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thedemoninme141 · 10 days ago

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The Maiden Of Death part 7 The origins.

Pairings: Wednesday x Female reader. Word count: 1.6k

Part 1 -- Part 2-- Part 3- Part 4--Part 5--Part 6--Part 7

A/n: I had the vision set up, and since Wednesday season 2 already came out, well half of it, so let me help your waiting by giving you how the maiden of death was made, the first parts of the next chapter.

Summary: Wednesday understood, what made you.. you.

WARNINGS: THIS IS A HEAVY CHAPTER. depictions of child abuse, trauma, violence, blood, revenge and well.. lucifer.

The moment her fingers wrapped around yours, the world was gone.

A dark room.

A child chained.

Small. Fragile. Thirteen, maybe twelve. Curled in the corner, skin bruised, eyes open.

Not blinking.

Not crying.

Her blue eyes.. dead...devoid of any soul and yet... burning.

Wednesday’s breath caught.

You.

She tried to speak—but nothing came. Her voice didn’t exist here. Her body didn’t exist here. She was watching, invisible, untouchable. Just a ghost in the corners of your mind.

You were thinner, smaller, skin bruised in places she didn’t want to look at. The kind of bruises that told stories without needing words.

Footsteps echoed.

Voices followed.

Laughter, mocking, Male, Loud and cocky and horrible.

They didn’t step into view, but she could hear everything.

Her stomach twisted. She recognized the tone. That smugness. That impunity. The kind of people who’d never known consequences.

They joked about your sister like she was a toy they broke on purpose.

And Wednesday understood immediately what they were.

What they had done.

Wednesday’s chest burned. A new rare flare of emotion that she can relate to fury.... but with a need to... protect.

You were just a child.

How could the world allow this?

How could it keep turning while this happened?

She wanted to scream, to tear down the door, to do something, anything. She knew this was a vision.

This had already happened.

She couldn’t change it.

But it didn’t stop the hatred from growing.

She tried to breathe.

You barely moved. But your eyes burned, Wednesday could feel it, your rage. Cold. Sharp. Refined into something inhuman by how long you’d carried it.

She wanted to reach out. Grab your hand. Say something, anything. She didn’t care that it wasn’t real. She just needed to touch you.

And then…

She felt it.

The cold.

It wasn’t just the absence of heat. It was deeper than that. This wasn’t a chill, it was a suffocating, frozen emptiness. It wrapped around her lungs, her spine, her bones. And her breath curled from her lips in white mist.

She turned.

Slowly.

Behind her, the shadows twisted in ways shadows shouldn’t. They weren’t bound by walls or light. They moved with weight. With intention. And then, fire, black and devouring, swirled into form. It didn’t flicker or spark. It pulsed. It breathed. It waited.

Wednesday didn’t need to be told who it was.

Lucifer.

No horns. No tail. No cloak or crown. Just a figure made of nightmare and divinity, cloaked in shadow, stitched from fire. His eyes glowed like twin coals at the end of time. But it wasn’t his appearance that made Wednesday’s stomach twist.

It was how he looked at you.

“There you are…Twelve years old. Little creature. Still alive. Still breathing. Still burning.”

You didn’t flinch.

“They've taken everything from you, haven't they?”

Still, you were silent.

“You were only a child. And still, they tortured you, tried to break you. And not once… not once did He come to save you. No voice in the dark. No angels. No miracles.”

Wednesday’s gut twisted. You were only a child.

And the world had left you to rot in a cage of blood and flame. And where was God? Where were the so-called protectors of justice, of love, of light?

“Even broken, even bleeding, your rage could choke angels.”

The devil stepped closer to you, his boots didn’t even make a sound.

“You would kill them all if you could… wouldn’t you?”

And you, Wednesday felt it, your answer wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t a yes. It was deeper. Like an earthquake just beneath the surface. You didn’t need words.

Your hate spoke for you.

Wednesday’s hands curled into fists. Her throat was tight. She wanted to reach out to you. But she wasn’t really here. She couldn’t stop what was coming. She knew what was coming.

“I rebelled against God because I saw what He refused to admit. That humanity does not deserve to rule this world. They burn what they touch. They destroy what they do not understand. And you… little ember… you burned too hot for them.”

She could feel it. That’s what you were. The last burning piece of something that should’ve been beautiful, but the world tried to stomp out.

“He created them—mankind. Imperfect. Weak. Stupid. And when I tried to correct them, to purge them of their flaws, I was exiled. Betrayed. Burned.”

Lucifer knelt in front of you. He was the devil. And he was kneeling.

“And look at what His world gave you. The monsters in flesh. The wolves in wealth. What did they do? They butchered. They defiled. Your sister… your parents… Do you think He wept for them? He didn’t. He doesn’t care. And that’s what we share, you and I. We are the discarded. The abandoned. The betrayed.”

Wednesday looked at you, not the child, not the one in the memory, but the you she knew.

The you that watched the world like it was already dead.

The you that walked through Nevermore’s halls like you were counting graves.

And suddenly, she understood why.

“There’s more hatred in you than in Hell itself. You make my demons look like children playing at vengeance.”

She could see it now, how easily it would’ve been for you to say yes. But it wasn’t because you were evil. That was the terrifying part. You weren’t a monster. You were made one.

“Yes. You’ve seen what justice is in this world. A lie dressed in robes. A courtroom run by the rich, the protected. Your sister is dead. Your parents were murdered. And the guilty live.”

“You know what that makes you, don’t you?”

“It makes you just like me.”

Wednesday wanted to argue. She wanted to say that wasn’t true. That you weren’t like him. That you weren’t—

But she didn’t.

Because you were.

And if it had been her family—

“He tried to shape you in His image. And instead… He made something worse than me.”

Then came the moment she stopped breathing.

He stood and reached into his chest.

She thought it would be fire.

It wasn’t.

It was worse.

It was darkness. Alive. Not emptiness. Something worse than a void. It screamed as it breathed.

“Half,” he said. “Half of my soul. No servant. No minion. Not a soldier. I’ve had thousands of those. But you…”

“You are my heir.”

Wednesday’s chest clenched.

She should’ve screamed at you to run. To not touch it. To not want it.

But…

Would she have said no?

If it had been Pugsley or Enid?

“They think I am the villain,” he murmured, “They think I fell because I wanted to rule.”

“But tell me… was your father trying to rule… when he fought for justice?”

You still didn’t speak. But your breathing had changed. Shallow. Slow

“Was your sister trying to rule… when she begged for help from a world that would not listen?”

Wednesday saw you clench your fist, her's did too.

“You and I… we were not born monsters. We were made. Shaped. Wronged. You have hatred inside you, little one. A fire that even I have forgotten the taste of. Take it,” he said, holding it out. “Take it, and I will make you what the gods whisper about. What the angels fear. What the demons fear."

"This is not a gift,” he warned. “It is a curse. You will never be normal. You will never know peace. You will be feared. You will belong to me.”

He paused.

“But you will have power. You will finish what they started. You will make them suffer. You will be the last thing they see.”

Lucifer knelt again, gently lifting your chin.

“And all I ask… is a single word.”

You didn’t blink.

You didn’t breathe.

And Wednesday knew the answer you had given and she understood now why you were never truly there. Why even when you were beside her, something in you was far away.

You had already died. That child in the chains—that’s where it ended. And something else was made.

“Yes.”

Fire surged into your chest, healing your body. Chains disintegrated. The stone cracked beneath your feet.

And you stood. Reborn. Remade.

The door flung open. One of them stood there, shocked—his eyes wide.

You didn’t speak.

You moved.

Fast. Unstoppable. Pure.

And all around you, your captors screamed. They begged. They cried. Some fought. But it didn’t matter.

