you say it. It was different when it came from your mouth—something in your voice, the way you cradled petals like they mattered. Like you were part of their purpose. And she wanted to be a part of that too.

You spent the rest of the afternoon explaining the meanings of delphiniums and hemlock and hydrangeas. You told her about customers who reminded you of daisies and she just stood there. Watching. Drinking it all in. You told her everything. And Wednesday Addams—queen of silence, princess of the macabre—just sat there and listened like it was her religion.

He couldn’t scream anymore. Only pant. Wet, ragged breaths through clenched teeth. His lips were cracked, and his eyes were wide with the knowledge that he was alive and shouldn’t be.

The sound of agony twisted the air again.

Wednesday sat nearby, legs folded beneath her like she was in a garden. Her phone was pressed to her ear again, as if none of this was happening.

You were laughing on the other end.

“You wouldn’t believe how long I argued with that girl. She wanted orange roses. Orange! For a funeral. I mean, who does that? I asked her if she wanted the flowers to say ‘rest in tropical zest.’”

Wednesday let out a slow breath. “What did she say?”

“She said her grandmother loved citrus. Which is sweet, I guess. So I added lemon balm and marigolds. Made it work.”

“You always do.”

A pause. The wind rustled leaves overhead.

“You sound tired,” you said softly.

“I’m fine.”

“Liar.”

Another pause.

“I just worry about you,” you said. “All those late nights. Chasing monsters. Investigating murders. You know you don’t have to keep carrying everything alone, right?”

She didn’t answer. Just looked up at the stars that just didn’t shine hard enough anymore so she listened to the sound of your voice like it was oxygen and she’d been holding her breath.

“You’re the most stubborn person I know,” you continued. “But you’re not bulletproof. You’re allowed to rest.”

The man groaned again. Gurgled.

Wednesday’s eyes flicked to him, but she didn’t move. Not yet. Not while you were still speaking. You talked about your day. The cat who scratched a customer. The kid who wanted to eat the flowers.

You said you loved her. Just like always. And she didn’t say it back.

Just like always.

When the call finally ended, when your voice faded into silence again, she took a slow breath. Looked down at the man whose blood soaked the soil.

He was still alive.

She crouched, pulled a wad of cash from her coat, and threw it beside his mangled hand.

“Fix yourself,” she said, voice flat. “You have until the next bloom.”

Then she pulled her phone again.

“911, what is your emergency?”

“Attempted homicide. Coordinates incoming,” she replied coldly. “The suspect is injured. Severely. Unarmed. Unconscious.”

Wednesday texted the GPS location, then cut the call short.

She knelt beside the man, “I’ll remember you. Every bone. Every nerve.”

She paused at the edge of the woods.

“And I will be back again.”

You were humming again.

That same wandering, tuneless hum that always floated into the air when you were deep in concentration. Wednesday stood silently in the corner of the flower shop, arms folded, black coat dusted with pale pollen, watching you balance on your toes to reach a top shelf.

She didn’t speak. Just observed.

There was something ritualistic in the way you worked. Like a priestess. Like a witch. Each flower touched with reverence, as if it breathed back at you.

You looked down at her eventually and grinned, sweeping your hands outward toward the display you were building.

“What do you think?” you asked. “Too much? I always overdo the daffodils. They’re too loud, I think. They talk over the tulips.”

“You believe flowers… speak?”

“I think they understand,” you said without hesitation. “Not in words. Not in the way people mean. But they know things. They feel things.”

“This one’s for resilience,” you said, holding up a chrysanthemum.

“People say they’re funeral flowers, but I think they’re just misunderstood.”

Wednesday raised a brow.

You smiled over your shoulder. “They’re stubborn and hard to keep alive and everyone thinks they’re depressing. Sound like anyone you know?”

Wednesday almost smirked. She moved toward the arrangement. Reached out. Brushed her fingers over the white edge of a daisy. The petals were soft. Barely there. Almost like breath. “This,” she murmured, “feels like you.”

You paused, surprised. A flush of red crept across your cheeks, but you didn’t turn away. “That’s one of the gentlest things you’ve ever said to me.”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment. I just said it as an observation.”

You smiled. “That’s why it means more.” You talked as you moved, voice light, melodic, like wind through reeds.

She watched you pick up a sprig of rosemary next. You handed it to her. “Memory,” you said, with something softer in your voice. “This one’s for remembering.”

She took it slowly, fingers brushing yours. It was strange how warm your hands always were. How you held things like they could bruise if you were careless.

Moments like those bled into each other. Quiet exchanges while trimming stems. Her fingers brushing yours when you passed her scissors. Her trying not to stare when you tucked a flower behind your ear.

You started giving her one word every day. One flower. One meaning. Bleeding hearts—undying love. Lavender—devotion. Black tulips—rebirth. Snapdragons—grace under pressure. Rosemary—Remembrance Nightshade—dangerous beauty. She never said she cared. But she remembered every single one.

And then she left. Again. Back to the darkness. Back to blood.

The man was on the ground again.

This time, it was the fingers of his other hand. Gone. Wrapped in bloody gauze that had once been part of his shirt. He was wheezing, tears running down his face as he crawled toward the barn door. He was slower now. Weaker. Still alive.

She crouched beside him again.

“Does it hurt?” she asked, voice mild.

He didn’t respond.

She pulled a knife from her boot and pressed it gently under his chin. He froze.

“I could end it now,” she whispered. “Would that be mercy?

He trembled, said nothing.

She stood. Dropped another thick wad of cash beside him. Then turned and walked away.

She just sat on the hill, watching from the trees as he dragged himself to the road and flagged down a car. She didn’t move. Just watched. Unblinking.

When she finally pulled her phone out, it was almost midnight.

“Where are you?” you asked, and she could hear you yawning.

“Graveyard.”

You laughed. “Only you would take me on a date to hell.”

“Romantic, isn’t it?”

“So much ambiance. Ten out of ten.” There was a long pause. “I miss you,” you said, quieter.

“I know.”

Another pause.

“Do you want to hear something stupid?” you asked.

“Always.”

“I kissed a lily today. Accidentally. I was leaning too close. It kissed me back.”

“Scandalous.”

“I know. We’re basically engaged now.”

She exhaled, something caught in her chest. “Don’t cheat on me with foliage.”

“I’d never.”

Another quiet stretch passed, softer now. You hummed something tuneless.

“Hey,” you said, voice warm, sleepy. “I love you.”

“I—”

She hesitated.

You laughed. “You don’t have to say it. I know.” There was the sound of rustling, you shifting beneath your blankets.

“I’m gonna fall asleep on you,” you mumbled.

“That’s fine.”

“I’ll call you in the morning…”

And you did.

Two days later, the man ran again.

The man had tried to leave town. Made it all the way to the county line.

She found him in the back of a rental truck, bandaged, panicked, clutching a gas can and a stolen phone.

He didn’t even have time to beg.

That night, she called you again. You were tired. She could hear it in your voice.

“Long day,” you murmured.

“I can tell.”

“I had to fill a funeral order. A big one. Lots of lilies.”

She exhaled. “Too many lilies in your life lately.”

I know, right?” You yawned. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“You sound tired.”

“So do you.”

“…Stay on the line with me?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She listened to you breathe. Counted the beats between your sighs. You fell asleep like that—murmuring something about tulips and your heater being broken.

She kept the phone to her ear until the sun came up.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Only silence answered.

Another day, another call,

“Hey, you. I know, I know—I’m late again. I swear this time it’s the register’s fault. Or maybe the marigolds. They were being a little too dramatic today.” You chuckled to yourself, a soft breath of warmth over static. “I had this old Pedro Pascal looking guy come in. Said he needed something ‘apologetic but not desperate.’ I gave him yellow roses. Told him to deliver them with a smile and a very sincere, ‘I’m an idiot.’ He laughed. Paid in cash. Even gave me a tip.”

Wednesday’s lips twitched. She sat on the edge of a rooftop, the city crawling beneath her. Her knees drawn up, phone pressed to her ear like a lifeline.

You kept talking.

“There was this one moment though—something stupid. I—I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but… there was this rose. Deep red. Looked almost black in the light. It reminded me of my mom. You know, the way she used to wear that lipstick that bled into the corners of her smile?”

You went quiet.

And then the sound—sharp and soft at once.

A breath caught. A sniffle.

“I—I snapped the stem by accident,” you whispered. “It just broke. And I don’t know why, but I started crying. Like full-on, ridiculous, snot-on-my-apron crying.”

Wednesday closed her eyes. She imagined your face—crumpled in sorrow, eyebrows drawn together in that quiet way you had when you were trying to stay strong for something that didn’t deserve it.

“I felt so dumb,” you laughed. But it wasn’t a happy sound. “It’s just a flower, right? Just… a stem. But I think—I think I was just scared. That I’d forget her. That maybe people aren’t made to last. Maybe even the flowers know.”

Another pause.

She could hear you shift the phone, the way your voice grew smaller. Closer to the truth.

“Sometimes I talk to the flowers because I’m scared no one else will ever really listen.”

She whispered into the speaker, “I listen.”

It was early. Too early for customers, but not too early for you to be animated and half-dressed in an apron and already juggling three ideas at once.

You were on the floor, arranging petals like you were solving a crime scene. She watched from the counter, long legs crossed, sipping bitter black coffee you’d insisted she try—“If I’m suffering, you are too.”

“Okay,” you were saying, lifting a pale marigold to the light, “I know you don’t care about table aesthetics, but imagine this for the engagement party centerpiece.”

“I’ve already told you I’m not interested in centerpieces,” she replied dryly.

“Not even a little?”

“No.”

You turned to her with a grin. “You’re lying.”

“I never lie.”

“Okay. Then you’re emotionally repressed.”

“Fair.”

You snorted and tossed the flower back into the pile. “I still think we should do something small. Intimate. You and me, our parents, maybe five friends, your creepy Uncle Fester playing violin in the corner.”

“He doesn’t play the violin.”

“Well. It’s never too late to learn.”

She watched you with a careful expression, one she reserved for delicate autopsies. It wasn’t suspicion. It was wonder. The way your hands moved. The way you lit up just saying the word “engagement.” Like it wasn’t just a party to you. It was something sacred.

You looked up suddenly. “Hey. Are you okay?”

She blinked. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re… doing that thing where you look like you’re somewhere else entirely.”

She tilted her head. “I’m here.”

“Promise?”

She didn’t speak right away.

You stood, brushing petals from your skirt, and stepped close enough for your shadow to fall over her. Your hand brushed her shoulder. “Hey. I need you to say yes. I need you to say you want this too.”

Her eyes flicked to your mouth, your nose, your lashes. “You already know I do.”

“But you haven’t said it.”

“I don’t say things I’m afraid of.”

That caught you of guard. “You’re not afraid of me?”

“No,” she agreed, “I’m afraid of losing you.”

That stopped you.

Your fingers froze on her shoulder, and she felt the tiniest tremble under your skin.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. “Unless you kill me, which I have warned you would be deeply counterproductive to our wedding plans.”

“I’m already planning it then.”

You grinned, eyes gleaming, and for once, Wednesday allowed herself to look. Really look.

At the curve of your lip, at the crease beside your nose when you smiled, at the soft flush of your cheeks. She touched your hand. Pressed her thumb into your palm.

“I’m serious,” you said. “Promise not to kill anyone on the day.”

She smirked. “Not even if they’re rude to the florist?”

“I am the florist.”

“Exactly.”

You laughed, full and bright and real.

She breathed it in like oxygen.

And she began to believe that maybe—just maybe—she could be something softer. Just for you.

The guillotine was old. Weather-worn wood, chipped and splintered like the bones of an antique. It had taken Wednesday weeks to restore it—polishing each blade support, sharpening the steel until it gleamed like a smile.

He was gagged at first, slumped and bloodied, missing both hands, one leg bound and stitched just enough to keep him breathing. Wednesday had always been meticulous. Every cut had purpose. Every stitch had meaning.

She stood a few feet away, still as stone, black coat moving slightly in the wind. Her hands were bare. No gloves today. Her fingers curled and uncurled slowly at her sides. She held a phone in her left hand.

The right was twitching.

On the ground near her, a phone picture flickered with signal. She’d sent it minutes ago—his face, barely recognizable, eyes wild and swollen, mouth red with spit and screams. And she gave them the address so they would come to save him.

All they had to do was open the door.

“Who the hell are you?!”

It was hoarse. Desperate.

She didn’t move.

“Why are you doing this?! Who the hell are you?! What did I do to you?!”

The words were shredded by pain, but they still stabbed the air. He writhed beneath the frame, muscles shaking, eyes darting in every direction but hers.

Wednesday stared at him, her face unreadable. Not rage. Not triumph. Just a long, heavy stillness like the moment before glass breaks.

He didn’t even remember what he did.

Of course he didn’t. People like him never did because they weren't even people.

Wednesday opened the phone.

The screen lit up in her palm. Her thumb hovered over a file she’d listened to too many times already. It was cracked at the edges now, her phone screen shattered where she’d dropped it once—twice—when the grief had shaken her bones so hard she couldn’t hold anything.

She tapped play.

Your voice came through the speakers, warm and full of life.

“Sorry, we’re closed! Yeah, we stay open from eight a.m. to eight p.m. No exceptions! Thank you!”

She remembered.

She was sitting at home that night. The lights were dim. Your voice had ended in her ear. She had said something back—something simple, probably something dry and sardonic. You would’ve laughed at it. But you didn’t call again.

An hour passed. Then two. Midnight came and went. She told herself you were just working. You’d warned her. You always warned her.

But then one call.

No answer.

Another. Voicemail.

Another.

Then another.

Wednesday never panicked. That was a rule of hers. Panic was for people who had the luxury of helplessness.

But her heart had gone hollow.

She didn’t change. She didn’t grab a weapon. She didn’t even lock her front door. She just walked. All the way to your flower shop.

It was just before dawn when she got there.

The sky was still dark, but the edges were bleeding gold, creeping like guilt. The bell above the frame jingled when she pushed it open. You never locked it properly. You said it made the place feel more welcoming.

Inside, it was too quiet. Far too quiet. Not even the soft humming you sometimes did when arranging bouquets. Not the sound of your little radio. Just... stillness.

The flowers were wrong.

They were wilted. Slumped. Some had fallen from the shelves. The petals were scattered, torn, like they had tried to escape something that came in behind them.

The scent was wrong too. Sweet. And something else. Something sickening. Metallic.

Her boots clicked against the tiles. She didn’t call out. Not yet.

She walked past the counter. Past the shelf where you kept the lavender because you liked its color. Past the wall where your engagement board still had pictures pinned to it—samples, notes, fabric swatches. One of them had fallen to the ground. Her own handwriting stared back at her from it, a single word she’d let you coax out of her weeks ago: Maybe.

There was a bouquet on the counter.

It was half-finished. Carefully chosen. A mixture of deadly plants—your inside joke. Your love language to her. Monkshood. Nightshade. Hemlock. But there were gentle things in it too—carnations, a single lily, even a tucked-in daisy.

You made that for her.

Then she stepped into the greenhouse.

Glass crunched beneath her foot.

And she saw you.

The greenhouse had always been your favorite place. You’d told her you could breathe there. You’d even said once that if you died, you wanted to be surrounded by the things you loved.

You got your wish.

You were laid out like a sleeping bride, lying beneath the skylight. The glass above was shattered. Pale morning light streamed through, illuminating the tiny cuts all over your arms. Your head was tilted slightly to the side, resting against a bed of marigolds.

You were surrounded by flowers.

Your dress had been torn and smoothed again.

Petals were placed in your hair.

Your hands were folded across your stomach, like a child sleeping in a garden bed.

But you weren’t sleeping.

You weren’t breathing.

Your eyes were still open.

Wide. Glassy. Empty.

On the wall above you, scrawled in deep, thick red, were the words:

“Even the most beautiful flowers rot.”

Wednesday did not scream.

She did not collapse.

She did not shake or sob or wail.

She knelt beside you.

Her knees cracked against the glass, but she didn’t care.

She touched your cheek with her bare fingers, brushing a streak of blood that had dried beneath your ear.

You were cold.

She let her thumb rest on your chin. Her hand on your collarbone. She traced the curve of your jaw the way she’d done a hundred times before.

