#but really it serves no purpose to the plot

[letorip]

aline

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

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pairing: wednesday addams x reader

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

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

word count: 1.6k

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

===+++===

===+++===

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you afraid of dying?”

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

===+++===

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

===+++===

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

[shywhumpauthor]

Noah’s going to get a caretaker who cares enough to spend ten thousand on him but not enough to sacrifice their office to turn it back into a guest bedroom

[fromtheseventhhell]

I want to make a longer post about this someday but: I think Arya's TWOW arc is going to include her coming to terms with her identity as a Lady. This has been an ongoing conflict with her since her first chapter and I think her flowering in winds is going to mark a turning point. The theory of her having an apprenticeship with the courtesans holds a lot of weight and the idea of Arya going through puberty among a group of unconventional women she's fostered a positive relationship with is just too perfect. It would really have an impact on Arya reconciling her personal idea of what a Lady should be. There's also a lot that she could learn from them in terms of courtesies, communication, appearances, body-language, etc. that would elevate her current skill-set and ways her relationship with them could push the plot.

Not to mention she will undoubtedly reclaim her identity as Arya Stark, and her being a Lady is inseparable from that. Arya Stark is a Lady Stark and being a Lady is a social position, not a measure of how well someone preforms feminine tasks. She shouldn't have to relinquish her position because she doesn't fit patriarchal standards. That's not to say that she's ever going to be the perfect example of a traditional Lady but what I think will happen is that she becomes capable of playing the part. She plays several identities throughout the series but she's always been Arya underneath, so I think it's appropriate that she learns to adopt a "persona" that's part of her. Her remembering Ned putting on his "Lord's face" (+ the various examples of other characters being separate from their ruling persona) makes me think that Arya will be donning her "Lady's face" when she makes a return to Westeros.

[dolokhoded]

my one season 4 complaint is Where The Fuck Was Aneesa

[puhpandas]

as someone who isnt super excited for sotm for certain reasons I am really glad that like. it's clear that since ruin theyve been setting up for carnival and sotm IS carnival. so now that carnival is finally coming out, afterwards theyll be moving on to other plotlines since the main villain stuff is sorted out

I'm just rlly happy to finally see a clear direction for how the story is gonna be playing out with like "okay these games were leading up to this so after this will be open possibilites" instead of like. absolutely no info about each upcoming game and being left guessing before it releases and just having to wait and see what's in it and if anything you're looking forward to will be in it

it feels like they have a plan and a solid direction for what they're trying to do and after carnival releases thatll be all that buildup coming to fruition. & we already know from the Scott interview that theres another release 'beyond sotm' that's 'super exciting' so maybe thatll be focusing on another big currently untouched (which is basically all of them) plotline, or even the big campaign game that dawko has been calling security breach 2

[mrpenguinpants]

Omg you're back again hello 👀 how have you been????

Big mood on the "man I wish this author would finish their fic" LOL I've been rereading my own wiring recently and going wtf. Where's the rest of it?

For a limited time only babyyy

But I've been good. Extremely busy but it's okay, the pto is worth it. That's what I keep telling myself at least :) but how are you??? Is anything interesting happening? New developments perhaps 👀

The funny thing is that I've actually been talking with a few mutuals, and they've all told me that they recently went back to re-read their drafts. Maybe it's something in the air or we're all feeling a bit nostalgic? Or because everyone is on break since it's summer.

[fortune-maiden]

Me: Okay, I've only got the 50 floor treasure dungeon left and I'm done with Treasure Dungeons

*immediately unlocks a 75 floor treasure dungeon*

[gilbirda]

watching house md in one go really makes you see when the writing went nosediving huh

[torgawl]

a bit obsessed with the idea of kusakabe dying as a form of sacrifice to specifically protect/save somebody else. it's consistent enough with the theme of the past generation achieving no meaningful feats against significant threats but it's also ironic enough that someone without a technique and who claims their philosophy is primarily self-sacrificial - although he tends to stay from his own ideals in critical moments, proving he's not only brave when necessary but he does have a sense of responsabilty and guilt - ultimately redeems themselves through death resulting in the achievement of something his colleagues have failed to do. not that i'm wishing for him to die, i hope he doesn't. but it would also make a clear-cut distinction between him and a character like mei mei, who narratively serves a very similar purpose (besides her being a foil to nanami). to have someone be awarded by their selfishness just for it to not be worth much within a world and system that runs and sustains itself due to the sorcerer's labour power, whose only means of subsistence is to sell themselves away. a class of people who is doomed no matter what path they choose to take, as long as they do not break free from their duties and as long as the system doesn't collapse. a death that could serve as a symbol of punishment towards solidarity and altruism but a win for revolution.