You were vengeance.

You were death.

You slaughtered them, bare-handed. You tore through them like they were paper. Bones crunched. Walls cracked. The room turned crimson.

When it was done, you stood over their corpses, soaked in blood.

The Devil stood at the threshold, watching you like a proud father.

You were shaking.

Not from fear.

But because it wasn’t enough.

The rage was still there.

Burning.

Wednesday watched, paralyzed.

She understood.

This wasn’t evil. This wasn’t monstrous.

This was what the world made you.

“I was the Morning Star,” he said softly. “Brightest of His host. Now I walk beneath the earth. And yet… you… you, child, you burn brighter than I ever did.”

He knelt. Fingers brushed your blood-slicked cheek.

“You are more than rage. You are more than pain. You are not a victim. You are my answer.”

“You are the maiden of death.”

Wednesday gasped, jerking back into her own body like she’d been drowning.

Her hand still clutched yours.

And there you were, breathing slow, silent. Still unshaking.

And Wednesday understood, by the look of your eyes, that you knew she saw everything.

And she, mouth dry, eyes locked to yours, whispered,

“…you’re not here to burn this school.”

You looked at her.

Cold. Calm.

“I’m here to burn this world.”

[END NOTE: YEAH THAT WAS IT! It can be called as TMOD SEASON 1 ENDING LOL, I am gonna be gone for a bit now so TMOD SEASON 2 is gonna be uploaded next month! Till then enjoy Wednesday season 2! Also comment what do you think is going to happen in the future chapters!]

Taglist: @rqizzu @sevyscoven @kingoftheracoons @kingofthings2 @masterofpuppets-10 @alexkolax @ognenniyvolk @mally-ka @protozoario @machyishere @freakshow2501 @101rizzlrr @casbrawel @jinxslapdog @just-zy @gray-cheese @hellenheaven @cheerlanader @pikachooo3 @jennaswifey @thyhooligans @caffeine-pup @gayerthanmylittleponys @sabrinasgirlfren @neoeleoo @deflatedducky @cheerlanader @trashcannotbealive @honorarysimp @myfturn @wompingburg

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thedemoninme141 · 11 days ago

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The Maiden Of Death Playlist

These are the music I'm listening to developing TMOD future chapters. Suggestions are open!

"We Lost" is in control of the next chapter 💀.

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thedemoninme141 · 13 days ago

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Y/n: *Giggling.

Wednesday: What?

Y/n: *In her mind "Baldnesday"

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thedemoninme141 · 15 days ago

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Her Heartbeat Vs The Maiden Of Death!

(HEADPHONE 🎧 RECOMENDED)

hh vs tmod part 6

Imma tag ya'll here too cause creating tmod art took more time lol

Also The Maiden of death y/n height reveal in the video lol

@rqizzu @sevyscoven @kingoftheracoons @kingofthings2 @masterofpuppets-10 @alexkolax @ognenniyvolk @mally-ka @protozoario @machyishere @freakshow2501 @101rizzlrr @casbrawel @jinxslapdog @just-zy @gray-cheese @hellenheaven @cheerlanader @pikachooo3 @jennaswifey @thyhooligans @caffeine-pup @gayerthanmylittleponys @sabrinasgirlfren @neoeleoo @deflatedducky @cheerlanader @trashcannotbealive

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thedemoninme141 · 15 days ago

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Which plot twist of my one-shot hit you harder?

trying to come up with another unique one-shot plot.

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thedemoninme141 · 15 days ago

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Sorry, it was the first thing I think about after scene with Tyler

NAAH WTH 😂 I am dying rn.

#the maiden of death #memes #inbox #wtf is this XD

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thedemoninme141 · 16 days ago

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The Maiden Of Death Part 6

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

Part 1 -- Part 2-- Part 3- Part 4--Part 5--Part 6--Part 7

A/n: And the wait is finally over! It's been soo long since I added a chapter to it, the semester's been a big pain but finally managed some time to write. Hope you guys like the new chapter!

Summary: Wednesday finally witnesses the maiden of death in action. And that ended up creating a distance that she doesn't like.

Pairings: Wednesday x Female reader.

Warnings: Violence and death.

"I am the Maiden of Death."

Wednesday watched, her pulse slow and steady, but her mind an inferno of thought.

She understood now.

You hunted demons. For Lucifer himself.

You worked for him.

It felt absurd to think it so plainly, but there was no denying it. No rationalizing it away. You weren’t just powerful, weren’t just dangerous, you were something else entirely.

Something that existed in a place between myth and nightmare.

And yet…

Wednesday wasn’t afraid.

Instead, something sharp twisted in her gut, something restless and frustrated. This was wrong. She knew it was wrong. But… she didn’t know the whole story.

She didn’t know who Kalzorran was.

She didn’t know why you were hunting him.

She didn’t know why you had given up your soul to the Devil himself.

"You know what that means, don’t you?" His voice was filled with something that almost sounded like grief.

"Yes," you answered.

"Then why?" His voice cracked at the edges, rising in something close to desperation. "Why are you still following him? You know what he wants to do!" His breath hitched, and for the first time, his anger gave way to something pleading. "He’s going to get his half back the moment you turn your back on him."

"I know." Your voice was cold. Detached. "I do not care."

Kalzorran’s entire body tensed. His fists clenched at his sides, his shoulders rising with each shallow breath.

"You’re not even human anymore," he said, voice low with disgust.

Your gaze didn’t waver.

"Neither were you."

"I have lived like one!" he snapped.

"I have died like one," you said.

Wednesday exhaled sharply, the first sound she had made in minutes.

What did that mean?

Kalzorran exhaled, long and slow, as if the fire in him had dimmed, as if he was resigning himself to the inevitable.

"I knew you were going to come for me." His voice was quiet now. Bitter. "For us."

His hand fell to his side, fingers twitching, and Wednesday saw the moment his resolve hardened. "I am not going without a fight. I am not letting you do this without a fight."

Wednesday watched as he extended his hand. For a moment, nothing happened. Then—light.

It burst forth from his palm like a star igniting, shaping itself into a weapon. A sword, shining impossibly bright, almost too much to look at. But it wasn’t just light—it was heavy, as if the very air bent around it. As if it carried a weight beyond the physical.

You tilted your head, observing, intrigued. But not afraid.

"Sword of the Archangel."

"I do not know," he admitted, "I did not kill the Archangel. I do not know what happened to him. I fought against him in the name of Lucifer. I do not deserve this sword, and yet…" His jaw clenched. "It chose me."

Then—fire.

It erupted from beneath him, spiraling around his body, consuming flesh and fabric in an instant. Wednesday didn’t flinch, but she watched—watched as his form twisted, his muscles growing, his skin darkening, his veins glowing red-hot like molten metal. Horns curled from his skull, his tail lashed behind him, his eyes burned bright like dying embers.

The last of the man was gone.

And in his place stood the demon.

Fully revealed.

And you?

Still calm. Still steady. A hunter facing her prey.

Wednesday barely saw it. One moment, the blade was coming down, enough strength behind it to cleave you in two, and then—you were gone. A blur. A whisper. The ground shuddered beneath the impact, dust and debris scattering like splintered glass.

Wednesday had seen you fight before—had seen the brutality in the alleyway, the efficiency of your movements, the eerie calm that settled over you like a second skin. But this? This was something else entirely. This was a dance of death.

Kalzorran came at you again, lifting his sword with both hands as if it were heavier than it looked. His attacks were powerful, but heavy—each swing was slow, not from lack of skill, but from the sheer weight of his weapon. He was strong, stronger than most, but it was clear that the sword was not meant for him. It chose him, but it did not belong to him. He fought with it like a man wielding an executioner’s blade, each movement fueled by desperation rather than precision.