You didn’t move.

Her eyes didn’t well. Her mouth didn’t tremble.

Her breath stayed steady. Controlled. Slow.

But her hands shook.

Her hands shook so violently she had to clench them into fists just to keep touching you.

She pressed her forehead against yours.

She stayed like that for a long, long time.

And when she finally pulled back—

She made a promise.

Slowly.

She didn’t cry at the funeral.

Not when Enid sobbed shaking and muttering things like, “She was so kind,” and “She made everyone feel safe.” Not even when Weems paused mid-speech, voice cracking as she said your name. Wednesday just stood there, hands clasped tightly in front of her, face like marble.

She didn’t cry during the burial.

Not when the coffin—your coffin—was slowly lowered into the earth, and the sound of the dirt hitting the lid echoed through the tight silence like gunshots.

Not when her father quietly stepped behind her, placing a warm hand on her shoulder with a kind of restraint Wednesday didn’t have the energy to analyze. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. No one really knew what to say to her. No one could fathom what your death meant to her. And if they had tried—she might have killed them too.

The only time she moved was when Enid leaned in to sob against her shoulder, and even then, Wednesday didn’t flinch—just allowed it, like a statue accepting offerings. Her eyes were focused on your name etched into the granite headstone. Clean. Polished. Final. It didn’t feel real.

Later that night, she went back.

The flower shop still bore the yellow caution tape across the doorway. It had become a symbol of everything she devoted her life too... a crime scene. She stepped through the yellow tape without hesitation, her boots crunching on the broken remains of your shop's heart. The place didn’t look like yours anymore. Not the way she remembered it. It had always smelled like fresh earth and life and the odd sweetness the flowers.... of you. But now, the air was heavy with dried blood and rotting blooms.

She imagined you standing there, maybe working on a bouquet, maybe laughing about a weird customer, maybe humming that ridiculous song you always sang when you thought no one was listening. She imagined you glancing up at the sound of the door. Smiling, welcoming. Then confusion. Discomfort.

She saw it all in her mind. You stepping forward, asking if he needed help. Him smiling back, reaching out—not to shake your hand or take a bouquet, but to grab the ceramic pot on the edge of the shelf and slam it into the floor. Shards flying. You stumbling back. That confusion turning into fear. A scream building in your throat—but he moved faster.

She could see it in flashes, like a strobe light of horror. His hands, the knife, your blood against the daffodils. She saw him pose you afterward, like a child setting up a tea party. Flowers in your hair. A performance. An insult. She imagined it all, and still… she didn’t cry.

The crime scene investigators had done their job. They’d taken photos, collected samples, made lists, labeled everything. But they hadn’t found him. And they hadn’t let her help.

“You’re too close to the victim,” they’d said.

“She was my fiancée,” she’d answered.

They still said no.

So she didn’t ask again.

She remembered the moment clearly. The moment she decided. The precise second she rewrote her entire to-do list with a single item: destroy him.

It wasn’t rage. Rage would’ve burned her out. It was something quieter, colder. Like slipping into a second skin. She watched herself from a distance, her own grief turning into focus.

She was going to kill him. But not like the others.

This wasn’t going to be efficient, or quiet, or merciful.

No, this time… she was going to take her time.

She closed her eyes.

The memories came uninvited. You laughing, your eyes crinkling in that way that made her stomach ache. You holding up a bouquet and saying, “Guess what this means?” You pulling her down to your level and tucking a flower behind her ear. You whispering against her mouth, “I love you more than all of them combined.”

Wednesday opened her eyes again. And this time, they burned.

But still, she didn’t cry.

Instead, she turned and walked back through the wreckage, her footsteps slow and deliberate. Every petal on the floor, every dried bloom, every bit of dirt clinging to the walls—she took it all in. She carved it into her memory. The scene of the crime, yes. But also the final place you existed. The last time you were alive in color.

By the time she stepped out into the night, she already knew how it would end.

He was going to suffer. And she was going to watch every moment of it.

Not for justice.

Not for closure.

But because she couldn’t scream, couldn’t cry, couldn’t breathe—not until he understood what it meant to destroy something beautiful.

The days blurred together in an endless cycle of silence and torment, and Wednesday never once allowed herself to break it.

Every moment, every minute she spent hunting him, tracking his every step, felt like something she could not pull herself out of.

The man was just a reflection of everything she despised—someone who had seen beauty and crushed it with no second thought. He didn’t just take a life; he took a piece of everything that could’ve been.

So, she hunted him. She tracked him like prey, never letting him slip from her grasp. She would come to him in the night, shadows in the alley, outside his car, standing just far enough to see the panic rise in his chest when he realized she was there. He would tremble, stare into the coldness of her eyes, but he never knew where the danger truly came from.

She tortured him slowly, steadily, as she listened to the one thing she couldn’t escape—the calls she had recorded, the calls that felt like the last connection she had to you.

Your voice, soft and melodic, filled the empty spaces as Wednesday stood in the dark. It was a constant. A reminder of you. A reminder of how she failed you.

And now, she is standing there, a few feet away from man tied to the guillotine, for her final act.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” she would hear you say. “Yeah, we stay open from eight a.m. to eight p.m. No exceptions! Thank you!”

The man’s eyes widened, his face paling as he connected the dots. He laughed. A low, bitter chuckle that sent a cold shiver through the air. “I remember now...” he said between fits of laughter. “So it is because of that florist!” His laugh echoed through the room, a sound full of self-satisfaction and madness. “That’s what this is all about. Her, right?”

The sound of his amusement made Wednesday’s chest tighten, a slow-burning rage igniting in the pit of her stomach.

"It was all so simple. I had my fun killing her just like I killed so many, and you’re just another one of those people who got caught up in it. And now you think you can kill me, but what’s the point? You’ve already lost, haven’t you?”

The man’s laugh only increased in volume, like the sound of a fire crackling as it devoured everything in its path. Wednesday didn’t flinch. Her eyes stayed steady. Calm.

“You can kill me if you want, but you’ll never get the satisfaction. Because I already won, and you lost! . It won’t even matter in the end. It won't even have an effect!"

The laughter grew louder. He seemed to relish in the moment, his mind broken by the realization. And yet, he has no idea... what revenge does to a person...

Without hesitation, Wednesday stuffed the rope into his mouth. She made him bite down on it, securing it between his teeth.

“Do you really think it won’t leave an effect?” she whispered, her voice soft but carrying an edge that was unmistakable. The rope was tied to the front door. If anyone opened it, if anyone walked through that threshold, the rope would snap. And the guillotine would fall. It was simple. But it was enough. It would be enough for him to understand the pain he had put her through.

The sound of footsteps outside.

His face went pale, his eyes widening as the panic began to swallow him whole. He started to struggle, trying to twist against the rope.

He realized the truth then. His family was there. His wife, his children, his father—he could hear them outside, their voices getting louder as they neared. He could feel the panic creeping into his chest, suffocating him as the reality of what was happening hit him.

“No! No!” he screamed, his voice muffled by the rope. “You can’t—don’t—please don’t let them—”

Wednesday didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. His eyes were wide, frantic, as he listened to the footsteps outside, getting closer. He was starting to beg. The fear was raw in his voice, in the way his body trembled. But Wednesday didn’t respond. She stood still, her face unreadable, her heart as cold as the blade hovering above him. The room was silent except for his frantic breathing and the distant voices of his family, unaware of the horror that was about to unfold.

She turned on her heel and left through the back door, the cool night air greeting her like an old friend. The sound of her boots echoed in the stillness as she walked away, each step measured, deliberate. She wasn’t in a hurry. There was no need to rush. The world would keep turning, and she would keep walking.

The sound of the front door opening reached her ears, faint at first. But then, the rope snapped. The guillotine blade fell with a deafening clang.

And then, the scream.

A woman’s scream. High-pitched, raw, full of terror. . It was followed by other screams, other cries of horror.

But Wednesday didn’t turn around. She didn’t look back. She just kept walking.

The sound of their screams faded behind her, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. Not anymore.

She just kept walking. Further. Further still. Away from everything. Away from the memories, the pain, the loss. Away from the life she had once known. The night stretched before her, silent, empty. She still didn’t feel anything.

She just walked. And kept walking.

And she knew where she had to go.

The bell above the door no longer chimed.

It was rusted now, stuck in place as if even it had no strength left to announce visitors to a store that no longer served the living.

Every time she’d walked through this door in the past—always reluctantly, always pretending she didn’t care—it would chime, this tiny, inconsequential sound that somehow made her feel like she was walking into a different world. A ridiculous little fairy tale. One of scent and color and... you.

Now it didn’t.

The warmth was gone. The smell, too—no more freshly cut stems, no more lavender oil misting the corners, no more petals underfoot like fallen laughter.

Just rot.

Dust in sunbeams.

And dried flowers that sagged from their hooks like mourning veils.

She stepped in slowly, boots echoing across the cracked hardwood floor. Her coat was heavier now, not from weight, but from silence. From everything she carried in her lungs, her mouth, her heart. Her ribs felt like cages, like graves.

Inside, everything was as she remembered it—and not. Counters still in place. Shelves still lined with empty pots, ribbons limp and curled from moisture.

But the flowers… the flowers were no longer alive. They drooped where they hung, their colors now brittle whispers of what they used to be. Roses that once blushed scarlet were the color of rusted wine. Daisies had curled in on themselves. The baby’s breath looked like bone dust.

The register sat lifeless. Your little stool was still tucked behind the counter, where you'd prop your foot on the lower rung and scribble ideas on sticky notes—"wedding theme: wildflower forest?" "ask Mrs. Delaney if she likes callas again!" "tell Wednesday she's beautiful (deathwish!)"

She walked slowly. Past the counter where you used to perch on your elbows and pester her with questions you already knew the answers to. Past the vase with the crack she refused to fix because “imperfection is character.”

She moved without purpose until she reached it.

The greenhouse. The floor.

The spot where your blood had dried.

It had been cleaned, of course. The investigators, the forensics team. It wasn’t visible now.

She reached into her coat pocket, past the dagger, past the photo she’d taken of him as he screamed, and found her phone.

She didn’t look at it. She just unlocked it by feel. Muscle memory.

The screen flickered for a moment.

Then: RECORDED AUDIO CALL — March 17, 9:47 PM.

“Wednesday?”

Your tone was warm. Light. Sweet in a way that clutched at her ribs and twisted.

“Oh! Okay, you picked up. I thought you were gonna let it ring again just to scare me.”

You giggled. That sound. That sound.

"Oh me? I finished an insane bridal order, one with the thousands of flowers and zero sense of proportion. I swear, that woman thinks flowers grow from credit cards.”

Another breathless laugh. She hadn’t realized she’d leaned closer to the phone until she could hear the faintest buzz of the old recording.

“Anyway, I made you a little something. A bouquet. But not like a romantic one—I mean, yes, obviously romantic, but like... us-romantic, not generic-romantic. It’s black dahlias, white lilacs, and one single daisy. Guess what the daisy’s for. Go on, guess.”

The recording was quiet for a beat.

You chuckled again. “Wrong. It’s for Enid. She dropped in today and told me she misses you. I told her you miss her too and she made that little squeak she does when she gets excited.”

She remembered that squeak. It had annoyed her.

It broke her now.

“I miss you too, you know,” you continued, softer now. “Like… really miss you. Even tho had lunch together only a few hours ago. I know it’s stupid but you make me feel stupid.”

Wednesday’s hand gripped the phone tighter.

“Do you ever think about what it’ll be like when we move in together?” you asked. “Like... actually live together? I mean, I’m messy. You’re... you. We’ll probably fight over drawer space and you’ll threaten to hex my slippers.”

A pause. A breath. You smiled again. She could hear it.

“But I think we’ll figure it out. I really want that, Wednesday. Us. I want to argue about dinner and hold your hand at 3 a.m. because I had a nightmare that you would call "sweat dream." ”

She was shaking now. She didn’t realize when it started.

“God, I sound clingy,” you said, laughing softly. “I swear I’m not! Okay, maybe a little. Okay maybe a lot! But you love that, right? Say you love that. Say you love me.”

Wednesday’s jaw clenched. Her throat ached with something ancient.

The call kept playing.

“Fine! Still worth a try. You know what I realized today?” you said, voice barely above a whisper. “There’s no one I want to call at the end of the day but you. No one I want to share all this with. Even the dumb parts. Especially the dumb parts.”

Her vision was going blurry.

“I love you, Wednesday Addams. I love you so much it’s kind of terrifying.”

She closed her eyes. Her nails dug into her palm. She remembered the way she’d sat there that day, silent, listening to you say those words. And not saying them back.

She hadn’t said them back.

She should've said them back...

“I know you’re not great at feelings,” your voice said gently. “And that’s okay. I’ll carry the feelings for both of us. I’ll carry all of it, if you let me.”

And then—your smile again, alive in your words.

“Okay, that’s enough sappy nonsense. I’m gonna go get some food and then fall asleep surrounded by empty ribbon spools like a tired goblin. Goodnight, my love. Talk to you tomorrow.”

The call ended.

Silence fell again, deafening.

Wednesday stared at the screen. At your name. The last of you, trapped in a speaker, looped in time.

She tried to swallow. Her chest didn’t move.

Her hand fell limply to her lap, phone still in it.

The first sob escaped before she could kill it.

It tore from her throat like it had claws.

She fell on her knees, folding in on herself as if trying to make her body small enough to disappear.

The sound that came from her mouth was not human. It was grief in its rawest form—broken, bloody, bare, clawing its way up from a place deeper than marrow. Her shoulders shook with the weight of it. Her hands trembled as she covered her face. She tried to contain it, tried to trap it behind her teeth like everything else, but it spilled out anyway.

Sobs tore through her.

Violent. Heaving. Shattering.

She cried like she was trying to bring you back. Like if she cried hard enough, the flowers would listen. That the pressed petals on the shelves would breathe again. That your laughter might echo down the hall. That time might open a door and let you walk through it.

She gasped for air between sobs that didn’t stop. Her fists clenched in her lap until her nails carved crescents into her palms. Her face was wet, red, contorted in a way it had never been allowed to be.

And she hated it.

She hated how much it hurt. She hated how empty her vengeance had felt. How no amount of screaming or slicing or orchestrated executions could fill the space you left behind. She had tied your murderer’s fate to his own family. She had set the guillotine. She had delivered death with poetry.

And none of it changed anything.

You were still gone.

She sobbed.

Loud, broken, primal. The kind of sound a person makes when nothing is left. When even memory turns to dust in their throat.

She screamed your name once. It cracked mid-syllable.

Her hands clutched a wilted daisy from the floor. The petals crumbled in her palm.

“You were a flower,” she whispered, her voice foreign and cracked and barely human.

She closed her eyes.

“You were the only thing I ever believed in.”

Her body shook with the weight of it. With the memory of your laugh. Your voice. The way you’d say her name like it meant something good. Like she meant something good.

“So why didn’t they save you?” she whispered. “Why didn’t the flowers save you?”

Silence. Her nails dug into the floor.

No answer came.

Only the sound of her breathing too hard. Of her tears hitting the ground. Of the shop creaking with the wind from outside, where it was still night. Where the world still spun without you in it.

She looked up. At the hanging bundles above her—flowers you once raised, once spoke to, once loved.

They were silent now.

Ashamed.

And then she asked the question.

The question that had no one left to answer.

“Are flowers even real?”

[Author's note: Yeah, this is very much inspired from a movie, guess it in the comments, also let me now how did this angst feel lol.]

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

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tortillamastersblog · 2 months ago

Text

Where Light Bends Wrong - Part 6 | Wednesday Addams

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x reader

Warnings: none

Summary: You’ve kept your secret buried and your power quiet, until Wednesday Addams came to Nevermore and turned your whole world upside down.

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist

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I blink tiredly and prop my chin up on my hand, trying to pay attention to Thornhill who’s babbling on about some carnivorous plant.

The memory of Rowan’s screams kept me up most of the night.

I still can't believe what actually happened. Throughout the night I heard a search party go through the woods, with the dogs whining and barking and officers shouting orders every now and then, but whether they found Rowan or not, I have no idea.