[majormeilani]

never been the biggest fan of people who subscribe solely to the writing advice "your characters are only tools to tell your story" and then make the most flat and least compelling characters you've ever seen. like rip to you if you're so detached from your own characters but i'm over here crafting characters for my audience to actually care about and have an impact on my audience and not making characters who are just solely Plot Device The Character

[bombshellsandbluebells]

baffled how Rebecca’s whole psychic plot is going to wrap up though. truly don’t know what’s going on there

[flockofdoves]

the absolute 50/50 in the notes of that link i shared whether people are hating or thinking its cool that the black sails ships are being reused for one piece

[jewlshardz]

aini as a game makes me SOOOO mad because it was SO CLOSE to being perfect

[whump-in-the-closet]

Raising Chaos.

masterlist.

cw: captivity whump, demeaning language, burning (specifically of someone’s hand) as a torture method, sadistic whumper, inhuman whumpee (let me know if i missed any)

***

Chiar had learned to fear the sound of Bridge’s footsteps in the hallway. It had taken a while…how many days had he passed in this place anyway? When would they realize he wasn’t going to talk?

The idiots.

They couldn’t make him.

The footsteps came closer.

Chiar tried to push himself up. He had to be ready– had to be. He couldn’t face Bridge on the ground. He couldn’t.

His hands shook against the stones. Bridge had stopped bothering with the chains. Like he said, there was nowhere for the cryptid to go. No one for the cryptid to use his “abilities” on. Unfortunately, Bridge seemed to know that Chiar couldn’t hurt him unless he had skin on skin contact. He always wore gloves and long sleeves.

The lack of restraints served as just another way of reminding Chiar exactly what Bridge thought of him.

“You’re pathetic.”

I’m not pathetic.

His arms collapsed. Every part of him throbbed– Bridge hit hard. Harder than the thugs that used to wait for Chiar in the corners of the cities.

Chiar pressed his head back against the stones.

Silence.

A faint ringing in his ears.

And the door swung open. Slammed shut.

Chiar did not look up.

The footsteps were recognizable. As was the raspy breathing.

Leave me alone.

Bridge kicked him. Hard in the ribs. “Get up.” There was no pity in his voice. No sign of ever giving up. It was as hard and annoying as that first day.

Chiar didn’t move. He hissed in pain, but didn’t move. The stones provided more comfort than Bridge’s relentless questions.

“No.” There was no point in getting up. There was no point in listening to Bridge’s condescending questions either, so he covered his ears as best he could with his hands.

His Oath held him.

He would not break it.

I’m not pathetic.

Bridge was wrong.

He had held out. It hurt, but he was holding out. And that, more than anything else, was as good as spitting in Bridge’s face. There was a ghost of a smile on his face as he curled up on the floor.

But Chiar had not seen the annoyance on Bridge’s face that had quickly flickered to anger. Bridge grabbed Chiar by his hair, hauling him to his feet.

“What did you say to me?” Bridge drawled each word out, but behind the casual tone was an underlying threat.

Chiar heard it loud and clear. He yanked his head out of Bridge’s grip. The buzzing increased. Not loud enough to become distracting, but loud enough to make it hard to think clearly.

He smiled– more of a grimace– at Bridge. “I said, go fuck yourself.”

I can take whatever you throw at me, Interrogator.

Bridge’s mask of cordiality vanished. He backhanded Chiar across his mouth.

“It’s time you learned a lesson in respect.”

Chiar stepped back, the taste of copper coating his teeth. The buzzing turned into steady white noise.

But Bridge’s eyes were on Chiar’s hands– the energy had surged under his fingers. His already distinctive blue nails had taken on almost a glowing tinge.

Chiar spat the blood out.

Is that the best you’ve got?