You were the opposite.

Where he swung, you weaved. Where he struck, you redirected. You stepped around him, effortlessly, a predator circling wounded prey.

He growled, twisting on his feet, swinging again. Again, you dodged. Again, you barely parried. You weren’t attacking. You were waiting.

Wednesday saw it now.

You weren’t trying to kill him. You weren’t even trying to end this fight quickly. Every movement, every dodge, every deflection—it was calculated. Controlled. Purposeful.

And Kalzorran was getting tired.

Each strike was slower than the last, his breathing more labored, his body weighed down by the burden of the sword. Blood dripped from his arms where your blade had already found purchase, thin, precise slices that bled freely but didn’t cripple. You were whittling him down, piece by piece, waiting for something... but what?

Kalzorran roared, “Stop testing me, damn you! Show me the real you! Show me what the Devil buried inside you!” His swings grew wilder, heavier, as if the sword itself was slowly draining what strength remained in him. His breaths grew ragged.

His movements slowed, no longer sharp, no longer controlled but desperate, as if he could feel the inevitable closing around him like the walls of a cage. “You don’t even hate me, do you?” he rasped, laughing bitterly. “You don’t care about justice, or right, or wrong. You’re just his tool. Another name on a list.”

You didn’t answer.

And that silence, Wednesday realized, was the sharpest blade of all. You had killed so many. Sent them back to hell for Lucifer. And you did it without joy, without hatred, without cruelty. Just cold, mechanical precision. She should have found it monstrous. But she couldn’t. It was impossible not to feel the weight of it. The loneliness that came with being what you were.

Another clash, Kalzorran swung wildly, you parried, and the force knocked the archangel’s sword from his hands. It spun through the air and landed point-first into the dirt, quivering from the impact. Kalzorran staggered, dropping to his knees, his chest heaving as he looked up at you, bleeding from a dozen shallow cuts, stripped of strength. And you... you stood before him, katana poised but still. You weren’t moving to strike. Not anymore.

But then everything twisted. A soft voice, small and trembling,

"Papa!"

Kalzorran’s daughter, the child from the house, ran into the clearing, her tiny frame barely able to hold back the sobs as she flung herself against her father’s broken form.

You froze. Completely. The way your hand faltered around the hilt of your katana, the way your body stiffened, it was the first real crack Wednesday had ever seen in you. The mask slipped. Just for a moment. She saw it. The guilt. The ache behind your eyes. But the coldness was still there, coiled around your bones like iron. You didn’t move. You didn’t lower your weapon. But you didn’t strike either.

Kalzorran’s hand trembled as he wrapped his arm around the girl, pulling her back, shielding her behind him with a strength summoned from pure instinct. His hand closed around the hilt of the Archangel’s sword once more, dragging it upright, the glow flickering weakly now. With one final burst of strength, he shoved the child away, stepping between you and her, and swung.

You hadn’t seen it coming.

Your eyes were still on the girl when the blade came for you. At the last second, your arm snapped up, a conjured shield of blackened, jagged energy bursting to life just in time to catch the blow. The impact was deafening. The force knocked you off your feet, your katana flying from your grip, your back slamming into the ground. The shield cracked, spiderweb fractures racing through it before it shattered into nothingness.

Kalzorran stood over you, sword raised, the last of his strength pooling into one final strike. He wasn’t going to hesitate. He was going to end it.

And then, just as the sword started its descent, it stopped.

The gleam of steel burst from his chest. Your katana, sharp and steady, pushed clean through his heart from behind. Kalzorran’s eyes widened, confusion flickering in them as his gaze fell downward, as if he couldn’t comprehend the blade lodged in him. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head. His lips parted, blood staining his teeth.

"Who... the hell... are you?"

The question wasn’t for you.

Wednesday stood there behind him, hands still wrapped tightly around the hilt of your katana, the blade slick with his blood. His body crumpled forward, collapsing at your feet.

His daughter screamed.

She scrambled to his side, shaking him, sobbing, calling for him—but there was no response. No breath. No warmth left in his skin.

Wednesday barely heard her.

Barely felt the world around her.

What had she done?

She had dreamed of killing the deserved before. But this—this was not calculated, not methodical, not justice.

She looked at you.

You were still on the ground, still taking in what had just happened.

Why?

Why did she do this?

She had followed you out of curiosity. Fascination. She had wanted to know you, to understand you. But this? This? She had just killed for you.

"Wednesday?" Your voice. Cautious. Unreadable.

She couldn't answer because of a sharp, searing, like a brand pressed into the pale skin of her palm. Wednesday hissed softly through clenched teeth, pulling her hand toward her chest as her fingers curled instinctively around the pain.

It didn’t last long, seconds, no more, but the sensation lingered, like something ancient had carved its place into her flesh and was never going to leave. She lowered her hand slowly, eyes drawn away from the mark by movement, catching the faint flicker of light fading into nothing as Kalzorran’s sword disintegrated.

And then the girl, Kalzorran’s daughter, let out a broken sound, something too young to be called a sob and too raw to be held back. She ran to you, throwing herself against you in small, flailing fists, her voice cracking as she cried.

You didn’t answer. Your hands, those hands Wednesday had watched so many times before, hands that held weapons as easily as others held a pen, reached up, fingers catching the girl's chin. You tilted her face upward, gently, almost tenderly. Your expression, usually carved from iron and ice, softened in a way Wednesday had never seen before.

For a second, the world stood still. And the girl went limp.

Wednesday’s heart clenched painfully in her chest, stopping entirely for a moment, thinking the worst. But then she saw it, the child still breathing, her chest rising and falling, only unconscious.

You lowered her carefully to the ground, a glint of something in your gaze, something like guilt, but muted beneath layers of something much older and colder.

You turned back toward Kalzorran's corpse, stepping over the blood-soaked earth without a sound. Your katana, black steel slick with crimson, still jutted from his chest. You grasped the hilt without ceremony, sliding it free in one sharp, clean motion. The sound of steel pulling free from flesh was wet and final. And then your head lifted, turning to her.

You moved toward her with slow, deliberate steps, closing the distance. Your hand, gloved and bloodstained, shot out and seized Wednesday’s wrist in a grip that wasn’t violent, but wasn’t gentle either. It was firm, unyielding, as if your fingers could crush bone if you willed it. You didn’t speak. You simply dragged her away, away from the house, away from the grieving wife who was now on her knees, sobbing into her hands.

The woman’s voice cracked through the night, hoarse and bitter. “You soulless monster! You'll die the same way you've lived, alone! Alone and damned! You’ll rot and no one will mourn you!"

You paused for the briefest of moments, glancing over your shoulder at her, your eyes dark and unreadable. There was no anger in your gaze. No malice. Just a deep, hollow weight that Wednesday couldn’t place, couldn’t name. The kind of look that wasn’t directed at the woman at all, but at something much further away. And then, without a word, you turned and kept walking, pulling Wednesday with you.

The world blurred past her as you dragged her away, deeper into the forest, your pace relentless and unbroken until the shadows swallowed the clearing behind you. And there, in the darkest part of the woods, the air shifted, rippling around a summoning circle that had appeared like an open wound in the earth. The same hellish portal Wednesday had followed you through.

You stepped through first, yanking her with you.

The world snapped back into existence, the cold bite of the Nevermore forest settling against her skin like old familiarity.

There was nothing calculated about the way you looked at her now. Just pure, seething anger, and under that, something else. Hurt?

“What were you doing there?” your voice came out low, tense, like a blade pressed to a throat. “You followed me.”