I knew there were rumors about this supposed monster roaming around lately, but I thought it was just a bear or something. But what I saw yesterday despite how comically grotesque and weird it looked scared the shit out of me.

The classroom door opens right as Miss Thornhill is about to feed a dead mouse to one of her plants which is already reaching its greenish tentacles for it.

A police deputy I've seen around Jericho before pokes her head inside and looks around making everyone shut up and stare curiously as she points at me.

I stiffen and feel Ajax and Enid who are sitting next to me shoot me questioning looks.

“L/N please come with me,” she says and I look at Thornhill for permission which she gives with a nod slightly wide-eyed.

I get out of my seat avoiding everyone's eyes even Enid and Ajax’s and hurry toward the door.

Deputy Santiago, as I read on her little name plate, closes the door behind me and tilts her head before starting to walk, silently telling me to follow her.

I do, hearing Thornhill's class continue all the way until we make it to Weems’ office where Sheriff Galpin Weems and Wednesday are already waiting for us. Deputy Santiago ushers me inside before closing the door again, choosing to stay outside herself.

“What’s going on?” I ask, “Has Rowan’s body been found?”

I see a muscle twitch in Weems�� jaw but she stays silent. Wednesday also looks displeased for some reason, her eyes harder than usual, and when Sheriff Galpin answers I know why.

“No, we haven’t found a body as I’ve already told Miss Addams here.”

“What?” My eyes dart between Wednesday Galpin and Weems. “That can’t be. We saw I saw…” I trail off, feeling a shiver run down my back at the memory of the gurgling sound Rowan made when he was literally gutted by the monster.

“Yeah well we didn’t find anything. No blood, no footprints, no sign of a struggle. Nothing. Our search party looked all night,” he says, sounding almost annoyed.

“Well your search party must have left their seeing-eye dogs at home,” Wednesday deadpans and were it not for the circumstances I’d actually snort at that.

Weems glares at her while I just stand there absolutely speechless.

I know what I saw, so how did they not find anything

As if reading my mind Wednesday goes on, “We saw that monster kill Rowan right in front of us. Right?”

She looks at me expectantly and I’m about to nod, but then I catch Weems’ eye over her shoulder. She shakes her head subtly.

Don’t cause any trouble. Stay under the radar.

I swallow thickly. “I-I’m not sure what I saw to be honest,” I lie which makes Wednesday’s face crumble with disbelief for a second before it hardens again.

She straightens up and goes to say something, probably accusing me of lying, but then Weems speaks up. “My guess is Rowan ran away. An alert has been put out and I’ve contacted his family but they haven’t heard from him yet”

Wednesday keeps her piercing eyes on me a little longer and I can tell there’s a lot of emotion brewing underneath the surface, but then she turns to Weems and snarks, “Maybe that’s because dead people are notoriously bad at returning calls.”

Sheriff Galpin sighs and sinks into one of the leather chairs in front of Weems’ desk, taking off his hat and running a hand down his face. “What were you two doing out in the woods with him?”

Wednesday neatly folds her hands in front of her and answers evenly. “I heard a noise in the forest and went to go investigate. That’s when I stumbled upon the attack.”

My eyebrow quirks slightly because that’s not what happened at all. Well, maybe the first part is true, but definitely not the second.

I quickly school my features back to neutral though when Galpin looks at me expectantly. “I saw Wednesday leave the fairgrounds and wanted to make sure she didn’t get lost so I followed her,” is all I say which is close enough to the truth and the story I told Wednesday.

Galpin looks back at Wednesday, seeing that I’m not going to elaborate and Wednesday is obviously the more vocal one out of the two of us. “And then what happened?”

“Then we ran into Bianca Barclay and told her to go for help. Next thing I remember I was waking in my dorm,” she says and even though that last part sounds unbelievable I believe it because I also can’t really remember what happened after telling Bianca what happened. It's all a blur, and the only thing I can vaguely remember is the bus ride back to school with the others. I’m sure Wednesday was also occupied with whatever happened between her and Rowan before I interfered.

“Okay, so just to be clear this monster wasn’t a bear or something?” Galpin asks.

Almost bored now, Wednesday stares at him, her hands still neatly folded in front of her. “I’ve hibernated with grizzlies. I know the difference”

Of course she did, I think, but I don’t speak up.

Weems seems to think this is a good place to end things. She puts her hands on her desk and gets to her feet. “Thank you Sheriff. I think Miss Addams is done now. And of course Y/N, too”

I dip my chin in acknowledgment and turn to leave, but then Wednesday speaks up again. “Actually I would like to speak to Sheriff Galpin. Alone.”

Weems narrows her eyes her gaze briefly meeting mine before she looks back at Wednesday and the Sheriff who looks mildly intrigued by Wednesday’s request. “I’m not sure I can allow that.”

Galpin puts his hat back on and crosses his arms, going on about how he could just take Wednesday to the station with him and get a formal statement, which is what makes Weems ultimately agree to a private conversation between the two.

“Fine. You have five minutes and everything is off the record,” she says, stepping out from behind her desk and joining my side. “Play nice or I’ll call the mayor.”

Galpin tilts his head in understanding though there’s a challenging glint in his eyes.

“Come on Y/N,” Weems says, brushing past me, and I go to follow her but then Wednesday’s voice stops me.

“Y/N.”

I turn and meet her eye, biting the inside of my cheek. I know what she wants from me. She wants me to be honest and tell Galpin what I really saw now that Weems isn’t looming over us but I just can’t do it.

Not causing any trouble and staying under the radar is what I’ve been told repeatedly since getting here and I know if I don’t I’ll get found out and I’ll have to leave again and I just can’t do that. Not again.

I exhale shakily and ball my hands into loose fists at my side. “I-I have to get back to class.”

I know it’s a lame excuse because Wednesday should be in class too, but I don’t know what else to say.

A flicker of something unreadable flashes through Wednesday’s eyes and I feel a tiny spark of guilt blossom in the pit of my stomach for leaving her out to dry, but I just I can’t do this.

So I turn without another word and leave, wondering briefly why Weems isn’t outside the office when she just left a moment earlier.

Deputy Santiago is still there though and I nod at her, earning an acknowledging little smile before I make my way to my room.

I know I said I had class, but I know I just wouldn’t be able to concentrate anyway. And I don’t want Enid or Ajax asking any questions. They already did that on the ride back to school last night and earlier before class.

If I wasn’t unnerved before by what I witnessed last night, I sure am now. Because what does Galpin mean they didn’t find a body?

It’s all so confusing and messing with my head. And to make matters even worse, I know there’s no way in hell Wednesday is going to want to run away again now. Not if there’s a mystery to be solved which means I’m still in danger. I can just hope she’ll focus on the monster from now on and kind of forget about me, but I doubt that’s going to happen because I’m once again somehow in the middle of that too.

I spend the rest of the morning catching up on my schoolwork and actually studying in an attempt to distract myself. I get quite a big chunk of work done, finishing two essays and a presentation on vampires all while listening to some music.

After about two hours though, a knock breaks through the music and I set my pen down and get up, taking my headphones off and letting them rest around my neck.

I'm mentally still occupied by my next paper I just started on Thornhill's carnivorous plants, which is why I don't register who's at the door until I've actually opened it and my eyes land on Wednesday.

Thing is on her shoulder and lifts his index finger in greeting, which I return with an awkward wave myself.

I go to say hi too, but then Wednesday beats me to it. "Why did you lie to Weems and the Sheriff?"

Straight to the point, like always.

I go to reply, maybe come up with a believable lie, but then, much to my surprise, she actually brushes past me and enters my room unbidden.

I blink in surprise and close the door behind her before turning around to catch her taking in my room.

Her eyes wander over my desk, and the scattered papers on it. Then over my neatly made bed, the gray sheets folded and tucked under the mattress around the edges. Then, the small wooden corner bookshelf next to it, filled with dog-eared books and one wrinkled photograph I taped to it.

It's a little blurry, but you can clearly see a younger version of me in it, giving a little girl a piggyback ride.

Lara.

It's unmistakable that we're close, and I can see Wednesday focusing in on it, so I clear my throat which actually makes her start ever so slightly and then her eyes snap to me and her face hardens. "We both saw how that monster killed Rowan," she states matter of factly.

I avert my eyes. "I know."

"Then why did you lie?" she steps closer, her tone now lower, almost menacing, but I sense no anger beneath the veil she has over emotions. It's more like... disappointment?

I look back up to find her crossing her arms while Thing skedaddles around the room exploring, flipping through my books and climbing onto the window seat of the wide and arched window that allows for a view of the courtyard and the forest beyond the school grounds.

"I just..." I trail off and play with the hem of my uniform's sweater vest. "I can't get dragged into this, Wednesday."

"What are you talking about?"

"I mean, I have enough stuff going on as it is, I don't want to get involved," I say honestly and for a moment, I think Wednesday might actually accept that because her face softens just the slightest bit.

Then it hardens again though, and I see her grip on her upper arms tighten. "That is absurd. You just lied because you're Weems' little pet and she doesn't want anyone to get to the bottom of this, just like Galpin."

I clench my jaw and lessen the distance between us with a step, looming over her while she just looks up at me with defiant eyes. "I am not Weems' pet," I hiss through gritted teeth.

Unperturbed, Wednesday snaps back with, "Someone is trying to cover Rowan's murder up."

I eye her incredulously, bothered that she didn't say anything else about the pet thing, before taking a step back again when I realize I'm actually so close to her I can pick up on the smell of fresh linen that clings to her. "So?" I ask, irritated. "Murders get covered up all the time and if it means things will quiet down, I don't care. I don't want anything to do with this. You should honestly—"

"I saw Rowan earlier."

That makes my mouth snap shut before an unbidden, "Excuse me?" escapes me.

This time Wednesday takes a step forward and I try to ignore the way my pendant heats up at the proximity. "Right after you left, Deputy Santiago opened the door and there he was."

What. The. Fuck.

"Now, I don't know how that's possible because you and I both know what we saw which makes me believe one of two things. Either, we're both simultaneously losing our minds, which is highly unlikely and honestly not as enjoyable as I hoped it would be. Or the person I saw wasn't actually Rowan, which seems like the more plausible of the two options, but once again begs the question, who would go to such lengths to cover it up, and why."

"I... don't know, and I honestly don't want to know either," I say, which makes her let out a sharp exhale. Her eyes dart between mine, frustrated and clearly searching for something.

"Fine," she says after a moment, then lets her bag fall off her shoulder and drop to the floor.

I frown and glance at it, only to realize it's actually my bag, the one I left in Thornhill's class when Deputy Santiago came to get me.

Enid must have taken it to her room with her, which is probably where Wednesday found it. She must have grabbed it and brought it to me so she would have an excuse to come see me.

"Thing."

The hand stops looking out of the window and jumps off the window seat, scrambling to Wednesday's side.

She turns to leave, bubbling with irritation and frustration underneath her mask of calm indifference. But then she stops when my necklace pulses gold underneath my sweater vest and shirt. It's barely visible through all the fabric, but Wednesday sees it and freezes, her eyes zeroing in on it.

I raise my hand defensively and clutch it through the fabric, hating how the curiosity I saw in Wednesday's eyes after she threw her knife at me sparks up again.

She doesn't say anything. She just meets my eyes again, then they flick to her knife, perched on my desk beside my laptop, before she finally turns and leaves with Thing on her heels.

He taps a goodbye on the door before slipping out, but I don't bother to return it, feeling my knees weaken slightly.

Why is this stupid pendant acting up the whole time?

I have half a mind to take it off right then and there, but I don't have the heart to do it. The fear of losing it is too great.

I've had it since I was dropped off at the orphanage as a baby. Not once in my life have I taken it off because it reminds me that I came from somewhere--that I'm not just another orphan.

I've also known it's somehow connected to my powers since I discovered them. But until Wednesday showed up, it has never acted like this before. Which reminds me I should really go and check out that book Weems hid in the Nightshades' library.

I never actually read it completely. She showed it to me once, but it overwhelmed me so much I couldn't finish it. I'd just been dumped at Nevermore, but now I really need some answers.

So I grab one of my books off the shelf next to my bed and pull out the small little note I wrote down after Weems gave me a riddle-like description of where to find the book in the library.

Why she couldn't just tell me I don't know. Maybe she did and I can't remember. I just remember writing down this riddle in a haze after I learned about what I am.

Seek where silence is etched in stone And light bends wrong when left alone What you search for is out of sight Until you ask the dark for light

I remember she said something about only being able to retrieve it at night and it's only half past twelve now, so I tuck the piece of paper into my pocket before leaving the room to go and find Enid.

She's been dying to talk to me since this morning, and it's lunchtime now, so even though I don't want to talk about Rowan and the rumors that have already spread around the school because of Bianca, I do crave her company. Her energy, although a bit much sometimes, always manages to make me feel better.

Also, she's got the Poe Cup coming up tomorrow, and I actually want to be there for her while she spirals about Bianca probably winning again.

I've already been roped into helping paint the canoe last year, and I can see that happening again this year, but I don't mind. Not only because it's actually kind of fun, but because I just know Wednesday won't come near me there.

‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆ ⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧˚⋆⋅‧

This is around 3k words. The last part was like 1.7k, so what are we feeling, people? Is this long enough or do you want even longer chapters?

Tag list: @sunshinez4 @protozoario @automaticpatroltragedy @mamas-evil-hag @theallseer97 @hellenheaven

#x reader #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday x reader #wednesday addams #wednesday series #wednesday netflix

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hucklerobbys · 2 months ago

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robby, prepping a shot for a patient: y’know, whitaker, i was finishing med school before you were even born

whitaker, so hard he can barely stand: can yuo put that needle in me

#ajax barks #the pitt #dr robby #robby robinavitch #michael robinavitch #dennis whitaker #dr whitaker

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spring002 · 3 months ago

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4EVER

i. boys don't cry 🎧 contains explicit language, scaramouche is an asshole / has issues (in gen), familial issues & dysfunctional family (?) | wc: 3.5k

raiden. raiden scaramouche, please report to the office and bring your belongings.” the loudspeaker echoed in the cafeteria, a static followed after the message repeated a couple times. scaramouche raised a brow, confused. well, he knows that he’s a delinquent, but it doesn’t mean he would pull pranks and atrocities everyday. that’s a waste of time and effort. besides, what’s the point of even calling him to the office? other than the fact, his mother donates to the school every now and then. but the school year is ending, finals are over, and summer is rolling in.

there’s no point of an intervention on something that’d be a short lived punishment.

childe, or what scaramouche dubbed him as, a parasite, turned to him, “‘mouchie,” scaramouche regretted making eye contact with the ginger, his blue eyes filled with anticipation. but it’s better than everyone else’s stares like he killed a whole family.

what a corny nickname…

irked, scaramouche spat, “don’t you dare call me that! i know where you live, ajax.”

scaramouche’s threats used to be intimidating but if you get to know him better, you’ll know that the empty words were only used to scare you off. most people, when they’re confronted with scaramouche, react quickly– almost cartoonish. their faces would fall immediately, running off to pick up the pieces of their dignity they had left. but childe isn’t like most people. unfortunately for scaramouche, childe’s used to his sharp words– after all, scaramouche is all bark, no bite. childe’s shoulders shook as he guffawed, “so what did you do this time?”

“how the fuck am i supposed to know?” scaramouche replied, his fist hitting the table. childe scooted his tray of food to the side away from the indigo haired male, averting his gaze.

“sheesh, my bad!” childe replied without missing a beat, holding up his hands in defense. scaramouche looked to the side, murmuring a soft apology to childe, “whatever.”

“raiden scaramouche, please head to the office.” the speaker spoke again. he felt the surrounding students’ gazes laid on him as scaramouche’s head lifted up, rolling his eyes. “can’t they leave me alone?”

the two boys left their table as childe said, “c’mon, mouchie, you gotta go.” tugging his sleeve in the direction of the front office. the fluorescent, bright lights flickering above scaramouche, he yanked off childe’s hand off his sleeve, “whatever, don’t skip class.”