Bridge smiled. It was not a kind smile. Chiar felt a shudder spike through his nerves as he glanced down at his hands.

For a brief moment, he thought about what it would feel like to wrap them around Bridge’s throat and surge. To have Bridge choke under his fingertips, unable to hold the wash of energy that Chiar forced into him.

Bridge was still smiling.

Chiar backed into the wall and as Bridge crossed the distance between them, put his hands out to stop him.

But Bridge only grabbed his wrist and jerked him forward, manacling his hand to the wall. His grip was stronger than Chiar expected, and he half-expected for the bones to crack under Bridge’s hand.

He cursed. Loudly. He was past caring if Bridge heard him.

But that infuriating smile never left Bridge’s face. “You’re going to learn respect, cryptid, mark my words.”

Respect?

For what? For who? For the humanity he’d lost? For the remnants of humanity that remained?

I think not.

Chiar wrestled with the metal on his wrist. “Once I’m free—” this was emphasized by another ripping yank at the chain, “Once I’m free, you’d better run–” Blood trailed down his arm.

There was no release, and the metal burned, so when Bridge approached, Chiar lunged at him with his free hand. In the darkness, his eyes glowed. Sparks of energy formed on his nails and traced their way up his arm.

Bridge backed away.

Chiar continued to yank at his chained wrist, spewing every curse he could think of at the Interrogator. He hated Bridge and his stupid condescending words and his interrogation tactics–

And–

Chiar’s thoughts came to an abrupt stop. The buzzing died down, replaced with an emptiness that swallowed him and an exhaustion that could drown him. The air bled with a heaviness that pressed down all around him.

Bridge had neatly stepped to the side and taken hold of Chiar’s free wrist in a gloved hand.

Chiar hissed at him, trying to pull away, but the Interrogator’s grip was as unyielding as the metal. Bridge tied a thick rope around the cryptid’s wrist, and looped the ends through a hook in the ceiling. When Bridge stepped back, Chiar’s arm was suspended in midair, though he tried to yank it back.

Chiar felt a spike of fear cut through his anger. “What is the purpose of this?” His tongue felt strangely thick.

The glowing in his eyes had died to little more than a faint light.

Bridge didn’t deign to answer. He stepped out of the cell.

Chiar’s head swam. The anger had quickly morphed into all-encompassing exhaustion. He collapsed against the ropes, only looking up to watch Bridge return with a torch.

A torch?

What did the Interrogator need the torch for? He choked on the fear rising in his throat. If he had eaten anything recently, he would have thrown it up.

In the darkness the flames moved like a creature of their own, bending, twisting, taking shapes beyond comprehension.

They came closer.

“This is a lesson you won’t forget.” Bridge’s voice dripped with false sympathy.

No.

No.

The flames flickered. Red. Blue. Red again as they enveloped Chiar’s hand.

He screamed. More from the horror of it than the pain. That was his hand— his hand— burning. The smell of charred skin— that god awful smell— was because his skin was on fire.

The rope frayed under the double pressure of Chiar’s frantic struggle to escape the fire and the flames themselves. With a final snap of the rope, Chiar curled in on himself, cradling his hand to his chest.

If anything, the pain increased with the absence of fire.

Chiar sobbed, the throbbing burn spreading up his arm and settling into a rhythm.

Dimly, he registered Bridge’s words. “Have you learned to respect me now, cryptid?”

The torch flickered closer in warning.

Keep that back. He needed that far far away from him.

Keep that back!

The words fell out of Chiar’s mouth before he could stop them. “Yes! I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” And then he curled back in on himself, held up only by the chain on his undamaged wrist.

Bridge was smiling as he left the cryptid in the darkness.

tagged: @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @pigeonwhumps (let me know if you want to be added/ removed)

[godsfavoritescientist]

the unexpected aspec experience of opening up a word document to write more pages for an ~adult~ fic, happily writing a little bit, and then suddenly being completely uninterested in the subject material anymore. 0/10 very inconvenient, finishing this fic will take forever at this rate

[mexashepot]

Yesterday we had our first writing session working on the musical and we actually managed to figure out a lot of the plot and to translate the thematic ideas I had into an actual cohesive plot and actual rounded characters!