Wednesday didn’t flinch. She met your gaze steadily, even as her heart pounded against her ribs like it wanted out of her chest. She didn’t answer. Instead, her voice cut through the night, sharp and cold as always. “What were you doing there?” she asked back.

Your jaw tightened, your eyes darkening further. “Don’t turn this on me, Wednesday. You have no idea what you’ve done.”

You began pacing, hands clenching and unclenching at your sides, the katana still faintly dripping blood at your side. “Kalzoran wasn’t supposed to die,” you bit out, the words sounding like they scalded your own throat. “I needed him weak. I needed to send Kalzoran to him. That was the deal. That was the order.”

She shifted, something restless crawling under her skin. “You hunt for the Devil,”

You rounded on her, your hand shooting out to seize her wrist again not hard, but with purpose. Your other hand came up, turning her palm over, forcing her to look at it.

The burn was gone, but the skin was marked now, faint, almost ethereal, a sigil that resembled an outstretched wing, the feathers sharp and jagged, as though carved from light itself.

You stared at it like it was some ancient curse. “Do you even understand what you’ve done?” your voice was cold, hollow, devoid of the fury from earlier. Just quiet devastation. “The Sword of the Archangel chose you. It wasn’t meant for you. It was meant for Him. Kalzorran was supposed to die by His hand, in hell. That sword... was His prize.”

You let her wrist fall from your fingers, stepping back as if the sight of her was suddenly unbearable. “You’ve taken something from Him. Do you have any idea what that means?”

Wednesday watched you in silence, and for the first time in a long while, she felt... small. The world had always bent around her intellect, her sharpness, her unshakable detachment.

But standing here, before you, with the weight of the mark seared into her palm and the cold truth pressing into her lungs, she felt like a child again. A child who had stepped into a world much bigger and much darker than her own.

Your voice lowered further, edged with something dangerous. “Why shouldn’t I send you to hell right now?” You took a step toward her, shadows clinging to your figure, your eyes as cold as winter frost. “It would be easier. Quieter. Cleaner.”

But you didn’t move to strike. The words hung there, a threat, but hollow, like you were trying to convince yourself more than her. Wednesday stood her ground, her lips pressing into a thin line. Her mind was racing, pieces sliding into place too quickly to hold. The fight, Kalzorran’s words, the mark, you... it was too much.

The silence between you stretched long and heavy, until it was broken by something else.

Movement.

The soft crackle of dry leaves underfoot. The faint shift of weight, not yours, not hers. Both of your heads snapped toward the sound.

And then, from the darkness, he stepped into view.

Tyler.

And the world, for the second time that night, seemed to stop.

Wednesday’s breath didn’t hitch, her pulse didn’t race, and not even the coldest flicker of fear crossed her face when her eyes locked on him.

The boy who had tried to play human, only to bare his teeth like the monster he really was. And there he stood, like a ghost that refused to stay buried.

She hadn’t seen him since the cage they’d put him in, the world’s weak attempt at binding something that could never truly be leashed. He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to be free.

“Well, well…” Tyler’s voice was lower now, roughened by time and hate, the mask of the shy boy long gone. “You know, I spent a long time picturing how this would feel. Seeing you again.” His eyes flicked back to Wednesday, drinking in the sight of her. “But I think I like it even more now... the waiting made me hungrier.”

You didn’t move, but Wednesday felt the shift in your presence.

You tilted your head slightly, studying Tyler like he was an insect trapped under glass. There was no fear in you either. Just curiosity — the kind that only came from someone who’d lived alongside monsters and learned to yawn at their tricks.

Tyler’s eyes narrowed, noticing you for the first time, really noticing. “And who the hell are you supposed to be?” he muttered, his voice not defensive, but predatory, sizing you up the same way he might a wounded animal. He could sense you weren’t human, but that didn’t seem to stop him. If anything, it made his interest grow sharper.

A slow smirk crept across your face, a smile so faint it barely lifted the corner of your mouth.

“A Hyde, huh?” you mused, your voice steady, calm as if discussing the weather. “Perhaps Lucifer will be pleased with this compensation.”

Tyler blinked, confused, his brow twitching downward. “What the hell are you talking about?”

But the moment’s curiosity didn’t last long. The hunger inside him, the one that had kept him alive all this time, was stronger than questions. His body shifted before her eyes, bones snapping, flesh twisting, muscles stretching beneath skin until there was nothing left of the boy, only the beast. The Hyde. The thing she had fought and barely survived last year. And yet, even as his jaws unhinged, as his claws curled, and his limbs flexed with inhuman power, Wednesday stood her ground, eyes unblinking, unmoved.

Because you hadn’t moved either. Not until the moment came.

It wasn’t your voice that reached her ears, it was something deeper, something ancient, barely more than a whisper brushing against her mind. “Behold the dark child.”

She barely had time to process the words before the world around you began to change. Flames, black as void, flickered at the edges of your figure, twisting and swirling until they engulfed you in a silent inferno.

It wasn’t natural fire. It didn’t burn light into the world. It pulled it away, drank the glow from the night sky and the moonlight from the leaves. The flames coiled around you, and from within them, something emerged.

Scales, blackened and sharp-edged like obsidian, formed across your limbs and shoulders, your figure stretching taller, more imposing. Your eyes burned like twin embers, no longer human. Your hands had become clawed, armored in black flame-forged gauntlets, and the air pulsed with an oppressive heat that made Wednesday’s lungs tighten, as if the earth itself feared to breathe in your presence.

She couldn’t look away. This was what Kalzorran had wanted to see. This was you — the devil’s finest hunter, the demon's worst fear, the maiden of death.

Tyler didn’t even get the chance to move. One moment, he was preparing to lunge, muscles coiled like a loaded spring, and the next, you were already there. Your clawed hand shot out, faster than her eye could follow, and closed around his throat, lifting the Hyde from the earth like it weighed nothing at all.

Wednesday’s breath left her in silence, her chest tightening. She had fought the Hyde. She had bled to escape it. She had seen the terror it inspired in others. But now, for the first time, she saw the other side of that fear. She saw it in Tyler’s eyes, wide, wild, and drowning in panic. He wasn’t snarling. He wasn’t fighting. He was frozen. You tilted your head slightly, as if inspecting a cracked toy. “He will make good use of you,” you said, your voice hollow and inhuman, layered with something that wasn’t yours alone.

And then the sigil formed, burning into the ground beneath you both. A ring of ancient, twisting symbols, carved from flame itself, surrounding you and the Hyde.

The air pulsed, heat radiating so fiercely that Wednesday had to shield her eyes with her sleeve, her throat tightening against the dry, scorching air. The Hyde’s screams came next, raw and animal, clawing at your arm as the hellfire climbed his limbs, searing his flesh with a light that didn’t belong to this world.

She tried to look again. The Hyde’s strength had crumbled with every second, his howls warping into broken, begging whimpers. And all the while, you didn’t flinch. You held him there like a judge delivering a sentence, your grip unshaken as his form began to crumble, muscles collapsing into ash, his limbs curling inward as the hellfire claimed every piece of him.

When the last flicker of flame died, all that remained was dust. Ash falling from your fingers like the final grains of an hourglass.

The fire around you ebbed, the scales retreating into nothing, though your breath came harder, chest rising and falling with exhaustion. You stood there for a moment, staring at the space where Tyler had vanished, before your head slowly turned, your eyes meeting hers again.

She had spent her life fascinated by death, but you... you were death’s shadow, its loyal daughter, and now, she could see the weight of it in your gaze.

And yet, there was no fear. Only awe. And something far more dangerous growing in the spaces where she refused to reach.