“sure thing.”

already irked from the public announcement but even now, people were still staring at him. his eyes zeroed into the tiled, black and white floors, ears were plugged with music– trying to minimize the attention on him. trudging through the hallways of this stupid highschool is such a bother to deal with.

it would have been better if they were acknowledging him as the infamous guy who causes trouble to cackle at the faces of terror but it was to admire him– supposedly a hot guy. scaramouche wasn’t being egotistical though; the cause being more evident when he saw someone slowly reach into their pocket, taking a photo of him… with flash.

scaramouche hid his face into his hood, walking faster now. his skin feels like it’s being pricked as a new set of eyes stared holes into his body. well, when your family’s rich and you’re so beautiful, you cannot escape yourself.

from news outlets to social media, scroll once down– there is his face plastered with a headline. scroll again, oh wow, there's him again. no matter how many times he’d try to scrub his face, even filtering himself with tags, he can’t defeat the horde of unsolicited pictures and videos of him being edited to lana del rey. he shuddered just thinking about the comments. it’s akin to the reign of terror. scaramouche considered that harassment worse than vandalizing an old, shitty mural.

arriving at the office, he met eyes with one of the office hags, xianyun, who greeted him with a thin lined smile. she didn’t even try to look at him in the eyes, just clacking away at his screen. this is why that old bitch has glasses. “hello, mr. scaramouche.”

he scrunched his nose, leaning back, her words were laced in saccharine, too sweet to be sincere. he left an earbud out, the string resting on his ear. scaramouche hates the fake pleasantries miss xianyun would exchange, especially when they’re both aware of how much they don’t like each other. small talk and being polite for the sake of being “nice” annoyed him, pretending to be nice isn’t as polite as people may think. there’s no point in dancing around the bush. cutting to the chase, he crossed his arms, “why was i called? i didn’t do shit this time.”

watching the fine lines wrinkles in her forehead creased, she looked away from her screen. scaramouche wiped off the smug smirk on his face when she made direct eye contact with him. now, he has gotten her attention. she sat up straighter, almost a perfect 90 degrees, pinching her nose bridge. the older woman pursed her lips, gritting her teeth, “mr. scaramouche, please do not curse in an educational setting. as it goes against the rules that you vow to behold and it may disturb others with sensitive ears. go to principle morax’s office, i’m sure that you’d be more comfortable there.”

translation: shut the hell up and leave already.

scaramouche smiled a little not because she was being passive aggressive but the room felt lighter. there was no longer an uncomfortable barrier between the two but instead something he was comfortable with… familiar with, straight forward filled with bitterness. he snickered, dishing back the same amount of attitude the office lady gave to him. “whatever.”

as he walked past her desk, she murmured, hushed, under her breath, “fucking brat.” he fought the smirk etching on his skin, pivoting on his heel. “oh, miss xianyun…”

the office lady turned her chair sharply towards his direction, adjusting her red framed glasses. despite dying her hair, he’s sure that she’d definitely grow more gray hairs after this. mimicking her scolding tone earlier, “please don’t curse in an educational setting since it may disturb people with sensitive ears.”

watching her woman’s face scrunched up, nearly turning bright red, was satisfying. serves her right!

arriving to mr. morax’s office looked the same as always. a big, stuffy room with no a/c but the only room ever without flickering lights, crowded with files archived away and pictures of his kids. scaramouche squinted at the framed– gold? is it real gold? probably not– well, there’s xiao and ganyu. wow! what a great parent… unlike some people. some people who favor one kid over the other.

shit. a wave of envy washed over scaramouche as a frown adorned his face. he reluctantly greeted the principal with a simple “hey”. slouching on the brown uncomfortable, stiff chairs, he threw his backpack on the corporate gray carpeted floors. mr. morax didn’t pay any mind to scaramouche’s attitude, which scaramouche wasn’t sure if he liked that behavior. more so comfortable with tense situations rather than relaxed.

the principle treated him like everyone else, but on the other hand, he wasn’t dismissive of the delinquent's distracting actions. scaramouche continued, trying to catch mr. morax’s attention. “what’s the issue now?” he didn’t mean to sound so… aggressive, it slipped out of his tongue without him knowing.

he winced. mr. morax clicked out of a tab, resting his gloved hands on the wooden desk, “your mother had called, informing me that you’d be pulled out of school early due to familial issues. it’s fine since you’ve exceeded all the credits needed for this year.” he nodded, checking off a box.

scaramouche’s face twitched, really? his mother? what the hell does she want? “excuse me?”

the brunet replied, “you’re not excused just yet. she said she’ll be here in twenty min…” mr. morax’s eyes glanced at the screen, peeling a sticky note. he corrected himself, “apologies, in ten minutes. your mother will pick you up. please take your needed belongings.”

scaramouche wanted to argue back, not wanting to face his mother and the hellish consequences that came with it. he rolled his tongue, feeling the weight settle in. but one glance in mr. morax’s gaze, he knew even if he did fight back, it would be tenfold worse. spending the day after school in a sticky, crowded detention period and two hags yelling in his face, yeah right he’d fight back. if he wants a punishment of despair and misery, then he’d do it. but he doesn’t.

he clicked his tongue, “fine.” the weight feels heavier now. he didn’t mean to say it so bitterly, but he did. real question is why did he react like that?

was it because he viewed that old man as his “father figure”? he wanted to laugh at himself. don’t be so idiotic, scaramouche. he slung his backpack over his shoulder, becoming even more bitter than before. out of the office, sitting on the yellow painted benches etched with random carvings. despite wearing sweats, the bench seared him as if he was a piece of meat.

he frowned. i should move.

he stayed in the same seat.

beep!

a cadillac honked at scaramouche, making him flinch. he had an itch to curse out the driver for even honking but it was just his mother and her hagfriend or for lack of better words, her girlfriend, sitting in the front seat. scaramouche never liked her or maybe it’s the deep seated grudge he held against her when he was eleven. yae miko taunted him that she would take his mother away from him forever if he was being bad. it was a joke, a funny one at that but he would never admit it. of course, there’s other reasons why that grudge had cemented fully into scaramouche’s morals, but he’d rather not get into that, otherwise, it would be a long day.

“scaramouche, get in the damn car, we don't have all day.” the pink one hollered, cupping her mouth. she might as well be a megaphone the way she was so loud. waking all the damn archons from their thousands years of rest.

he wanted to bark back with a “shut up, hag!” but instead, he grumbled, opening the door, “whatever.” when he saw his little sister, mikoto, the so-called prizeed daughter who’d get the throne of ceo in the company, his shoulders sagged getting heavier. if that shit wasn’t born, he’d be the one being praised and loved. the one above the rest instead of being among the others– so close yet so far.

buckled in his seatbelt, both ears muffled with music as he increased the volume. in his peripheral vision, he noticed mikoto whisper to him, “good afternoon, big brother.”

irked, he recoiled from the title. “big brother”? yeah, right. get real. he’d never accept her as his little sister. not when she stole that spot that he worked for all his life. why did she think she had the place to call him that? he boiled the idea down to being mother’s and yae’s fault, trying to force a bond between the pair. “don’t call me that.”

“i’m sorry, big– scaramouche. i didn’t mean it.” mikoto replied, forcing her voice to sound like their mother’s. but even with her putting up a brave face, a pang of guilt hits him. it’s not really her fault. he grunted out a quiet sorry but like a coward, he faced the window rather than the small smile etched on his sister’s face.

when they arrived at the house, mother took him into her office whilst yae took mikoto elsewhere. he was seated in the comfortable, velvet chairs in front of her desk. putting up a front, trying to pretend the scaramouche at school doesn’t exist. trying to pretend he isn’t hypocritical, acting in a role he hates. his etiquette is near to perfect, he wasn’t slouching nor manspreading, instead he sits normal, a perfect 90 degree angle. mother was writing something down on a yellow sticky note. with the way she spoke to him, stern but firm instead of the usual banshee screech. he thought, maybe i am getting that ceo position instead of mikoto.

“kunizukushi.”

oh. she’s using the family name, the government name, instead of “scaramouche”. maybe he is getting that position. “as your school year is coming to an end and summer is coming up, i believe…”

… you’d get an intern job to prepare you as ceo. maybe he shouldn’t get his hopes up but he couldn’t help it. he’s been waiting for this position since he was five and since his auntie makoto told him that he’d inherit the role. this time around he is willing to hear the words coming from his mom’s mouth, bouncing his foot out of habit.

“... that you aren’t ready for the ceo position.”

what the hell?

she continued, placing the sticky note in front of scaramouche. “instead, you will go to auntie kusanali, or nahida,’s summer home to rest.”

rest? rest?? scaramouche’s eyes bulged out of its sockets. he had to manually put it back in, his face fell, unable to stop his mouth in time, “what do you mean?”

“excuse me?”

whatever remaining pride he had crumbled, becoming one with the dust in this ugly office. he didn’t have a reason to keep up a facade, pretending to be the good son they both know he isn’t. not anymore he isn’t. “what do you mean i’m no longer fit for the role, mother?”

he was told that he would inherit this position because what he wanted didn’t matter. he had to carry the reputation, being the face of the raiden company because that was his sole purpose. like a puppeteer, mother and auntie makoto shaped him as someone who would take over the family’s business.

but when the raiden family fell apart at the seams, ei knew that scaramouche wasn’t fit being the overseer of the company. he crumbled at the slightest critique akin to her sister who was forced into the ceo. she didn’t want that responsibility on her son’s shoulders. ei lacked the words to tell him properly therefore she rather show with her actions. unfortunately, it wasn’t translated well to scaramouche himself.

he wasn’t able to control his voice, it thundered in her office whilst mother stayed calm. but scaramouche knew she wasn’t, the twitch between her eyebrows gave her away. “don’t you use that tone with me, kunizukushi. i say this with all the love in my heart that you’re empathetic to work as the sole owner.”

all the love in her heart? scaramouche snorted, she’s just throwing him a bone now. her heart is nothing but a husk that died with aunt makoto. the tension between the pair only grew worse when scaramouche stood up, his chair slammed to the floor. through gritted teeth, he spat, “i’ve been working for this my entire fucking–” he winced for a brief moment. her glare striked down lighting through his soul but he carried through, trying to free the weight on his shoulders. “– life and you’re throwing it all away because i’m too nice?”

she tried to get a word in, but he interrupted her, “you think i’m fucking nice? have you seen people percieve me in school? have you?” if she ehad seen him as the infamous member of the group he was a part of, she would drop dead. has anyone made eye contact with him? no, not a single one. in the halls, in class, in the locker rooms or even outside of school, people’s eyes were riddled in fear. in fear if scaramouche decided to reign havoc over them.

he was expecting her to understand but she pinched her nose bridge, slamming her fist on her desk. he flinched. “just because you’re “terrifying” to your peers doesn’t mean you’re not empathetic. you’re not fit for the role because you are prone to your emotions. you don’t control your feelings, they control you.”

his feet were cemented into the floor. “you will be sent to her summer house by tomorrow, pack up.”

his eyes twitched, in fear or in objection even he doesn’t know the answer to. he tried to seal his lips shut to stop it from quivering. “what?”

her voice thundered, holding her ground. he twisted his shirt, ruining the loose thread hanging on. scaramouche was nervous. he doesn’t like being nervous, unaware of what’s coming next. “don’t talk back to me. return to your room and pack up. you’re leaving tomorrow morning.”

scaramouche forced his legs to move, scoffing at his mother.

a hushed “whatever.”

when he left the office, closing the door behind him, almost slamming it. although, his room wasn’t far, it felt like the hallway was dragging on forever. the walls were decorated with family achievements and portraits of previous heirs. it felt like the hallway of fame was taunting him, what he can’t achieve as his ancestors’ gaze burned holes into his back. the moment hee walked into his room, the unbearable weight finally lifted from his shoulders. he slumped into his bed followed by a sigh of relief.

what a day. a total waste.

he burrowed himself into his comforters, ignoring his own rules because who even cares anymore? years and years of being the heir for the company just gone because of some stupid unreasonable reason. even if his sister wasn’t the ceo who would fit the slot? someone who’s not even in the family? that would be stupid considering that it’s a family business. in that case, stupid mikoto can take the place.

i need to pack my suitcase.

but it has been his dream since he was a kid to take over. over and over as bedtime stories he was told that he has to strive for the position. but after all this?

forget it. i’ll do it tomorrow.

he doesn’t really know if it was actually his dream or not. he doesn’t even know what his dream job would be if it’s not the ceo role.

yae knocked on the door, “scaramouche, get out now.”

he grumbled back, “piss off.” he squinted his eyes when yae pulled back the dark curtains, tying them away. he groaned as he fought the struggle to slip back into the bed sheets. he could just feel the headache come in, then it was followed by a pang of realization. holy shit.

he forgot to pack.

“scaramouche, i’ve already packed for you.” yae said, sandwiching a neck pillow on the luggage’s handle. “your aunt should have clothes for you at her villa. if not, buy new clothes. don’t be an asshole to her and you’re lucky that ei played nice with you.”

played nice? yeah right.

she continued, pulling the blankets off his body. shivering, he instinctively yanked it back and pulled it over his head. “come on, dumbass. the jet’s ready for you.” scaramouche still refused to get up as if he was five.

“if you get up right now, i’ll put a good word for you to ei.” yae said, throwing bait at him. his head perked up, reluctantly going to his bathroom. but she stopped him, “woof! your roots look rough.”

he threw her a look, grumbling, “are you leaving?” one foot into his bathroom and the other stayed in his bedroom, waiting for the hag to leave. he stared at himself in the mirror. god, he looked like a wreck. eyes sunken in and– he tilted his head, shit, yae was right. he has to redo his roots. his natural hair peeking out of the indigo dyed hair. but he doesn’t have any time to retouch it… later. it’s a later problem.

his grip tightened on the handle of his luggage, unable to step onto the jet. mentally not ready to go off on some getaway trip mother organized. maybe, it’s a clever, sneaky way to get rid of him. he laughed at himself bittersweetly, pulling his luggage into the jet. any other kid would be happy that their family is willingly sending them off to a vacation. but he isn’t like any normal kid. he just wants to ensure his spot that he was born into is his and no one else’s.

or that’s what he’s telling himself. the jet looked comfortable for his long flight. fluffy, white with the family’s insignia printed blankets draped on the seats. pillows was placed on each chair but his eyes were set on the purple basket filled with parent guilt snacks.

there it is. parental guilt always gets to them somehow. he pulled the bow apart, reading the notecard while he picked out a matcha pocky stick.

kunizukushi, you will understand why i sent you to fontaine when you’re older or when you are more mature. be good. - mom

“‘when you’re more mature’?” he scoffed, crumpling the card away as he threw it somewhere. he sat down, chomping away at the snack. he glanced outside to the window, seeing mikoto leaning on yae’s arm, his sister waved goodbye to him.

he shook his head, watching her deflate. he sighed, waving goodbye back to her. he guessed that older sibling guilt is similar to parental ones. picking up the neck pillow from his bag, he fell back to much needed sleep.

there’s a chance that mother was unfortunately right. that he might need this “break”.

at the shore [closed: 20/20]: @sketcheeee @bittersweetmiko @usagiarchive @syunifu @lalalaloveallmydays @zenless-sys @raytoebiter @wateredfay (see masterlist for full details)

#🍀 vivi writes #divider: cafekitsune #ㅤalbum 4ever ㅤ𓇼 #spring002's top artist: scaramouche #scaramouche x reader #scaramouche x you #scaramouche #scaramouche genshin impact

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kaces-graham-crackers · 5 months ago

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Twelve Tolls 'Till Midnight - (Part 1: The Wish That Wouldn't Burn) - Christmas Special

Wednesday Addams x Reader

Summary: Nevermore’s Yule Log tradition is simple—write a wish, burn it in the fire, and let the embers carry it away. But when one wish refuses to burn, Y/N finds it perfectly intact among the ashes. At first, it’s just a mystery. A harmless, unanswered question. But then, strange things start happening. And with each passing day, you can’t shake the feeling that something—or someone—is watching. And the clock is ticking.

Word Count: 3.1k

Snow had dusted the grounds of Nevermore overnight, clinging to the stone pathways and blanketing the ancient rooftops in a thin, icy sheen. The air held the chill that bit through coats and scarves, turning breath into fleeting ghosts in the evening air.