Wednesday’s mind felt sharp and clear despite the haze of heat and smoke still hanging in the air, her eyes fixed on you, your breathing uneven but your body slowly easing back into its human form. The blackened armor of scales that had wrapped your limbs was gone, but the impression of them, of what they meant, lingered. You hadn’t just revealed yourself. You had shown her everything. And yet, as always, you were still holding more back.

Her voice broke the quiet first, steady but soft, the weight of realization wrapping around each word. “This… this is what you wanted to do to Kalzoran.”

You delivered them like trophies to the throne that owned you.

"Tyler? What’s going to happen to him now?” She asked.

Your eyes didn’t turn to her. Not at first. You stared at the space where Tyler had turned to ash, as if still seeing something lingering there that she couldn’t, until finally, your voice cut through the quiet. Cold. Detached.

“Horrors beyond your comprehension,” you answered. It wasn’t cruel, and it wasn’t even angry, it was fact, and that made it worse... how many of them had you delivered?

But then your voice shifted, sharp and cutting, the anger barely held back behind your teeth. “That sword was important.” Your jaw tensed as you glanced toward her, and the fury that flickered behind your eyes caught her off guard. She had seen you indifferent, calm, even playful in your own deadpan way but never like this. Never with your composure cracked and your control stripped away. “It’s gone. Because of you.”

She blinked, unflinching even now, but inside her chest, there was the faintest twitch of something unfamiliar. Regret, maybe. Or confusion. She didn’t like feeling either.

“Why was it important?” she asked, her voice quiet, as though the question didn’t need to be raised at all. But she had to know.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t even spare her a glance.

“I saved you,” she said, her voice quieter now, but no less sure.

You snapped your head toward her at that, the sharp exhale from your lungs almost a laugh, but far too bitter to be one.

“I had it under control.” The words dripped with something between scorn and exhaustion, like the idea of her ‘saving’ you was both laughable and infuriating. “You didn’t save me. You created a new problem.”

Her chest pulled tight at that. There was no pride in what she’d done, not anymore, only the dawning realization of how tangled the consequences truly were. Her fingers drifted to her palm again, brushing the skin where the faint mark, that strange, wing-shaped sigil.

And then the thought crept in. If she’d killed the sword’s last owner, and the blade had vanished only after it burned her hand... then wasn’t she the new owner now? Wasn’t that how these things worked? She had disrupted whatever deal you’d been trying to fulfill. If you had sent Kalzoran to the same fate as the Hyde, the sword would’ve gone to the devil. But now, it was hers.

So then why weren’t you doing the same to her? Why hadn’t you sent her to hell like you did to Tyler? You were stronger, faster, and her lack of control over the sword, whatever power now claimed her, should’ve made her easy prey. So why wasn’t she ash?

Her gaze returned to you, eyes narrowing, sharper now, the edges of her curiosity hardening into something colder. "If that’s true," she began slowly, "if I killed the sword’s last owner, then why aren’t you sending me wherever you sent Tyler?" Her voice didn’t waver, but there was something subtle in the question. An unspoken, almost reluctant need to understand.

She took a half-step closer, her fingers tightening slightly at her side. "Why aren’t you trying to take it from me? I don’t know how to use it. I’m inexperienced. You’ve killed for less. So... why am I still standing here? Unharmed?"

Your eyes met hers then, and for a moment the world felt like it stopped turning. The cold anger in you hadn’t faded, but behind it there was something else, something far less certain. Your voice came quieter this time, but no less sharp.

"I don’t know."

The honesty hit harder than any lie could’ve.

That answer settled in her chest like a stone. You didn’t know. The idea of it didn’t make sense, not from you. You always knew. You were always the one ahead of the game, ahead of the threat, ahead of the world. Perhaps that scared Wednesday, more than it should you.

When you finally moved, there was no command, no sharp quip telling her to follow. You didn’t look at her once. You didn’t need to. Wednesday simply started after you.

There were too many questions anyway, and none of them would’ve fit in the space between your rigid footsteps and her own steady, muted ones.

You never looked back at her, not once, as the Academy drew closer.

And when you finally reached the entrance, you veered off without a word, your steps still heavy, stiff with anger, heading straight for your room. You didn’t glance her way. You didn’t say anything. You left her standing there alone. And as she stood there, watching you go, the realization sinking deep into her bones.

You weren’t angry because she’d intervened. You weren’t angry because Kalzoran was dead.

You were angry because now, neither of you knew what you and her had become.

"Finally!"

Enid’s voice hit like a flash of lightning, tearing through the silence before Wednesday even managed to shut the door behind her. "Where the hell have you been?! I was two seconds away from asking Principal Weems to initiate a Code Missing Goth. Do you have any idea what time it is? I thought you were murdered. Or kidnapped. Or worse, actually socializing.”

Wednesday shut the door behind her, completely ignoring Enid.

Enid, however, was far from finished. “Where were you? You left the party and just disappeared! I’ve texted you like, a million times.” She waved her phone for emphasis, the screen blinking with unanswered messages, some frantic, some suspiciously hopeful.

When Wednesday didn’t respond, Enid’s expression shifted , from worry to something far more mischievous. Her mouth curled into a slow, knowing grin as she leaned forward, voice lowering into a teasing drawl. “So... you’ve been gone for hours. Way past curfew. And you come back looking like that.” She waved a hand at Wednesday’s disheveled appearance "Oh. Ohhh. You weren’t answering because you were busy. With her.”

Wednesday gave no reaction, sliding her boots off with practiced indifference, but the momentary pause in her movement didn’t go unnoticed.

Enid’s grin widened. “I knew it! You two totally hit it off, didn’t you? I mean, I wasn’t sure if you’d kiss someone before you’d stab them, but hey, you’ve surprised me before.”

Wednesday peeled off her blazer with slow, deliberate care, draping it across the back of her chair as though the weight of it had doubled since the last time she’d worn it. “You assume too much,” she murmured, the words as dry as ever, though there was no real venom in them. Just exhaustion, heavy and quiet.

Enid stepped closer, still teasing, still oblivious. “Come on, just tell me! You’re acting all... off. That’s your ‘I saw a dead body’ face, but like, mixed with your ‘I touched someone’s hand and felt something’ face.” She gasped theatrically. “Wait. Did you two actually—?”

“No.” Wednesday cut her off, sharper than she intended and for a moment the air between them grew still. Enid blinked, thrown, but the concern flickered back to the surface almost immediately, softening her voice.

“Hey... are you okay?” she asked quietly, stepping back, giving her space, her earlier playfulness fading like mist.

Wednesday nodded once, a lie so well-practiced it passed without inspection. “I’m fine.” Another lie. Another mask. And Enid, either too kind or too tired to push, let it be.

The rest of the conversation dissolved into smaller, safer things — Enid filling the air with stories about the tail end of the party, things that barely registered, background noise to Wednesday’s thoughts, which had already begun to slip away, coiling tighter around the weight in her chest that no amount of cold showers or perfectly recited funeral hymns could silence.

She excused herself to the bathroom, the mark on her palm was still faintly visible beneath the surface of her skin. The longer she stared at it, the more foreign her own hand felt.

When she finally returned to the dark safety of her room, Enid had already fallen into a light, restless sleep.

Wednesday sat on the edge of her bed, the world outside her window painted in moonlight and silence, and let the weight settle fully on her chest.

Kalzoran had a family.

The thought hit her again, not with sharpness, but something slower, heavier, like water seeping through stone. Kalzoran wasn’t a villain. He was just someone in your way.

But Wednesday had made her choice. She hadn't hesitated. Not for one second. She'd seen you fall, and she acted.

What did that say about her?

Her fingers curled into a fist at her side. The mark on her palm still burned faintly, a strange warmth beneath the skin, like embers waiting for wind.

She thought of you.