Despite the cold, warmth thrived inside the common rooms, where the academy was fully immersed in the holiday season. Wreaths hung from the doors, golden ribbons were draped along the railings, and the crackling fireplace illuminated the sprawling parlor in a flickering orange glow. A vintage Christmas record played somewhere in the background—a jazzy, eerie rendition of Carol of the Bells that somehow fit Nevermore's unsettling aesthetic.

It wasn't an official school event, but the students had made their own tradition out of gathering in the weeks before break. Some strung lights across the bookshelves, others sprawled across the couches in clusters, indulging in hot cider, peppermint bark, and whatever holiday treats had been smuggled into the dorms.

I stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching as Xavier struggled with a particularly tangled set of lights. His frustration grew as the string looped around his wrist for the third time.

"Are you winning?" I deadpanned.

Xavier huffed, tugging at the cord like it had personally wronged him. "If by 'winning,' you mean slowly losing my will to live, then yes."

Next to him, Ajax—whose idea of 'helping' was offering unsolicited advice while eating a candy cane—grinned. "Bro, you gotta work with the lights, not against them."

Bianca curled up in an armchair near the fireplace and scoffed. "If you had to deal with Xavier's questionable decorating skills every year, you'd know that's a lost cause."

Divina chuckled from where she sat, nestled comfortably against Yoko's side. "Maybe we should let the artist stick to painting."

Yoko smirked. "Or make him the Christmas tree instead."

That earned a laugh from the group, even as Xavier shot them all an unimpressed look.

I leaned back against the wall, hands shoved into the pockets of my flannel. Despite the easy comfort of the moment, I felt the faintest tug of something… off. It wasn't the Christmas cheer—it was too easy to get wrapped up in the warmth of it all, in how my friends naturally fit together like pieces of an unspoken tradition. No, it was the presence of someone sitting in her usual corner of the room, untouched by the festivities but watching them all like she was collecting evidence.

Wednesday Addams.

She was perched on the arm of the couch, a book in her lap, and her posture was rigid despite the casual setting. Her dark gaze flicked up now and then, scanning the room, lingering in places longer than necessary. She was too perceptive for her own good, and I knew it was only a matter of time before her curiosity sank its claws into something.

"Hey," Yoko's voice broke through my thoughts, and I turned to see my dormmate watching me with a knowing look.

"I think it's time to start the important discussion of the night." Yoko nudged her drink toward me in mock seriousness. "You confessing your undying love for Wednesday."

I choked on my cider. "Excuse me?"

Divina sighed, shaking her head. "Yoko. Subtlety."

"What?" Yoko gestured vaguely. "It's Christmas. Confessing is like, a thing."

I exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of my nose. "It's also a thing to not embarrass me in front of an entire room of people."

"Pfft, they're all distracted," Yoko waved off. "Besides, me and Divina are the only ones who know, so chill."

I shot them both a pointed look. "Enid knows, too."

Divina lifted a brow. "You think she told Wednesday?"

My stomach twisted at the thought. "No. I trust her."

"Okay, but why haven't you told Wednesday?" Yoko leaned in. "Be honest."

I hesitated, gaze flickering toward Wednesday's usual spot, only to find her already staring in our direction. Of course.

I turned back quickly, exhaling. "Because she wouldn't care."

Yoko made a tsk sound. "See, I know you're smart, which is why it baffles me that you're being so dumb."

I shot her a glare. "Gee, thanks."

Divina shook her head. "Y/N, Wednesday likes you. Enid sees it. We see it."

I scoffed. "Wednesday doesn't like anyone."

"Correction," Yoko smirked. "She tolerates very few. You're at the top of that list."

I rolled my eyes, refusing to engage further. "I don't know why I even talk to you two."

"Because we're right," Yoko sing-songed.

Across the room, Enid was having a very similar conversation with Wednesday.

"I think you should tell them," Enid said, voice light but firm.

Wednesday, still watching me from a distance, didn't look up. "Tell them what?"

Enid sighed dramatically. "That you like them."

Wednesday's eyes flicked to her roommate, expression unreadable. "That would be unnecessary."

"Would it?"

Wednesday went back to her book. "They wouldn't be interested."

Enid groaned, dragging her hands down her face. "You know they like you, right?"

Wednesday's brow twitched. "You're speculating."

"I'm not. Yoko and Divina literally know."

Wednesday hummed, flipping a page. "That sounds like gossip."

"That sounds like me being right and you avoiding your feelings."

"Feelings," Wednesday repeated flatly. "A fascinating concept."

Enid gave her a deadpan look. "You're impossible."

Wednesday smirked. "And yet, you persist."

Before Enid could further argue, the lights in the room flickered suddenly, the warmth of the common area dimming as a draft rolled through.

I straightened. "Huh."

Wednesday's fingers tightened around her book, gaze flickering toward the fireplace.

It shouldn't have been possible—the fire had been crackling brightly all night. And yet, as they all turned toward it, a single piece of parchment sat in the embers, untouched by the flames.

"Uh," Xavier blinked, stepping closer. "That's weird, right?"

Enid frowned. "Did someone throw a wish in late?"

Slowly, I stepped forward, crouching down. Carefully, I reached for the paper, my fingers brushing the surface.

It was smooth. Unburnt.

And written in ink darker than the shadows was a single sentence.

A wish.

Someone's wish.

And for some reason, the fire refused to take it.

My fingers brushed against the slip of paper nestled among the embers, its edges still intact, untouched by the fire.

A perk of being a Flame Atronach—I was unharmed.

That wasn't right. The Yule Log tradition was simple—write your wish, burn it, and let the flames carry it away. But this one refused.

Curiosity got the best of me. The fire was still going, flickering orange and gold, yet the paper sat there, defiant against the heat. Carefully, I reached in, feeling the warmth lick at my skin but never entirely burn. It was strange—almost as if the fire itself had decided to spare it.

I plucked the paper from the ashes, brushing off the soot as I went to unfold it. The handwriting was neat, precise, and immediately familiar.

Before I could read a single word, Enid practically tackled me.

"Whoa, whoa—what do you think you're doing?" she yelped, grabbing my wrist before I could fully open the paper.

I frowned. "Reading? Someone's wish didn't burn. That's weird, right?"

Enid's eyes widened in horror as she snatched the paper from my fingers. "You can't read it! That's like… like, instant bad luck. It definitely won't come true if you do!"

I blinked, taken aback by how serious she sounded. "You actually believe that?"

"Yes," she said, deadpan. "Do you want to be responsible for some poor soul's wish going up in smoke? Well, not going up in smoke, but—" She shook her head. "You get what I mean."

I hesitated. A part of me wanted to brush it off, to open the paper and solve the mystery. But Enid looked genuinely distressed, and despite my skepticism, I wasn't cruel enough to stomp all over whatever holiday magic she believed in.

With a sigh, I reached for the fireplace again. The flames curled around my fingers, warm but strangely harmless. I tossed the paper back into the fire, watching as it landed among the embers.

It didn't burn.

Enid chewed her lip. "It's probably just some weird mishap," she decided, but her voice hinted unease.

I couldn't blame her.

As the flames flickered, failing again to consume the wish, I couldn't shake the feeling that this wasn't just a random fluke.

But, like the others, I let it go.

That was mistake number two.

Later that night, The strange incident with the wish should have faded into the background, drowned out by the usual Nevermore chaos. But as the night wound down, something lingered.

It clung to the air like the scent of smoldering wood, like the faintest trace of something just out of reach.

By the time I got back to my dorm, the warmth of the holiday gathering had been replaced by an unsettling chill I couldn't quite shake. Yoko was already sprawled across her bed, scrolling through her phone, earbuds tucked in, vibing to whatever playlist she had on rotation.

I tossed my jacket over my chair and exhaled as I sat at my desk, the dim glow of my lamp casting long shadows against the walls. But even as I tried to push the thought aside, the memory of that unburned wish gnawed at the back of my mind.

I should've paid more attention to that feeling.

Because by the time the clock struck midnight, Nevermore had already started to change.

At first, it was subtle.

I wasn't a light sleeper, but something stirred me awake—a shift in the air, a wrongness that hadn't been there before. I blinked against the darkness, the room bathed in nothing but moonlight filtering through the window. Yoko was still asleep, her breathing steady and undisturbed.

Then I heard it.

Tick.

It was distant, almost deafening, like an old clock shifting gears after years of neglect. I sat up, frowning.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It was coming from outside.

Swinging my legs over the side of the bed, I crept toward the window, pressing a hand against the cold glass. The Nevermore courtyard stretched below, silent beneath the dim glow of lanterns.

And that's when I saw it.

The old clock tower—the one that had been broken for years—was moving.

I watched, frozen, as the massive hands jerked into motion, slow and deliberate, like something that had been trapped in stillness was finally waking up.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The sound rattled in my bones, deep and resonant, like a pulse thrumming beneath the skin of Nevermore itself.

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until another sound broke the quiet.

A whisper.

It came from directly behind me.

I spun, pulse hammering in my throat, but my room was empty. Yoko was still asleep, undisturbed. The shadows in the corners of the room sat still, unchanged.

Swallowing hard, I glanced back at the window. The clock continued ticking, slow and steady.

I didn't know why, but I had a sinking feeling this was only the beginning. Meanwhile, in Wednesday's dorm, Wednesday knew something was wrong.

She had felt it the moment the first ember sparked.

Sitting at her desk, a candle flickering at her side, Wednesday's fingers hovered over the spine of a book she had long abandoned reading. The air in her dorm was… off. It wasn't tangible. It wasn't something she could pin down with certainty. But there was a shift in the very fabric of Nevermore—a pulse of sorts.

The anomaly of the unburned wish nagged at the back of her mind, an unsolved equation demanding resolution. Wishes were nonsense—foolish sentiments wrapped in superstition, meant to be reduced to ash. And yet, one had refused. Defied the flames entirely,

That was not a coincidence.

She hadn't believed in the tradition, of course. The very idea of wishing for something was as repulsive to her as cheerful holiday music or Enid's excessive use of glitter.

It had been meaningless.

At least, it was supposed to be.

Now, she wasn't sure.

A memory flickered in her mind—the moment the slip of parchment left her fingers and landed in the fire, the flames devoured it instantly.

And then… the clock tower had started ticking.

That old thing had been broken for years.

She tapped her fingers against the desk, deep in thought.

What did the others say earlier that night? That a wish refused to burn?

Her jaw tightened slightly.

If a wish had survived the fire, then logically, it had to be connected to whatever this phenomenon was.

The clock. The feeling in the air. The change.

She closed her book with a quiet snap, her mind already working through possibilities.

Something had been set into motion.

The following morning, Breakfast at Nevermore was its usual mess of clashing personalities and half-dazed students. The dining hall buzzed with conversation, forks clinking against plates, the occasional burst of laughter breaking through the hum.

I slid into my usual seat, still feeling the weight of the night pressing against the back of my mind.

Across from me, Enid was already halfway through a muffin. "Morning, sunshine! You look…" She squinted, tilting her head. "Okay, not to be rude, but kinda haunted?"

I huffed out a laugh, rubbing my temple. "Great. That's exactly the aesthetic I was going for."

Yoko dropped into the seat next to me, sunglasses firmly in place despite the dim lighting. "Yeah, you were kinda twitchy last night. Bad dreams?"

I hesitated, my gaze drifting to the others across from me where Bianca, Xavier, and Wednesday sat.

Wednesday, as always, was absorbed in some old tome, her usual resting murder face in full effect.

"No," I admitted, lowering my voice slightly. "But something weird happened."

Yoko raised a brow. "Weird, how?"

I hesitated before saying, "The old clock tower was working."

That got their attention.

Enid's eyes widened, her muffin forgotten. "Wait—what? That thing's been broken forever."

"Not anymore," I murmured. "It started ticking again last night. Right at midnight."

Yoko frowned. "Okay, weird, but maybe they fixed it? You know how Weems is. Probably had maintenance finally patch it up or something."

"Yeah. Except…” I exhaled. "I swear I heard something after. Like—whispering."

Yoko's expression didn't change, but Enid visibly shuddered. "Nope. Absolutely not. We are not starting ghost season right before Christmas."

"I mean… it is Nevermore," Yoko pointed out. "Ghosts kinda come with the territory."

"Still," Enid huffed, crossing her arms, "it could be anything. A creaky old building making noises? Drafts? Your imagination?"

"Could be," I said.

At the same time Wednesday sat:

The dining hall was its usual mess of noise and movement, students scattered in their usual places, laughing and talking over plates of food.

Wednesday barely registered any of it.

She sat at her usual spot at their table, her mind still tangled in speculation, barely listening as Xavier attempted (and failed) to hold a conversation.

It wasn't until Y/N walked in that something shifted.

She felt it—a tug, a sharp pull of attention.

She didn't look up at first, but something in her instincts twisted, that same sensation of something being wrong settling in her chest.

Then, a voice.

"I swear to God, if Enid calls me 'haunted' one more time, I'm throwing her into a snowbank."

Wednesday stiffened.

The voice had been clear. Too clear.

And yet—no one had spoken.

Her gaze flicked up, sharp as a blade, locking onto Y/N.

Y/N had just sat down across from Enid and beside Yoko, placing a tray on the table.

Wednesday's frown deepened. She had heard… something.

But Y/N hadn't said a word.

She clenched her jaw, shaking it off. Perhaps she had misheard something in the noise of the dining hall.

And yet—when she looked back at her plate, her ears still buzzed.

A few minutes passed.

Wednesday focused on her food, tuning out the useless chatter around her. She had almost convinced herself she imagined it—until it happened again.

"What is she staring at? If I have something on my face, someone better tell me."

Her fork stilled against the plate.

Her grip tightened around the handle.

Slowly, deliberately, she lifted her gaze—straight to Y/N.

They weren't speaking.

They sat there, sipping coffee, not saying a single word.

But Wednesday had heard her.

Loud and clear.

Her breath stilled.

This time, she knew she hadn't imagined it.

The realization settled like cold steel in her gut.

She was hearing Y/N's thoughts.

No. That wasn't possible.

That wasn't how telepathy worked. There was no logical precedent for suddenly understanding someone's thoughts.

And yet—there it was.

Her hands curled into fists.

The sensation wasn't constant. It didn't come in waves. It came in bursts—only when she focused on Y/N.

Her mind was a fortress, yet something had torn a hole in the walls.

For the first time in a long while, a flicker of frustration ignited in her chest.

She hated things she couldn't control.

"I guess Enid's right…it must be my imagination..."

In the present:

She suddenly dropped her fork, pushing her plate away.

Bianca arched a brow. "You good?"

Wednesday stood abruptly.

And that's when Wednesday spoke.

"You're wrong."

Her voice cut through the conversation like a scalpel.

Enid jumped, startled. "Jeez, Wednesday—do you always have to sneak up on people?"

Wednesday ignored her, stepping into place at the head of the table. Her gaze locked onto me, studying me like a puzzle she had already started solving.

"The clock tower. When exactly did it start working?"

I hesitated. "Midnight."

A flicker of something crossed her face—calculation, recognition. Interest.

She already knew something was happening.

Later that night, Enid sat cross-legged on her bed, tossing popcorn into her mouth while Thing lounged beside her, flipping through an old magazine.

Wednesday stood by the window, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

Enid squinted at her. "Okay. You've been in a mood all day. What happened?"

Wednesday didn't respond immediately.

She should have kept this to herself, ignored it, and buried it in research until she could make sense of it.

But something about this wasn't normal.

Finally, she spoke.

"Something happened."

Enid groaned, flopping backward. "Care to elaborate, or are you gonna keep being cryptic?"

Wednesday turned, deadpan. "Would it matter?"

Enid pouted. "Probably not."

Thing tapped against the bed, prompting her to continue.

Wednesday inhaled slowly.

"It started this morning."

She didn't mention specifics, and she didn't tell Enid that every time she looked at Y/N, a voice whispered into her mind.

That she could hear things she shouldn't.

She understood Y/N in a way she had never done before.

And the worst part?

The voice was infuriatingly distracting.

Wednesday clenched her jaw, pulling her sweater tighter around herself.

She had a growing suspicion that whatever was happening…

It was only going to get worse.

#jenna ortega x reader #x fem!reader #x female reader #x y/n #wednesday addams x fem reader #slow-burn #tara carpenter x female reader #tara carpenter x reader #kaces christmas corner #wednesday addams x you #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday x fem!reader #wednesday addams x female character #jenna ortega x fem!reader #jenna ortega x female reader #jenna ortega x fem reader #jenna ortega x you

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vikingghostwriter · 6 days ago

Text

“𝙸𝚏 𝙰𝚓𝚊𝚡 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚍” 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚏𝚒𝚌

[INT. GHOSTS SAFEHOUSE – HOLDING ROOM]

Rorke, captured, restrained to a steel chair. Bloodied but still smug. The room is tense. Dim light. Keegan, Hesh, Logan, Merrick... and Ajax.

Merrick: "We brought him in for intel." Ajax: "Good. 'Cause I'm about to extract something alright." Keegan: "Don’t." Hesh: "Please do."

Ajax steps into the room like it’s a comedy roast special. Rorke glares up at him, cocky.

Rorke: “You Ghosts never learn. Still playing soldier?” Ajax: “You talk a lot for someone who looks like the final boss of a Lowe’s lumber aisle.”

[VINE BOOM]

Logan: Chokes Hesh: Leans against wall, wheezing

Ajax: “Why you always got that du-rag on, huh? You hiding classified coordinates under there or your receding hairline?”

[VINE BOOM ×2]

Rorke: Visibly offended Keegan: Turns slowly away to hide a smirk

Ajax: “You ain't scary. You look like if Dom Toretto got kicked out the family and the Fast franchise.” Hesh: “OHHHHHHH!!!” Logan: “HE DID NOT—”

[VINE BOOM + AIRHORN]

Rorke: “You think you’re funny?” Ajax: “Nah. But you do, trying to look intimidating when you built like a Home Depot bucket with daddy issues.”

[VINE BOOM (bass boosted)]

Keegan: “Stop. I’m trying to interrogate him professionally.” Hesh: “You said 'professionally,' and yet you’re crying.”

Ajax: “Let me ask you something, Rorke. When you switched to the Federation—was that before or after your barber switched careers?”

Rorke: “Shut your—” Ajax: “Make me, Mr. Clean with unresolved trauma!”

[EXPLOSION GIF EMOTIONALLY]

Logan: On the floor, wheezing like a kettle Hesh: Screaming into a tactical vest Keegan: “...I’m filing this under enhanced interrogation.”

Merrick (in the doorway): “Did he talk?” Keegan: “Not yet. But his soul left his body about three roasts ago.”

Riley: barks once. Approves. Rorke: ...Visibly questioning his life choices.

[FINAL ROAST – Ajax drops mic (literally a flashlight)]

Ajax: “Wrap it up. I got more burns than he got brain cells. Put his bald-headed Google Earth skull in holding before I call the Ghosts back for a second round.”

[VINE BOOM – DOOR SLAMS – FADE OUT]

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danyasblogsblog · 6 months ago

Text

MY LIVING LEGEND KEEGAN RUSS

warnings : SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, death, grief, gunshots, sad ending, SOO angsty, probably more

- after y/n’s best friend, ajax’s death, they havent been the same. in the end, all they want is to die. until they dont want too.

based off the lana del rey song, living legend

a/n: magpie is your codename!! finallyyyy im doing a gender neutral reader!! hope u guys enjoy. sorry if it all moves too fast. im not very used to writing long fics.

‘tangos. next building.’

the afternoon horizon glistened as gunshots reverberated through the air. the burgundy hats worn by federation soldiers fell off as they dropped to their knees, crimson blood rippling out of their chests. you held your sniper scope up to your eye, holding your gun in a white knuckle grip. as soon as you spotted one of those maroon hats, your trigger went off. the gunshot was loud, but your headgear stopped the sound from blowing out your eardrums. you watched as the solider fell backwards, blood pooling out of his bullet wound. a sigh escaped your mouth as you pulled the scope away from your face, holding it against your chest.

‘nice shot kid, almost getting better than me.’ keegan’s voice was like an angel call from behind you, and his calloused hand went to grip your shoulder. ‘almost? wow, could you be more narcissistic?’ you chuckled.

‘just watch and learn.’

you stared as keegan removed his firm grip on your shoulder and pulled out his gun from his back. he brought it close to his face, and his hands lingered over the trigger. of course, you thought to yourself, safety is already off. his eyes scanned the nearby buildings for federation soldiers, and within a matter of seconds, he spotted one. pulling the trigger, the man was dead on impact. the death rattle shook his body, as a pool of blood circled itself around him.

‘thats how its done, kid.’

keegan looked down at you, waiting for your approval. ‘wow, mr living legend. that was a beautiful shot.’ you quipped, silently clapping for him. before he could respond, merrick’s voice erupted out of your radio. ‘everyone, move forward. enemy contact ahead in further buildings.’

you huffed out of your mouth as you and keegan made your way out of the abandoned house. you thought about the memories that were once created in the very room you and keegan were killing people in. were those people who lived there even alive anymore?

‘whats on your mind, magpie?’

keegan’s voice slightly startled you. ‘nothing.’ you muttered. it really was nothing- you didnt have time to be worrying about the people who once lived in the houses you and your team ended lives in- especially when your life was at stake.

keegan looked bothered by your answer, but nevertheless, you two continued walking. side by side, arms lightly grazing eachother when you wandered a bit to his direction. soon enough, you met up with the rest of the ghosts.

‘keep working with the people you’re with now, don’t split up. there are too many of them for us to risk it.’

merrick’s barked orders were copied and obeyed as everyone slowly split up with their partners. keegan’s footsteps echoed yours in a rhythmic manner.

you knew why he told everyone to not split up.

‘theres a building up there- high enough to see everything. we set up there to prepare. be quiet though, because sometimes federation soldiers are surrounding the building.’ his words were confidently spoken, and you followed pursuit.

*+:｡.｡　　｡.｡:+*

‘imagine falling off this thing.’

you looked down through a broken window in the building, the ground seeming so far away.

‘well you better not, im not dragging your dead ass back to fort santa monica, y/n’

‘you’d cry if i died, i know you would.’ you imitated a crying face, and wiped imaginary tears from your cheeks. you chuckled and keegan rolled his eyes. your hushed voices could only be heard by each-other as the shuffling of footsteps from keegan echoed off the walls, bouncing back to you two quietly.

the sound of gunshots and spanish orders being screamed frantically switched a flip in the two of you- your joking demeanours suddenly serious and concentrated. you pulled your gun out of your back sling, taking off the safety. you glared as you stared into the scope, searching for the familiar burgundy hats that you had learned to hate.

‘see anything, magpie?’

keegan pulled up close behind you, and you could feel his breath on your neck as he leaned down to your ear. his silent whispers to you were like a mantra you wish could be repeated thousands of times. ‘nothing. not a single solider in sight.’ you mumbled.

he leaned back up, straightening his back.

you put your scope down, your eyes finally resting, and the tension in your jaw relaxing. you sighed. spanish was heard below you and keegan. you immediately pulled a pistol out of your holster, your reflexes making your body move fast. footsteps and creaking floorboards could be heard, and to say you were on edge would be an understatement.

‘its fine, kid. they wont come up.’ keegan’s hushed voice soothed you, but you were still unable to shake the feeling of the need too protect him and yourself. ‘did you hear me? its fine.’ he was a bit louder now, but there was still not a chance in hell the enemy could hear him. the floorboard creaking and quiet voices stopped after a matter of seconds. ‘better safe than sorry.’

silence.

you raised an eyebrow at keegan, wondering why he was suddenly muted.

‘i know you still blame yourself, y/n.’

first mistake.

your silence indicated you knew exactly what he was talking about. something that killed you inside. ajax’s death.

you had blamed yourself for it- you took one minute apart from him and when you had returned, a bloody trail and a missing ajax were all to be seen. the multiple nightmares you had had the days following his disappearance plagued you, even to this day, it still did. thinking about how, maybe, his death could’ve been avoided if you had just listened to your gut.

you still remembered the day he died. when keegan held him as he died in his arms. when you guys had gone between hell and earth to find him- just for him to die the minute you got your hands on him.

you still remembered sobbing in keegan’s arms with your head pounding, blaming yourself and wanting to just die. since that day, suicidal thoughts carried around you. you just wanted ajax back. he was your best friend- the first ghost you met. he was the first person you told about your crush on keegan. you would do anything for 5 more minutes with him- to tell him how sorry you were. to tell him how much you cared about him.

‘it wasnt your fault. you know that.’

you were silent. the way keegan’s smooth voice talked about it made something rattle inside of you. you felt weak. you were distracted. your airway felt tightened- as if you were being choked. tears threatened to fall but you couldnt dare yourself to let them roll down your cheeks. you had to focus. you had too.

keegan thought about what you had said earlier, about dying. come to think about it, he liked you a bit to much for your death. he didnt want you to be just another funeral he’d have to attend. he wanted you to be alive. he’d miss the concentrated face you made when you were on a mission. all the memories you two had together.

*+:｡.｡　　｡.｡:+*

‘i saved you a chocolate bar, kee.’

‘how healthy.’

‘i know, right?’

*+:｡.｡　　｡.｡:+*

you fell silent. gunshots could still be heard, and it was the only thing that was stopping you from falling apart. the fact that you were on a mission, and it wasnt the time to fuck around.

‘keegan, this isnt the time.’ you huffed. you so badly wanted to talk about it, but how could you? it simply wasnt the moment, and both you and keegan knew this subject wouldnt come up again for a long time. you thought keegan would stop pestering you with questions, that maybe, he would just leave it. but oh, how wrong you were.

his strong, broad frame walked over to you, and his wintry blue eyes stared down into yours. his hands firmly gripped onto the back of your elbows, not too tight, but he had a stable grip. god, you thought, i forgot how stubborn this man is.

‘i wanted to talk about this with you, and i know its not a good time too right now, but i dont get another opportunity like this again.’

keegan was a man of very few words- his eyes and actions speaking more than his mouth did, but now, you could tell he was serious. you pulled your eyes away from his, but the intense glare he carried still was focused on you.

‘keegan-’

a louder gunshot could be heard- one closer to you and keegan’s position. immediately, you felt on edge. but keegan’s grip on you tightened, and you felt compelled to stay where you were. that was your second mistake.

‘ajax wouldnt want you to blame yourself. you.. you doing this to yourself is hurting you. its distracted you for months i can tell. you’re always on edge, you just arent the same. the jokes you make arent the same. you just aren’t right.’

‘keegan stop. youre not.. youre not a fucking therapist. just leave me alone, i dont want to talk about this.’

third mistake.

your annoyed tone set something off in keegan- you’d never been like that with him. you had always been even-tempered, something the rest of the ghosts admired. your words, enunciated by the way your voice seemed sharper to him now, made him furrow his eyebrows as he stared down at you. he let go off your arms, but for some reason, you longed for his touch still. you shook off the feeling, and stepped away from him.

*+:｡.｡　　｡.｡:+*

you didnt know how it happened.

the spray of blood sprinkled itself over the walls as it erupted from you like a fountain. the ringing in your ears felt like the devil screaming at you as you fell back, your head hitting the wooden floorboards.

a wail of pain escaped your lips as your hands travelled your stomach trying to find the bullet wound, and when you finally laid your fingers on it, your body felt stiff.

suddenly, all your fantasies of dying and killing yourself were gone. now, you just wanted to live. your life was fading, and it was fading so quickly.

keegan had rushed over to you, screaming into his radio, telling merrick you got hit. over the incessant ringing in your ears, you could hear the panic in his voice. his trembling hands went to your wound, examining it. birds sung as he begged you to open your eyes- the sun’s light slowly fading, just like you.

‘magpie, y/n, open your eyes, open your fucking eyes, please.’

keegan’s eyes were horrified when he saw what he was looking at. blood trickled from your mouth, falling off your chin, and your uniform was stained with crimson.

‘kee-’

you tried to say his name, but only half came out. blood spluttered out of your mouth as you wailed in agony. ‘speak to me, y/n, solider. come on, talk to me.’

keegan ripped open his medical pouch, taking out some gauze in an attempt to prevent more blood from spilling out your wound. it pooled around you as you tried to speak. ‘i- i just want to..’

you were appalled at how difficult it was to talk. it was like your vocal cords had been ripped out, and all that was left to leave your mouth were gasps that made your lungs ache. ‘keep going, magpie, come on.’

‘i- i always wanted to.. die, after aja..ajax.. but i just want to- to live.. now’ every few seconds you had to pause your speaking so you could cough out blood. it blocked your airway as if it was trying to silence your cries. ‘i dont- i dont wanna di..die im not- not ready.’

keegan’s hope of you living was slowly disappearing. the bullet was still lodged in your stomach, ripping at muscle and letting its molten heat play with your flesh. ‘you’re not gonna die, im not letting you, im not. youre gonna live, for me and for merrick and the other ghosts and ajax, especially him, okay?’

even though keegan was trying to calm you, he could barely keep calm himself. his breathing felt difficult and forced as he watched the life escape from you. your eyes were still fluttered closed, but tears ran down your cheeks, mixing with blood as they went further. ‘please.. p-please keegan, i dont want too di-’ ‘stop talking like that, youre gonna be just fine, i promise.’

it was a ridiculous thing to promise. oh, how keegan wished he hadn’t said that. he knew. he didnt want to think about it, but he knew deep down what was gonna happen. ‘im not ready, god. god.. im not ready… i wanna.. i wanna..’

‘come on, keep talking to me, please.’

keeping you talking has keegan’s way of making sure you were still awake- that, atleast your body could keep your lips moving with phonics.

keegan felt so weak. wrapping the gauze around you felt like covering your corpse with a cloth. ‘i wanna live.. and be.. with- with you.’

keegan was taken back by what you said, to say the least. his heart thumped against his sternum, as if it was trying to escape. blood mixed with phlegm coughed and spluttered itself onto his balaclava from your mouth, but he couldnt care less.

he tightly wrapped the once white, but now, deep ruby red gauze around your waist. he stared at your face as your lips trembled, his hands tying a tourniquet at the end of the gauze.

‘i.. i wanna be with you too, y/n.’

*+:｡.｡　　｡.｡:+*

they say hearing is the last sense to go. however, speaking was the last thing you ever did.

‘you re..really are, my living legend.’

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germhammy · 3 months ago

Text

“Time to Hyde pt 2”

Xavier: WEDNESDAY!

Wednesday: -kneeling and petting the little skunks- you guys did good

The three little skunks squeaked happily

Xavier: what the hell?

Enid: your big strong hero sure left in a hurry

Pugsley: -talking to Phineas, Flower and Bianca- no. We don’t want you to get hurt. You did good.

They were very proud of themselves. Wednesday fed them rotten grapes from the bag Pugsley held

Xavier: Wait a minute! Pigsley, are those my grapes?

Pugsley: the name is Pugsley. And I’d watch out if I were you. The water polo team at Westfield High that bullied me called me Pigsley. Wednesday got expelled and sent to Nevermore for defending me

Xavier: I’m not afraid of Wednesday. She loves me. She would never hurt me

Pugsley: Do not try my sister’s patience, Xavier. Her bark may seem louder than her bite? But that is only because Wednesday 1 loves the long game. Watching people suffer 2 she has a high tolerance 3 care for people in her inner circle when it comes to actual violence. But do not mistake that for kindness or weakness

Enid: you’re walking on thawing ice, Xavier

Xavier: -laughing- the saying is ‘thin ice’, Enid. Not thawing ice. Geez

Enid: nope. In this case? I meant thawing ice. You’ve been out on the thin ice with Wednesday for a while now. But the ice is beginning to thaw.

Ajax and a few stoners approached

Ajax: yo! Wednesday. I’ve got a few of us gorgons here and ready to help

Wednesday: -petting the happy little skunks- great. Have you worked out a plan so innocents do not get stoned? I would hate for the Hydes to shatter anyone

Mary: (one of the gorgons) maybe we can hide out at the crypt? We can’t affect ghosts or demons

Enid: that sounds good. Illyana in her armored or Darkchilde form is immune as well. But make sure you coordinate with my brothers

Ajax: great plan. Let’s go

The gorgons left for Raven Island. Xavier stared at Wednesday

Xavier: what should I do?

Wednesday standing up as the skunks went back into their carrier

Wednesday: you should check on your friend.