Wednesday had seen many shades of death in her life, but she had never seen something like you. Cold. Efficient. Ruthless. You had held the Hyde like he was weightless, like he didn’t matter. You had burned him down to ash without even blinking.

And yet… you hadn’t harmed her. You could have. You should have. She had taken something from you, something important, something vital,

And yet, that "I don't know" was the most human thing she had ever heard from you.

What made you? What twisted a human into something like that? What shaped you into the hunter who hunted monsters… only to seem more monstrous than them? Were you what happened to a soul when it had been torn from everything human and rebuilt in fire? Were you always like this, cold, unreachable, forged in brimstone and sorrow? Or had something made you this way?

She didn’t believe in morality. Not really. She believed in cause and consequence, in decisions and their aftermaths. But you… you were outside of that. You didn’t kill for fun, or even for justice. You killed with purpose, cold, defined, unrelenting purpose. It was surgical.

You told her that you should send her to hell. But you didn’t.

You didn’t even try.

Why?

She turned that question over again and again in her head.

You were supposed to be heartless — more than that, inhuman — and yet, when it came to her, you hadn’t done what you so easily could have.

Some part of her, the darkest part, whispered something dangerous: maybe she mattered to you.

She closed her eyes for just a moment, breathing slow and deep.

This wasn’t over.

Not yet.

Which of you, in the end, was the real monster?

Wednesday didn’t speak to Enid as they walked to breakfast. Enid kept stealing glances at her, quiet for once, her usual cheery commentary replaced with the uneasy stillness of someone walking beside a ticking bomb. Wednesday didn’t acknowledge it. Her thoughts were elsewhere, circling like vultures.

She stepped into the cafeteria and felt it instantly.

Your absence.

You always arrived early. Sat at the far end of the table by force of habit or more accurately, because Enid would drag you there and plant you next to her like a prize she’d won at a midnight carnival. You didn’t complain. You didn’t exactly participate either, but at least you were there. A constant.

But today, your seat was empty.

Enid slid into her usual place with a little sigh, waving at someone across the room. Wednesday sat opposite her mechanically, her eyes already drifting to the spot across the table, where you always sat. She stared at the untouched plate across from her, the space too wide and too hollow. The bench looked colder without you in it. Stupid thought. But it settled in her anyway.

She hated it. Hated the way her stomach twisted, as if the absence itself was smug enough to leave a bruise.

You didn’t come. Or maybe you had and left.

Maybe whatever purpose had brought you to Nevermore, vengeance, loyalty, obligation, had ended.

The thought landed cold and sharp in her chest. It shouldn’t have mattered. It didn’t matter. You weren’t hers to lose. You were never anyone’s. You were a blade honed for something greater than these hollow walls, forged in fires she couldn’t begin to name. You had lingered here longer than necessity demanded, and that was the anomaly, wasn’t it? Not your leaving—your staying.

Still.

You’d walked away in the dead of night, the same way you arrived. No goodbyes. No parting words. Just silence and distance and emptiness.

The thought twisted in her. The possibility that she’d never see you again… that she’d driven you away with her choice, with her arrogance, with her hands stained by something that wasn’t hers to take—something she didn’t understand until it was too late—

She shut it down. Forcefully. She stabbed a piece of toast with her fork like it had insulted her. Across from her, Enid finally stopped talking.

"Are you even listening?" Enid poked her arm lightly, frowning.

“I’m mourning the death of intelligent conversations,”

“You’re mad. This is your mad face.” Enid grinned.

“This is my normal face,” Wednesday corrected. She pushed her untouched plate forward, the motion deliberate, final. “And now it’s leaving.”

Before Enid could reply, she stood and walked out.

The first class dragged like a funeral.

She walked in with her usual silence, eyes scanning the room without purpose. She didn’t expect to see you, but—

There you were.

You’d arrived before her.

Far corner. The furthest point from where she sat, from where you and she always used to sit.

The seat beside you, the one she usually claimed without asking, remained untouched. She could have taken it. Could have stared you down until you acknowledged her. But she didn’t. She wouldn’t. If this was how you wanted to play it, she’d dig her heels into the ground and freeze over.

Let it be. Be distant. Be untouchable.

So she took her usual seat near the middle.

A clean angle from which to watch you.

Not that she meant to.

Not that her eyes drifted there constantly.

She watched the poor unfortunate student pause awkwardly at the empty seat beside you, scanning the room for any alternative before surrendering to fate and lowering himself next to you like a soldier walking into a battlefield. You didn’t look at them. Didn’t say anything. Just sat, spine straight, expression unreadable.

Like stone. Like death. But you didn’t look at her, either.

Wednesday kept her gaze forward, eyes on the blackboard, on the chalk dust in the air, on anything but you.

But her eyes betrayed her. Again and again, they drifted sideways.

You didn’t acknowledge her once. Not a flicker. Not a glance.

Beside her, Enid leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Okay, what’s going on? You two have been acting weird since last night. And by weird, I mean weirder than usual, which is saying a lot considering you’re you and she’s basically a human guillotine.”

Wednesday’s pen moved faster, her handwriting a flurry of precise slashes across the page.

Ignore it. Ignore her. Ignore the ache threading through her chest like piano wire pulled too tight.

Enid didn’t stop. Of course she didn’t. “Did you fight? Please tell me you didn’t break up. Wait—were you even together? Ugh, I knew I should’ve followed you both when you disappeared last night—”

Wednesday’s head turned, eyes like twin obsidian blades locking onto Enid’s in a single, silent command. Stop.

Enid’s mouth snapped shut with an audible click. She slumped back in her chair, muttering something about “emo power couples” under her breath.

The class dragged, and Wednesday felt every second stretch like it wanted to punish her. She wasn’t staring. Not really. Her eyes just refused to obey her. Every flicker of movement from your side of the room drew her attention.

You were pretending she didn’t exist. And you were good at it.

By the time fencing class arrived, she was ready to channel it all into something that bled.

She expected you to challenge her. You always did. You'd stand there with your weapon half-drawn, not speaking, just waiting for her to meet you in the middle. You didn’t care if the class was watching. You didn’t care if it got ugly. That was the rhythm. That was your dance.

Now you walked right past her and paired with someone else.

A boy. Some legacy kid from New Orleans who fancied himself clever. You didn’t even glance at her as you adjusted your gloves, whispered something curt to him, and lifted your blade.

Bianca noticed it before anyone else.

She raised an eyebrow as she passed Wednesday. “Looks like your little monster found a new chew toy.”

Wednesday didn’t dignify that with a response. She stepped to her own spot and paired with some forgettable girl who lacked balance and lacked fear. Both fatal flaws.

But even as she moved through the forms, blocked and parried, her attention drifted — back to you.

You weren’t just fencing. You were dismantling your opponent. Efficient. Merciless.

You moved like death — not a storm, not a fire, but something colder. Calculated. You didn’t just land hits; you punished him for openings.

And then — worse — you spoke to him.

“If you meet Death in this condition, he’ll laugh before he takes you.” you said, and not only that, you leaned in after another disarm and said something low, something Wednesday couldn’t hear.

The boy nodded.

You corrected his stance. Adjusted his grip.

You taught him.

The sight was worse than any open wound.

You never spoke in these classes. Never gave feedback. But now? You were talking. Coaching. Sharing something.

Wednesday faltered mid-parry. Her opponent nearly scored a hit.

Jealousy, hot and thick, curdled in her chest.

She didn’t care. She didn’t.

But she did.

Bianca passed her again, smirking. “Careful, Addams. You’re glaring like you’ve just been dumped.”

“I was never picked up,” Wednesday snapped.

The rest of the class passed in a blur of distraction and boiling silence. Wednesday didn’t glance your way again, but her body remained aware of you — the way a wound knows when the knife is still nearby.