Gomez and Morticia arrived

Morticia: -smelling the air- what a lovely smell. Did I miss the Phineas, Flower and Bianca show?

Bianca: you did. But I’m sure they won’t mind coming out for an encore if a certain someone doesn’t leave your daughter alone

The skunk trio could be heard stomping and squeaking in the carrier

Enid snickered

Pugsley: Wednesday?

Wednesday: it is up to Xavier

Xavier: excuse me?

The Foundation reappeared in the middle of the streets taunting louder than before dressed in his wrestling shorts and shirtless. Wednesday’s walkie crackled to life

Sheriff Jackson: should we move in and remove the obstruction?

Wednesday: -sighing- as much as I would like to say yes, Sheriff? I do not think it will do much good. Just protect him and make sure Tyler and Françoise do not hurt him too much

#wednesday addams #enid sinclair #enid x wednesday #wenclair #wednsday addams #enid and wednesday #wednesday x enid #wenclair au #xavier thorpe #pugsley addams #morticia and gomez #mortica addams #gomez addams #bianca barclay

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justanotherlifeff · 2 months ago

Text

Like Stars in a Frozen Sky

Tartaglia x Reader

Read fic at AO3

(You were an enigma. Disciplined yet bloodthirsty. Rule-following yet somehow chaotic. Surrounded by more rumors than trees in a Snezhnayan forest—yet your official record cleaner than a Fatui uniform on laundry day. Absolutely insufferable, utterly infuriating, and the number-one pain in Tartaglia’s ass. If anyone asked, he couldn’t stand you—would even write them a five-page essay detailing exactly why you were the worst thing to happen to him since his dad threatened military school. Yet, if anyone else dared breathe a word against you, a few bruises would be considered merciful. Clearly, denial isn't just a river in Sumeru—and Ajax is sailing down it at record-breaking speed. (He’s whipped. Completely, hopelessly whipped. But don’t tell him that—he still thinks no one’s noticed.) [Alright people, we are doing enemies to childhood friends to lovers this time. The story starts when both you and Tartaglia still are 14 year old recruits. This will be a slow burn fanfic. Also, NO SMUT TILL THEY ARE ADULTS! Aka, smut will start at around chapter 17.])

Prologue

There are no problems in this world that cannot be solved by a sword. Or at least, that was Ajax’s personal philosophy—one he wholeheartedly endorsed, usually at the business end of said sword. Steel clashed with the melodious charm of a badly-tuned harp, and the sharp ringing of blades reverberated through the snow-drenched alleys of Snezhnaya. Blood splattered cheerfully like crimson confetti onto pristine white snow—festive, really, if you asked Ajax. Standing amid this picturesque carnage was the fourteen-year-old himself, breathing heavily, his breath puffing out in rhythmic clouds as though he’d just sprinted a mile in a blizzard—which, considering the hulking figure currently sprawled at his feet, wasn’t far from the truth.

He glanced down at the groaning lump of brute muscle that used to call itself his opponent. Twice his size and twice as stupid, the man had charged like an enraged boar and fallen with similar grace. Ajax couldn't suppress the smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. Pathetic. Honestly, a bit insulting.

“Really?” Ajax muttered, nudging the unconscious man with his foot as if checking produce at a market stall. “You didn’t even last through the warm-up.”

Survival of the fittest—wasn't that the unspoken law of the land? Ajax believed this wholeheartedly, carving it into his bones with every bruised knuckle and scuffed knee he earned from endless street brawls. But just as he began mentally preparing a victory speech (something short, humble, and definitely containing the words 'you're welcome'), the frigid, familiar bark of his father echoed through the narrow alley, colder than a Snezhnayan winter.

“You foolish boy! I’m sending you off to the Fatui. Let them beat some discipline into you!”

Ah, parental love at its finest. Ajax's hand twitched instinctively toward the knife on his belt, then thought better of it. Stabbing one's father—he imagined—was generally frowned upon, even here in Snezhnaya, though admittedly only slightly. Family dinners would certainly become awkward afterward. So he bit back his retort and swallowed his pride, tasting bitter humility in place of the usual coppery tang of victory. Ajax adored his family—perhaps even enough to endure the upcoming lecture without making sarcastic remarks (well, maybe one or two wouldn't hurt). He sighed dramatically, offering a murmured apology that felt more rehearsed than sincere.

“Sorry,” he mumbled half-heartedly, “next time I’ll let the brute win.”

His father, predictably, didn't laugh—didn't even seem to hear. Ajax considered briefly if his old man had finally gone deaf, or if perhaps selective hearing was just another charming family trait. It was official, then: his own father was shipping him off to the Fatui to learn "discipline." Ajax wasn’t entirely sure what that entailed, but he hoped it involved less nagging and more stabbing. After all, he'd always been an optimist.

Ajax’s gaze wandered down to his hands—scarred, calloused, and still bearing faint splashes of crimson like morbid souvenirs. He considered wiping them clean, but honestly, what was the point? It wasn't as if they would remain spotless for long. Besides, deep down, he already knew that at the very next whisper of a fight, he'd eagerly dive headfirst back into chaos. Because even if the Fatui thought they could tame him—mold him like some manageable lump of clay—there was something feral curled up deep in his chest, snarling and scratching to escape. Ajax doubted even the most relentless drill sergeant could beat that wildness out of him.

Which was exactly why he found himself now sitting painfully straight-backed on a stiff wooden bench at a Fatui training camp, bored out of his ever-loving mind. As it turned out, his father hadn't been bluffing—an impressive first, Ajax thought dryly. The Fatui recruiter had sized him up with the practiced disdain of someone appraising a particularly disappointing catch at the fish market. After a long silence, the recruiter had pronounced his judgment: Ajax “needed training.”

Training. Ajax nearly scoffed aloud at the idea. As if survival hadn’t already been lovingly beaten into him with every brawl, every scraped knee, every hard-earned bruise. Sure, he’d disagreed. Loudly, with passionate eloquence. Unfortunately, he'd kept it all firmly inside his head, settling instead for clenching his jaw and staring defiantly at the distant horizon. Mainly because his father’s piercing gaze was locked onto him like a stubborn frostbite—cold, relentless, and impossible to ignore. Fatui policy, the man had said. They wanted well-behaved, polished recruits, tidily packaged and stamped like high-quality merchandise. Ajax snorted inwardly at the absurdity. If they'd expected polished, they had obviously summoned the wrong boy.

What good were orderly drills, mind-numbing lectures, and flawless formations anyway? He’d already learned everything worthwhile from harsher teachers—the Abyss had been especially instructive, not to mention delightfully creative in its methods. What could these trainers possibly teach him that he hadn't already perfected in the bloody alleyways of Morespok? He'd left men twice his size sprawled on icy cobblestones, whimpering apologies into pools of their own blood—men who'd tried and failed spectacularly at intimidating fishermen out of their day's wages. Ajax didn't need to be taught survival. Survival practically begged him for pointers at this stage.

Yet here he sat, forced into restless stillness, fingers twitching involuntarily toward the familiar weight of a blade that wasn’t there. He longed for the comforting chaos of combat, to prove—yet again—his methods were superior. But each time his foot shifted impatiently or his shoulders threatened to slump in boredom, the heavy, razor-sharp glare of his father bore into him, pulling him firmly back into his seat like an invisible leash. Ajax ground his molars together in frustration, feeling dangerously close to gnawing straight through his tongue.

Maybe discipline meant something else in Fatui language—perhaps “sitting perfectly still and pretending you enjoy it.” If so, Ajax concluded dryly, he was definitely not fluent.

No easy excuses this time. No impulsive idiots to conveniently bait into a fight without consequence. Not even a shadowed alleyway nearby to casually slip into afterward. Ajax scowled, shifted impatiently, and sat—forced into miserable stillness, boredom crawling under his skin like ants at a picnic. All the while, the restless storm beneath his ribs churned with growing impatience, practically begging for someone—anyone—to provide him with a proper outlet.

Then again, it wasn’t as if this was his first Fatui training camp experience. In fact, Ajax mused with grim pride, it was number five—practically worthy of an award by now. “Most Transfers Earned by Excessive Violence,” perhaps. He’d proudly hang that certificate on his wall, if only to annoy his father.

Camp number one had ended spectacularly, with Ajax honestly not intending to nearly kill that arrogant fool who’d cornered and mocked him. But, when the buffoon had puffed up his chest and sneered down at Ajax as if mocking a child made him some sort of hero, Ajax hadn’t hesitated. He’d insulted him first, naturally—pointing out the inherent weakness of bullying someone smaller. Predictably, the man hadn’t taken the criticism gracefully. People never seemed to handle being confronted with their own stupidity well. By the time the dust settled and blood turned the training yard into modern art, Ajax had lost count of precisely how many bones he’d broken.

The second camp fared no better. Sure, they'd boasted higher expectations and stricter captains—but unfortunately for them, Ajax's personal standards were stricter still. Within days, he'd neatly mopped the floor with the squad leader during a sparring match, landing hits faster and sharper than the trainers could bark warnings. Ajax felt he'd made his point clearly: if pummeling their toughest captain senseless didn’t scream "none of you are competent enough to train me," he honestly didn't know what did.

The third and fourth camps blurred together in a rather tedious montage of broken bones, exasperated superiors, stern lectures, and increasingly annoyed looks from his father. Different trainers, different faces—but Ajax barely noticed anymore. They all ended the same way: another transfer, another sour conversation, and another round of painfully predictable disappointment from the old man.

And now here he was, arriving fashionably late at camp number five. But this one… this one felt almost like an elaborate joke. As he eyed the recruits around him, Ajax wondered dryly if the Fatui had finally gotten desperate. These "soldiers-in-training" looked younger—some exactly his age, others even younger still. Smaller, softer faces blinked curiously back at him, clearly untouched by the kind of brutal survival he'd grown up perfecting. He caught snatches of their whispered conversations drifting in the air like smoke, idle gossip he hadn't asked for and certainly didn’t care about. Apparently, these recruits came primarily from somewhere called the House of the Hearth.

An orphanage, Ajax gathered. A Fatui-run charity, supposedly. The name made him wrinkle his nose slightly—it sounded less like an orphanage and more like a bakery for overpriced pies. A shining beacon of Fatui "generosity," no doubt strategically advertised to the common folk of Snezhnaya. Ajax rolled his eyes internally; leave it to the Fatui to sugarcoat conscription with such annoyingly cheerful branding.

Wonderful. Just wonderful. He’d gone from thrashing grown men twice his size to being lumped in with a bunch of wide-eyed orphans and charity cases.

If this was the Fatui’s grand scheme to finally break him, Ajax concluded silently, he might die laughing first.

Ajax wondered bitterly what these recruits truly were beneath the surface. Orphans, sure—but were they also rejects? Strays gathered conveniently under the Fatui’s wing, trained like obedient lapdogs to jump at commands and beg for scraps of approval? Had someone purposefully placed him here, hoping to dull his edge by surrounding him with people who wouldn’t dare challenge him? Ajax’s fingers curled into tight fists at his sides, nails pressing angry crescents into his palms. He honestly couldn’t decide if he should laugh at their stupidity or simply set a personal record in dismantling yet another Fatui camp.

“Oi. Get in line for food distribution. Or do you not want lunch?”

The voice abruptly jerked Ajax from his thoughts, sharp, dismissive, and irritatingly familiar in tone—exactly the sort of voice begging to be punched, really. He glanced upward lazily, locking eyes with a boy maybe a year or two older than himself. Broad-shouldered, wearing that annoyingly bored expression of someone assigned a chore they couldn’t be bothered with, arms crossed in a way that practically screamed authority—misplaced, undeserved authority, if you asked Ajax.

The older recruit scoffed lightly, a faint puff of irritation, as if Ajax’s mere existence was somehow offensive, a stain on an otherwise orderly routine. Ajax felt a surge of indignation rise sharply inside him. He didn’t appreciate that tone, didn’t enjoy being regarded like something small and insignificant, to be brushed aside like an inconvenient speck of dirt.

Ajax leaned back, deliberately languid, draping himself over the bench in exaggerated boredom. But beneath his seemingly casual stance, his eyes sharpened like twin shards of ice, gleaming with barely concealed hostility. “What,” Ajax drawled slowly, voice dripping sarcasm, “does basic politeness physically pain you, or did no one bother teaching it to you? Ah, wait—right, you're probably an orphan, aren’t you?”

Subtlety clearly wasn't Ajax's forte; it never had been. His jab was sharp, cruel, and carefully calculated—the kind of insult that typically caused immediate flare-ups, sometimes even punches flying his way. Ajax braced himself eagerly, already anticipating the fight that might finally break this unbearable monotony.

But annoyingly, infuriatingly, the boy didn’t even blink.

“Right. Funny,” he muttered flatly, unimpressed. “Get your ass up, or you’re not getting lunch.”

Ajax stared blankly for a second, almost offended at the sheer lack of reaction. The boy didn’t sound angry, didn’t seem ruffled in the slightest. Instead, his voice held that frustrating, utterly indifferent note, as though Ajax’s words were nothing more than an irritating buzz—like he was simply another spoiled kid needing guidance and nothing more. Ajax’s carefully constructed smirk twitched slightly at the corner, his irritation rising from an annoyed simmer to a dangerously close boil. He’d handled plenty of arrogance, met plenty of condescension head-on, but this felt different. This was outright dismissal, something Ajax took personally—and poorly.

He felt his pulse quicken, restlessness clawing at his skin. It had already been two entire days since his last proper fight, two miserable days without that familiar adrenaline-laced thrill racing through his veins. Two days without the electric satisfaction of blade meeting flesh, the rush of watching opponents realize too late they’d underestimated him. Two whole days—and Ajax was already nearly crawling out of his skin. If this older recruit thought boredom and dismissive glances would tame him, Ajax decided with cold amusement, he was about to receive an extremely unpleasant education.

Clearly, the Fatui’s so-called "elite training regimen" was a load of absolute nonsense. Ajax had braced himself for thrilling battles—imagined harsh training fields echoing with screams, orders barked through storms of arrows, adrenaline pounding in his veins. Instead, here he sat, babysitting. Babysitting literal children, or so they felt to him (the irony was not lost on him, considering he technically fit neatly into that category himself). Yet somehow, these recruits seemed softer, duller, less… alive. No spark, no challenge, no excitement. Just endless drills, monotonous routine, and soul-sucking boredom—he was almost tempted to start trouble just to escape the unending tedium.

Ajax’s narrowed gaze drifted back to the boy from earlier—that irritating brat who’d looked down his nose at him, as if Ajax were merely an inconvenience cluttering his precious, ordered day. That dismissive tone, that bland stare, still scratched at his mind like a rusted blade. Maybe, Ajax thought, lips twitching into a cold smirk, if he gave that arrogant jerk a proper beating, the Fatui would finally realize—yet again—that he simply wasn’t cut out for this particular babysitting assignment. Perhaps another delightful transfer would follow. Maybe this time they'd send him somewhere interesting. Ajax rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar itch sparking up from his knuckles to his spine. Fine. If no one here had the guts to give him a proper fight, he’d create his own opportunities.

It took barely a half-hearted insult to get things moving. Ajax had the older boy by the collar before he could blink, fist clenched, muscles coiled tight, ready to send him sprawling. Predictably, the kid wasn’t much of a fighter—sluggish, slow-footed, practically begging Ajax to send him face-first into the dirt. This was disappointingly easy, almost embarrassingly effortless. Already, Ajax was mentally congratulating himself, imagining the priceless expression on the captain’s face when yet another recruit was found sprawled unconscious. Another transfer incoming in three, two—

Suddenly, his vision lurched wildly, the world spinning upside down. A jarring impact knocked the breath clean out of his lungs, and before he knew what was happening, Ajax found himself staring blankly at the gray, freezing sky of Snezhnaya. The ground beneath him was painfully cold, his back aching, his head throbbing dully like he’d been kicked by a horse.

Wait—had he just blacked out?

Ajax blinked dazedly, squinting upward, trying to piece together exactly how he'd gone from smug predator to pavement decoration in mere seconds. As he struggled to sit up, a shadow fell neatly across him, boots stopping only inches from his face, annoyingly composed.

“Oh? You woke up fast enough.”

The voice was entirely unfamiliar—calm, clipped, almost bored. Ajax’s head snapped sharply upward, eyes narrowing into an angry glare sharp enough to cut steel. Standing above him wasn’t the annoying boy he'd planned to flatten—but instead, a girl. Roughly his age, posture relaxed, expression unreadable, as though flooring cocky new recruits was simply another tedious daily chore. Ajax bristled immediately, irritation mixing with confusion.

You.

“What the hell just happened?” he spat out, voice gritty and tight with a combination of confusion and annoyance, a dull ache thumping rhythmically behind his eyes. Had someone clubbed him over the head with a brick? A frying pan? A rock? How had he completely missed it?

You tilted your head slightly, calm eyes assessing him with detached amusement. “I knocked you out,” you explained casually, tone entirely unconcerned, as though you’d done nothing more significant than sweeping up dirt. “Insubordination,” you added helpfully, as if it was a perfectly normal justification. You shrugged one shoulder elegantly. “Now get up. Go line up for lunch.”

Ajax stared at you blankly, disbelief written across his face. Lunch? Lunch?! He'd just been flattened by some girl he hadn't even noticed moments ago, and she was talking about lunch? Was this a joke? Still, despite the humiliation burning hot in his gut, something else stirred—a flicker of intrigued excitement, a curious new spark amidst all this suffocating dullness. Maybe this camp wasn’t going to be quite as boring as he'd thought.

Dinner was… interesting.

Ajax hadn't noticed you during lunch—he'd still been nursing the dull ache throbbing in the back of his skull, his pride limping behind him like a wounded animal. He’d barely registered anything, too preoccupied replaying the embarrassing scene in his mind, irritation clinging to him like frostbite. Now, at dinner, you were impossible to miss. Sitting casually across the bustling mess hall, you seemed utterly unbothered, surrounded by a cluster of recruits orbiting you like moons around a particularly self-assured planet. Annoyingly, you didn’t even look commanding—no barked orders, no rigid posture. Just relaxed confidence, as if authority naturally gravitated to you without effort.

That irritated Ajax more than it probably should have. His glare sharpened over the rim of his tin cup, scowling at the easy laughter bubbling around your table. Who did you think you were? He finally turned, begrudgingly acknowledging the recruit seated beside him. Ajax hadn't bothered learning anyone’s name yet; frankly, he hadn't cared enough to try. But curiosity gnawed at him, sharp and persistent enough that he swallowed his pride to ask.

“Who’s she?” he demanded bluntly, jerking his chin in your direction.

The recruit blinked, startled, before breaking into an amused smirk. “You seriously don’t know? Oh right—you’re the new guy.” He jabbed a thumb toward you, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “That’s Y/N. Pretty much royalty around here. Unofficial vice captain of the whole camp.”

Ajax frowned, interest reluctantly piqued. Vice captain? Unofficial? Sure, that explained the air of casual authority—but it hardly clarified how someone his age had managed to floor him without breaking a sweat.

The boy next to him extended a hand casually. “I'm Nikolay, by the way.”

Ajax shook his hand briefly, eyes still pinned to your distant figure. “Ajax,” he muttered distractedly. “So why exactly is she vice captain? Is she actually that strong?”

Nikolay snorted softly, chewing thoughtfully on a hunk of stale bread. “Calling her strong would be an understatement of epic proportions.”

He leaned in closer, voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial whisper. “Rumor has it, she's the only recruit from the House of the Hearth being personally monitored by Arlecchino herself. Most think she's already earmarked for Harbinger potential.”

Ajax’s eyebrows rose sharply, genuine surprise flickering across his face. Harbinger potential was no casual praise; it was something reserved for prodigies or madmen. Ajax wasn’t sure which he’d prefer you to be.

Nikolay glanced around, confirming no eavesdroppers were lingering. “Oh, and fair warning: she’s a massive stickler for rules. Nothing escapes her notice, nothing slides. Some say she's ruthless beneath that casual act she puts on—just waiting for someone to give her a reason.”

Ajax tapped restless fingers against his tin cup, gaze narrowing thoughtfully as you laughed at something someone said, relaxed and infuriatingly confident. Rule enforcer. Potential Harbinger. Strong enough to knock him flat without so much as breaking stride. For the first time since arriving in this forsaken excuse for a training camp, something sparked beneath Ajax’s skin—a restless itch that had nothing to do with boredom and everything to do with the thrill of finally meeting someone worth fighting. He decided he needed answers, and he wasn't patient enough to wait for them to find him. Ajax started asking around—quietly at first, slipping casual questions into idle conversations, feigning mild curiosity. Then with increasingly less subtlety, cornering anyone who looked remotely informed. He needed clarity, needed to understand how someone his own age had effortlessly knocked him unconscious and had everyone here dancing obediently around her.

The rumors? They were… something else. Ajax had anticipated wild exaggerations—maybe a few harmless myths tossed around by bored kids—but nothing like this.

“Yeah, word is she duels with Arlecchino herself. Regularly. Like… every single week or something.”

Ajax blinked slowly, attempting to picture the sheer audacity of someone casually challenging the Knave on a weekly basis. That sounded less like a pastime and more like a creative form of suicide.

Another recruit leaned in, face gravely serious. “Forget duels. I heard she’s been personally invited to Harbinger meetings. You know, the super secret ones? No outsiders allowed? They apparently make an exception just for her.”

Ajax scoffed loudly, unable to suppress his skepticism. “You serious?”

The boy nodded solemnly, like he’d just divulged classified Fatui secrets. “Dead serious.”

Someone else shuffled forward eagerly, their voice lowering dramatically to a conspiratorial whisper. “Yeah, well, I heard she's already done covert spy missions for the Fatui—the type of stuff that officially 'never happened.' Real hush-hush. Super nefarious.”

“Nefarious,” Ajax echoed flatly, raising a disbelieving brow. “That’s… incredibly vague.”

The recruit shrugged defensively. “I dunno, that’s just what I heard.”

Then, a smaller boy with wide eyes and a flair for theatrics leaned even closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “My cousin swears she killed one of Dottore’s segments.”

Ajax froze, genuinely caught off guard. “She… what?”

“Yeah. Killed him,” the kid whispered dramatically, pausing for effect. “With a fork.”

Ajax stared at the kid blankly. “A fork,” he repeated, voice flat with disbelief.

The boy nodded rapidly, absolutely earnest. “Right in the eye. Threw it across a whole room. Didn’t even get up from her seat.”

Ajax narrowed his eyes suspiciously, wondering if the kid was just outright messing with him. “...That’s absurd.”

The boy gave a half-hearted shrug. “Hey, I'm just repeating what I heard.”

“Oh, and she punched me in the face once,” piped up another voice cheerfully from behind Ajax, causing him to swivel around sharply. A younger recruit stood there, grinning ear-to-ear and proudly rubbing his jaw like he’d received a medal rather than a fist. “Honestly, best moment of my life. I'd ask her to do it again, but I'm kinda worried she'll say yes.”

Ajax stared openly now, trying desperately to sort through the sheer chaos he'd just heard. What exactly had he stumbled into? Each rumor was more insane than the last, painting a picture of you as some mythological Fatui prodigy—some unstoppable whirlwind of talent and casual violence. Ajax would have laughed outright at the sheer absurdity, except the dull ache on the back of his skull still stubbornly protested otherwise. You had knocked him out cold. Effortlessly. Like swatting a particularly irritating insect. Maybe the rumors weren’t entirely fiction—though he sincerely doubted the fork thing (right?).

He rubbed at his temples with a weary sigh. He couldn’t decide whether he was impressed, suspicious, concerned, or some frustrating blend of all three. But there was one thing he was absolutely certain about: he had to know for himself exactly what you were capable of. No more exaggerations, no more gossip and hearsay. Ajax didn't settle for secondhand stories. If you were truly as dangerous and absurdly skilled as the whispers claimed, he intended to find out firsthand—even if it meant risking another painful, humiliating knockout.

Naturally, Ajax’s instinct was simple: challenge you to a duel.

It had gnawed at him all night—the ridiculous rumors, the infuriating nonchalance with which you shrugged off knocking him out, the absurd whispers about secret Harbinger meetings, Dottore’s segments, and forks (of all weapons). He needed answers. Ajax had always found clarity at the edge of a blade, and today would be no different. When individual training finally arrived the next day, he wasted no time. You stood calmly across the sparring yard, posture effortlessly relaxed yet sharp—like a blade casually sheathed, ready to cut at the first hint of trouble. Other recruits hovered at a cautious distance, wary eyes darting toward you as if approaching too close might earn them an immediate dismissal (or possibly a fork to the eye, if that particular rumor held any truth).

Ajax didn’t hesitate, crossing the snowy yard with deliberate strides, boots crunching loudly through icy powder. His heart pounded—not from nerves, but from exhilaration, the anticipation crackling like lightning beneath his ribs. You glanced up as he stopped abruptly in front of you, expression shifting into mild, patient curiosity. He didn't bother with pleasantries:

“Fight me.”

Blunt. Direct. Zero room for negotiation. You blinked once, head tilting slightly as though he’d just casually asked for the time or directions to the latrine.

“Duel me,” Ajax repeated, voice harder, sharper, a reckless grin twisting at his lips. “Properly, this time. No sucker punches.”

You paused, then sighed softly, disappointingly unimpressed.

“This about me knocking you out yesterday?” you asked flatly, clearly bored by his bravado.

Ajax shrugged lazily, the arrogant tilt of his grin only growing sharper. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanna see if those ridiculous rumors actually hold up.”

Something flickered through your eyes—was that irritation, amusement, or just plain annoyance? Ajax couldn’t quite tell. He half-expected you to brush him off, to dismiss him with that infuriating casualness from before. Instead, you stepped back slightly, rolling your shoulders in an unhurried manner, a faint smirk flickering briefly across your lips.

“Fine,” you finally said, evenly. “You want a duel? You’ll get your duel.”

Your gaze sharpened, coldly assessing. “But don’t complain if you end up flat on your back again.”

Ajax’s grin widened, adrenaline surging through him like a storm about to break. He cracked his knuckles, stance shifting into something eager and fierce.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Five minutes later, Ajax was—predictably—flat on his back. Again.

He stared up at the bleak, unfeeling sky of Snezhnaya, snow biting into his back, lungs burning with every harsh breath. At this point, lying dazed and humiliated on the cold ground for the second time in as many days, Ajax found himself reconsidering every choice he'd made in his short but reckless existence. Seriously, what the hell? He’d clawed his way out of the Abyss half-feral, each of Skirk’s ruthless lessons etched into his bones and bloodied knuckles. He’d dismantled men twice his size, left monsters bleeding and broken, had grown used to fear being something other people felt. And yet here he was, sprawled gracelessly, beaten soundly by some smug, snot-nosed recruit his own age. The irony stung worse than the frigid snow pressed uncomfortably beneath him. You loomed over him, expression bored, dusting the faintest traces of snow from your gloves as though this had been little more than an inconvenient chore.

“Can I go now?” you asked flatly, entirely unimpressed. “You lost. Duel’s over.”

Ajax sat up slowly, narrowing his eyes at you, disbelief and wounded pride crashing together painfully in his chest. "How the hell did you win? Did you cheat? You didn't even use your Vision." The accusation came out sharper than intended, frustration bleeding clearly through. You looked down at him, calm and detached, your expression unreadable.

"I didn't need to," you replied smoothly, voice cool as freshly fallen snow. Then, almost as an afterthought, you added, "With your techniques, you might hold your own against Abyssal monsters, at best."

Ajax's jaw tightened visibly, teeth grinding together in irritation.

"But humans?" You tilted your head slightly, tone edged with something dangerously close to boredom. "Humans are smarter. Trickier. Your movements are predictable. Sloppy."

You let the words settle heavily between you like frost on stone, meeting his incredulous stare without so much as blinking.

"It doesn't look like you've fought many actual people."

And then, infuriatingly, you turned away—like he wasn't even worth another second of your attention. Ajax stared after you, stunned, the cold wind biting at his skin. Yet the bitter sting on his face wasn't from the icy gusts, but from your casual dismissal. Before he could think better of it—

"Wait! Teach me!"

The words burst from Ajax's lips, ringing sharply through the training yard. His heart slammed against his ribs as he scrambled gracelessly to his feet, snow tumbling from his shoulders. Wide eyes fixed on you—not filled with fury, but something rawer, more genuine. Eagerness. Curiosity. Intrigue. The fierce fire of a challenge he couldn't yet conquer. He looked at you with a mixture of awe and desperation, gaze practically sparkling like an overeager puppy, the intensity in his voice almost embarrassingly earnest. You paused mid-step, glancing slowly back over your shoulder, one eyebrow raised skeptically. For a long, excruciating moment, you simply stared at him. Then your expression twisted, visibly scrunching your nose as though he'd suggested something utterly revolting—like licking the bottom of his boot or eating dirt straight from the ground.

"Ew. No."

Flat. Immediate. Brutal.

Ajax froze in place, arms slightly outstretched as if waiting for you to toss him a sword, or maybe just a scrap of mercy. Anything. Instead, you left him hanging, mouth half-open, eyes wide in shock, heart still hammering wildly in his chest. You turned around without another glance, walking away like absolutely nothing had happened. He blinked once. Twice.

Did… did you just ew at him?

Ajax sank back down into the snow, utterly bewildered. He stared blankly at the empty spot you'd just occupied, processing this newest humiliation. What the hell was wrong with you? His pride curled defensively inward, and he decided in that very moment, with absolute, burning certainty— He did not like you. Not one bit. …Although, how exactly had you done that clever little maneuver with your foot earlier? And could he convince you to teach it if he asked nicely next time? …Wait. No. Absolutely not. Ajax groaned quietly, burying his face in his hands. This camp was going to be the death of him, he was certain of it.

That night, Ajax tried to sleep. Tried, being the operative word, because the dorm halls were anything but quiet. Shuffling footsteps echoed down corridors, hushed whispers bounced between walls, punctuated occasionally by a sharp barked command. Ajax scowled into the darkness. Something felt off, a restless current crackling through the air—but frankly, he didn't care enough to poke around in camp gossip.

Until the next morning. Rumors spread like wildfire, sizzling with urgency and whispered intensity. Something had happened involving your roommate. As usual, nobody had a straight answer—just vague, increasingly dramatic speculation. One recruit swore you'd killed the girl over something ridiculously petty, like borrowing boots without asking. Another was absolutely certain she'd been caught stealing classified Fatui intel and got tossed out overnight for insubordination. The wildest rumors claimed she'd simply vanished, disappeared completely, the higher-ups covering their tracks with cold efficiency.

Ajax was starting to notice a troubling pattern: wherever your name appeared, chaos was close behind, swirling around you like a blizzard. Rumors clung to you like stubborn frost—confusing, contradictory, impossible to pin down. Not that Ajax cared, of course. Absolutely not. He reminded himself firmly that you were still a smug asshole, a stick-up-your-ass, arrogant rule follower who'd had the absolute gall to say ew to his face as if he were something you'd scrape off your shoe. He was definitely, absolutely, never letting that go.

Breakfast passed without incident, blessedly quiet. Ajax kept to himself, savoring the solitude and the peace of having no roommate yet. Nobody hovering around him, nobody glaring judgmentally because he was “difficult.” Until— A sharp, commanding knock rattled his door. Ajax scowled, already braced for some pointless order or reprimand. When he swung the door open, irritation burning on his tongue, he blinked in genuine surprise at the sight before him. The captain stood rigidly, expression grim and official. And standing just beside him, looking equally displeased, was— You. Ajax's jaw slackened, disbelief flickering plainly across his face.

The captain wasted no time, voice clipped and businesslike. “Y/N will be your roommate from now on.”

Silence stretched heavily, thick enough to choke on. Ajax slowly turned to stare at you, catching your gaze—flat, deadpan, and unmistakably mirroring his own horrified expression. And then, perfectly synchronized, the words spilled out simultaneously:

“Does it have to be them?”

Ajax groaned inwardly, pinching the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache already forming. Of course. Why had he expected anything else? And yet, despite his mounting dread, something in his chest sparked dangerously to life. Perhaps this—this ridiculous arrangement—was where the real story began.

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