Lunch came, and with it, more silence.

You didn’t sit with them. Again.

Her eyes kept flicking to the door.

Waiting.

You didn’t come.

And the only thing worse than being hated by you… was being nothing to you.

The first day was tolerable.

The second day was insulting.

By the fifth day, Wednesday was ready to set something on fire.

Wednesday wasn’t unfamiliar with anger. She had lived with it, fed it, weaponized it when needed. But this was different. This wasn’t anger. It was a slow, simmering poison in her bloodstream. It clouded her thoughts, burned through her patience, warped the rhythm of her usually meticulous focus.

You were ignoring her.

Not simply avoiding. Not dodging. You had erased her. From your gaze, from your voice, from your world. And the worst part? You were good at it.

You had always been good at disappearing. At withholding pieces of yourself until what remained was a silhouette of intention and nothing else. But this deliberate, clinical silence, was worse than a blade to the gut. You didn’t glare, didn’t scoff, didn’t even spare her a flicker of your usual cutting commentary.

You were simply... not there.

And it infuriated her.

Wednesday told herself she didn’t care. That your business was your own. That she didn’t need to know what you were planning or what shadows you were chasing or what twisted vow you were fulfilling. She told herself that this was just another phase of your mission, whatever that entailed, and she—she was merely collateral. A distraction. Something expendable.

Fine. She could accept that.

She could.

She didn’t.

Her thoughts were fractured, jagged things. Even her journal entries had become erratic, her language more vicious, ink pressed deep enough to scar the pages. During class, she kept her eyes forward, rigid and cold, pretending not to notice the way your seat remained in the corner, away from hers. Pretending that the quiet had stopped bothering her.

It hadn’t.

She began snapping at Enid more often. Avoiding the quad. Refusing lunch altogether. She buried herself in books, then closed them halfway through. She wrote, then tore the pages out. She played the cello until the strings frayed, then didn’t bother restringing it.

This school was a circus. This life, a cage. And the only thing she had grown to tolerate was now ignoring her like she was beneath notice.

You had the gall to disappear from her life after wrapping yourself around her every thought. After bleeding poison into her curiosity and branding her with questions that no longer had answers.

She told herself you were selfish. That you were dramatic. That you were hiding because that’s all you knew how to do. She told herself you were a coward.

But that voice, that weak, infuriating whisper in her skull, kept saying: She’s protecting you.

And that was somehow worse.

Because if that were true — if you were doing this out of some twisted sense of sacrifice — then she wasn’t just ignored. She was pitied.

She could not allow that.

She wasn’t going to tolerate it anymore.

Wednesday closed her book mid-sentence and stood up so fast her chair screeched across the dorm room floor.

Enid blinked up at her. “Uh. Everything okay?”

“I’m going for a walk.”

“It’s ten p.m.”

“And?”

Enid raised her hands. “Right. Goth rage walk. Got it.”

She didn’t bother pretending she wasn’t heading toward your room. She didn’t bother rehearsing what she’d say. It didn’t matter anymore. She’d demand answers. You could lie. You could deflect. You could vanish behind that cold wall you always hid behind.

She didn’t care.

She just needed to see you.

And then she stood in front of your door.

Her hand hovered.

Ridiculous, she thought. Hesitation was not in her nature.

But before her knuckles could even make contact, the door opened.

There you were.

You didn’t look surprised. Not exactly. Maybe a little… curious. Like you’d been waiting for her, or maybe expecting her like this was some result you’d already calculated.

You weren’t in your uniform. No coats. No jacket. No heavy boots. A long black T-shirt that hung loose on your frame, paired with soft fabric pants tucked carelessly at the ankles. You looked human. Quiet. Tired.

And so very unarmored.

She stared until your voice pulled her out of it like a splash of cold water.

“Are you here to stare at me, or are you going to explain this intrusion?”

Your eyes met hers, and for the first time in days, they didn’t pass over her like she was a stranger. But they didn’t soften, either. They held the same chill, the same quiet knowing, and something else buried deep beneath that Wednesday couldn’t name.

“…Why are you here?” you asked.

She swallowed down the storm that had risen in her chest and said simply, “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You leaned against the doorframe, unbothered. “Observation or accusation?”

She swallowed them and pushed forward.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

You blinked slowly. “Yes.”

She clenched her jaw. “Why?”

A pause. “Because I needed to.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have right now.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You owe me more than that.”

“I don’t owe you anything, Wednesday.” you snapped.

“You think I enjoy being treated like a stranger?” she snapped.

You raised a brow. “We are strangers.”

That hit harder than it should have.

“You disappeared,” she said, voice sharper now. “You ghosted me in every room. Refused to speak. Refused to look. If you were done using me, you could’ve at least had the decency to say it out loud.”

Something flickered in your gaze. Hurt? Guilt? She didn’t care. She was past that.

“I wasn’t using you,” you said finally. “But I knew if I looked at you, I’d stop.”

Wednesday blinked. “Stop what?”

You didn’t answer. You looked away.

“I will find out if you’re planning to hurt anyone in this school,” she said, voice low, eyes sharp.

You met her gaze again. “I’m not here for this school.”

It was a slip. She knew it.

But before she could latch onto it, your voice dropped.

“I’m not your puzzle to solve, Addams.”

“No. But you’re still a threat.”

“Then act accordingly.”

“I am.”

She didn’t think, without planning, without analyzing, she reached forward and grabbed your hand.

It wasn’t a calculated decision. It wasn’t a move on a chessboard. It was raw, impulsive. Pure.

And then...

Fear.

Dread.

Sorrow.

Pain.

But not hers.

Part 7

[IMPORTANT NOTE: Some of the tags aren't working in the old taglsit because of changed usernames! So if you see your old name in the taglist please tell me! I'll update it 🖤! New tags are invited too!

Also comment how's the new chapter feeling! It's been so long since I last wrote anything."]

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thedemoninme141 · 17 days ago

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tmod chapter 6 when???😭

I am cooking chef I am cooking! Just a couple of days more.

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thedemoninme141 · 23 days ago

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NO ANGST! 😩

- cse buddy (I'm thinking of an emoji for this, hold on)

Muehehehhe I've filled it with ANGST MUEHEHEHEHEH

#answered asks #angst

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thedemoninme141 · 25 days ago

Text

I Found You.

Parings: Wednesday X Female Reader Wordcount:1.8kish

Summary: She used to say, she would never fall in love.

Recommend hearing to this while reading-> Until I found you.

Theme: A little Angst, but mostly Wednesday being hopeless romantic. (Set in the same universe of my "Take Me To Church")

Warnings: Wednesday being down bad?

Before you, there was peace.

Wednesday did not need companionship to feel whole. She had her cello, her ink, her solitude. Her thoughts twisted like ivy around the decay of the world, and it was enough. She was enough.

At least, that was what she told herself.

She could walk through rainstorms with her hands behind her back, unfazed. She could watch a raven tear through a carcass and call it beautiful. There was no pulse in her chest that she didn't already understand. She knew the texture of grief. She knew the scent of death. She knew that nothing good lasted, and nothing eternal was ever kind.

Her silence was a shield, and it never failed her.

And then—you came.

You did not knock. You burst in like a hymn crashing through the rafters of her church of silence, hands outstretched and heart open like a wound. You giggled at her scowls. You called her terrifying and meant it as a compliment. You touched her without asking, then apologized so softly that Wednesday hated you for it. She hated how gentle you were. Hated how your touch burned. Hated how the sound of your voice made her breath catch in her throat.

She had lived her entire life thinking love was a trick—an invention of poets too afraid of death to face it alone. But you didn’t try to save her. You didn’t try to change her. You simply stood next to her, unblinking, offering her your warmth and not demanding anything in return. You never asked her to soften. You never asked her to smile.

You only ever asked her to stay.

You ruined her peace.

And she hated how quickly she gave it up for the sound of your giggle in her ears.

Wednesday told herself she didn’t care. You were just a fascination. A curiosity.

A temporary fixation like the flicker of a candle in the wind.

But then you bled for her. Not literally—but Wednesday felt it. She saw the sacrifices you made just to remain by her side. The way you let others misunderstand you because you were too busy trying to understand her. You, who could’ve had someone easier. Someone warmer. Someone simple.

But you chose her. Again and again and again.

And she wanted to protect that flicker with her hands.

How a touch on the back of her hand could make her heart skip. How the absence of your voice could echo louder than anything. How your eyes—those maddeningly kind eyes saw every inch of her and still didn’t look away.

And everything she believed began to rot instead.

You broke through her logic like sunlight through cathedral glass—burning, blinding. Her stillness fractured. Her world, once so meticulously structured in grayscale, started blooming with shades she had no names for.

She’d never admit it, not even to herself, but her hands began to ache when you weren’t holding them. Her thoughts lost their sharp edge in your absence. It disgusted her. It terrified her.

And that’s why she broke it.

The fight had been her fault. Of course it had. But she wore her guilt like a crown made of thorns, pretending the blood didn’t matter. It had started over nothing, your concern, your voice trembling with care, asking if she was alright. Asking if she needed anything. Wednesday had snapped, the way she always did when kindness felt like pity, when love felt like a mirror she wasn’t ready to look into.

"You’re suffocating me," she had said. Ice on her tongue.

You’d flinched. She saw it, how your face fell, how the light in your eyes dimmed just enough to feel like dusk. But you didn’t cry. You nodded.

And when she spat, “Leave, if you know what’s good for you,” you did.

You left.

The silence that followed wasn’t peace anymore.

It was punishment.

The moment the door closed behind you, Wednesday stood frozen. Her lips still curved in cruelty, her chest already hollowing. She sat on the edge of her bed, eyes fixed on the door like you might come back. You didn’t.

She missed you. Every part of you.

The way you’d tilt your head when she spoke, like decoding her was your favorite puzzle. The way you filled the quiet without breaking it—reading beside her, your foot brushing hers under the table. The sound of your laughter in the morning. The scent of your shampoo on her pillow. The warmth you left behind, like an echo that refused to die.

And worst of all, she missed being loved.

Not the shallow affection others offered. No. She missed being loved the way you loved her—without expectation, without fear. You loved her like she was something sacred and cursed all at once, and you made her believe that maybe—just maybe—she could be both.

She was lost within the darkness. But then she found you.

“I was wrong,” Wednesday said, her voice rasping like brittle paper. “You were never the poison. I was.”

You blinked.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I told you to leave. I didn’t mean it. I just… didn’t know how to keep you without breaking you.”

You said nothing. Just looked at her. Waiting.

“I used to say I’d never fall in love again,” she continued, quieter. “Until I found you.”

It hung there—fragile, holy.

Then you spoke.

“I fell too, you know,” you said. “And you caught me. You just didn’t know what to do once you did.”

Wednesday looked at her hands. The ones that had held yours. The ones that had let you go.

“I want you in my arms,” she said. “If you’ll let me.”

You didn’t answer. Not in words.

You stepped forward.

Your hands found hers.

And Wednesday felt it again—that unholy pull, that sacred undoing. You, wrapping yourself around her like breath. Like salvation. Like music.

The first time she truly realized she was in love with you, it wasn’t during a kiss, or a touch, or one of your ridiculous metaphors. It was in the way you looked at her when she wasn’t speaking. How you never tried to fill the silence. How you treated it as something sacred.

She sat beside you, rigid, unsure. Her hands trembled. Not from fear of you, but of what she felt. She had faced monsters, seen death, tasted grief. But she had never felt anything this devastating.

Love, it was not gentle. It was not kind. It consumed. It demanded everything.

You looked at her with that maddening softness. The kind that dissolved her bones and scraped her soul clean.

“I don’t know what this is,” she admitted against your shoulder. “But I want it.”

“You don’t have to name it,” you said. “You just have to feel it.”

So she did.

Her journals became dangerous. Filled not with blood or revenge, but with verses about you. The curve of your smile. The way you slept curled toward her. The sigh you gave when she tugged you closer in the dark. She’d reread passages and loathe herself for sounding like someone who believed in soulmates. But you were not a dream. You were real.

Her madness had taken form in the shape of a girl who loved her.

And she loved you back.

Hopelessly.

She began to crave the quiet moments the most. Waking up beside you. Watching your fingers trace the seam of her sleeve. Sitting in libraries in complete silence, just to feel you breathe. She memorized your routines. Your little habits.

She was never meant to fall like this.

And now there was no getting out.

“You were supposed to be a distraction,” she murmured. “Something fleeting. Something I could enjoy briefly and then walk away from.”

You chuckled quietly. “That sounds flattering.”

“I’m not trying to flatter you.”

“I know.”

Wednesday's eyes met yours. There was something frightening in your gaze, not because it threatened her, but because it didn’t. There was no expectation. No demand. Just… you.

Always you.

There had been so many chances to tell you. So many stolen seconds where her lips hovered just close enough to speak, but her fear swallowed the words whole. You had never needed her confessions. You had loved her in silence, in actions, in patient smiles. But tonight, she couldn’t leave the words unsaid anymore. Not because you demanded them—because she did.

“Wednesday?” you whispered, voice heavy with sleep.

“I need to say something,” she said, her voice too steady for what trembled inside her.

“What is it?” You asked, concern flickering across your face.

She hesitated. The words perched like ravens on her tongue, waiting to take flight.

“I used to say I would never fall in love,” she began, her gaze not leaving yours, “because I believed no one could hold the weight of who I am.”

Your expression softened.

“I am cold,” she continued. “Difficult. Cruel. I retreat when I should reach out. I say the wrong things. I say nothing at all. I love like a storm. I destroy.”

“You don’t,” you whispered.

“I do,” she insisted. “But… you stayed. Even after I pushed you away. Even when I gave you every reason to stop. You stayed. And somehow… I found myself.”

She looked down at your hand in hers, her thumb brushing the curve of your knuckle.

“I love you,” she said.

The words weren’t loud. They weren’t dramatic. They didn’t need to be. They settled in the space between you like a vow. Like gravity.

You smiled, and her world unraveled.

“I love you too,” you said. “All of you. The sharp edges. The quiet. The storm.”

She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Her head dropped forward until her forehead pressed against yours.

“You ruined everything,” she whispered.

You laughed, so gently. “Good.”

She kissed you like it was the first time. Slow, unsure, trembling with all the words she couldn’t say. Her hands curled into your shirt like she feared you might dissolve. But you didn’t. You held her. Steady and warm and endlessly kind.

Weeks after you had returned to her, she stared at you in the candlelight, your face soft with sleep, the blanket half-tangled around your hips.

And she realized: she would destroy the world for you. Burn it down. Kill for you. Die for you. But more terrifying than any of that… she’d live for you.

She reached out, fingers tracing your jaw. “I was lost within the darkness,” she murmured, voice smaller than it had ever been. “But then I found you.”

You shifted, half-awake. “Hm?”

“Nothing,” she lied.

It wasn’t nothing.

It was everything.

Her forever.

And she would never let you go again.

[Author's note: I AM BACK! Yeah, no angst-sad ending this time, so gang, how did this feel? I love writing song-fics so much. Also I think the taglist needs to be updated, so comment if I missed tagging you!]

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