Goddessmoonlady - WTF My World... >_>

Just saw someone make a post trying to show that Xavier is the new Garrett Gates. You know, the infamous creep that wanted Morticia? I didn’t post or reblog because they ship another couple from the show and I didn’t want them to feel like I’m attacking them. I’m not. Everyone is entitled to their opinions and I just want to give my opinions as to why I disagree.

1) “Garrett was infatuated with your mother.”

Since they’re basically implying this towards Xavier, I had to post the definition. Xavier was not infatuated with Wednesday. He was enamored with her since the jump. Two totally different definitions. He likes her immediately and doesn't know why he feels so connected to her, he just knows he does.

2) “He mistook her kindness for interest.”

So, I’m supposed to believe that 10 year old Xavier thought Wednesday was “interested” because she saved his life? Bffr. Most 10 year olds still think the opposite sex is gross, let alone think that someone is interested romantically to them. And at first they said Xavier was infatuated with Wednesday, but then shows a pic of him telling her about her saving him as a kid. How is liking someone for over 6 years “short lived”?

And when in all the time of Nevermore was Wednesday kind to Xavier? She was untrusting and distant because of her wrong assumptions that he was The Hyde.

And didn’t Tyler do the same thing though? Mistake her doing the bare minimum as her being interested? Boy was down bad because she fixed a freaking coffee machine for him.

3) “His infatuation turned into obsession.”

Shows the pictures of Wednesday in the sketch pad and the big painting of her playing the cello to say he’s obsessed. Do they not get that Xavier also draws what’s on his mind or in his dreams? And he even admitted to Wednesday that he made the cello art because he couldn’t stop thinking about her after the dance. I think that was because she hurt him and he used his art as a way to get through it. Wednesday didn’t look scared or upset that he drew her, (when she saw either portraits) she looked quite the opposite, actually. She looked like she saw them for what they were- which were beautiful.

4) “And he started stalking her.”

He wasn’t stalking her. Since they used the picture of them in the rain tracking the Hyde’s footprints as proof he’s a creepy stalker, let’s talk about that. Xavier went there looking for her because he knew it was dangerous with her wandering around out there alone when there’s a murderous beast on the loose. He went there to make sure she was okay. Risking his own life in the process, by the way.

The other pic they used was them in the coffee shop. Xavier was assigned there for Outreach Day and Wednesday came in there!! How is that even remotely close to him stalking her?

Side Note:

Funny how they used all of these as negatives, but failed to mention how much Wednesday and Xavier parallel and mirror her own parents. You know, the happily married couple who are so deeply in love even after all of these years? This is all just my opinion though and the way that I see things🤷‍♀️

September is cool and all, but who’s ready for OCTOBER THIRST?

Ops, wrong painting

summary

'And so help me god, Thorpe, if something like this happens again-'

'It won't' He and his father answer at the same time.

The ancient vampire fixes both of them with a long stare. Shaking his head, he quietly adds one last jab

'And let's hope the poor girl never finds out about this'

At last, something all three of them can agree with.

Or, Xavier Thorpe is asked to do a recreation of a famous painting with a personal twist for his art class, but the canvases get mixed up.

*

Xavier Thorpe is a dead man.

Done, finished, utterly fucked would also be appropriate terms to use in this scenario. But yes, dead sums it up pretty well too.

He sits in the principal's office, left leg bouncing restlessly on the immaculate hardwood floor and eyes darting around uncomfortably.

His father is here, for god's sake. Sitting by his side with a burning glare pointed at his profile. He's just come back from a tour, the famous Illusionist Vincent Thorpe. This was supposed to be one of the rare weeks off he dares to take, which are usually spent in their house in New York, in the charming company of whatever emerging starlet he has managed to promise fame and short-lived luxury to.

Xavier can actually feel the sweat beading on his forehead and at the back of his neck. He keeps his flushed face downturned, his head hung low in his palm. blond hair is pulled tight between his fingers as his elbow lays against the armrest.

He knows he fucked up, big time. This is the first time in his school career he has reason to fear he might actually get expelled.

The new principal, a strict and burly vampire who looks like he's just emerged from 1920' London's downtown scene, was very much not impressed when his father offered to pay the school a check without even letting him finish explaining what his son had done to land him in so much trouble.

He now sits behind the imposing hardwood desk, directing an impressively hash glare on them for someone who's wearing such dark sunglasses.

'Mr. Thorpe' His rich, rough voice fills the room as he scrutinizes his father, and Xavier feels like everything is just too much. He can't stand being the center of attention and he's suddenly hyperaware of the way his clothes rest on his skin, fabric rustling and shifting and making him go insane. He's hot and cold all over, he hadn't felt this scared and embarrassed since he was scolded as a child for finding the gardener's collection of playboys.

'What your son here has committed is an extremely serious infraction. If his record so far wasn't as clean as it is, it would have warranted an immediate expulsion.'

Xavier feels like he should at least try to explain himself, but he knows he sounds exasperated. 'It was an accident'

'An accident?'

The headmaster's voice is booming and sharp-edged. The birds in the cages hanging from the windows flap their wings around restlessly. Xavier feels restless, too.

'One of my colleagues, Mr. Crellin, your art teacher, has come to me yesterday morning to tell me you have made a portrait of one of your classmates, an underaged girl, against her consent or knowledge, depicting her in a state of undress with a disturbing amount of details'

Xavier actually wants to die. Take a shovel, dig a hole, crawl in it, and just die.

His father is absolutely seething. He guesses this would be pretty bad press if the news were leaked.

He can already see the headline 'Famous illusionist's deranged son gets expelled from prestigious academy for depravity'

God, he hates to think about the huge check his art teacher has surely already taken to keep this all quiet.

He's able to find his voice, eventually, but he hates how low and wavering it sounds. 'That was not the painting I intended to hand in for the project'

If looks could kill, Xavier would already be laying in the aforementioned hole. Unfortunately, the headmaster's glare only manages to make him want to puke on his shoes. Which is still fairly impressive, he supposes.

'The point is that you have completely disregarded another student's privacy and integrity in favor of your own…enjoyment' His words are disgusted and enraged and Xavier hates every second of it because it's not like that at all.

Well, maybe a little, but still.

'And don't think I don't know what you can do with your powers, boy, if I come to know you're using your gifts to create some kind of..of amateur pornography-'

'Jesus fucking Christ'

He's never agreed with his father more.

'Look' He feels obliged to speak before the situation gets even, somehow, worse. 'I know I screwed up. Bad. But I swear I hadn't meant for anyone to see it, and I didn't do anything with it. The canvases got mixed up and I made a mess. Please, I know this looks awful, but I swear I'm not dangerous or scheming or anything. I'm just…I'm just-'

A fucking moron with a crush

He sighs, defeated.

The gods take pity on him, and so must do his principal who decides, for some unfathomable reason, to believe him. 'All of your privileges will be revoked until further notice, no more passes into town on the weekends and you will not be going to the carnival during the Harvest festival.' a deep breath, then ' You're going to help the janitors to restock the art supplies every week for the following five weeks. You'll be allowed to keep that shed you use in the woods, but a staff member will come unannounced once a month to keep an eye on what you have in there'

Ouch. It could have been a lot worse, sure, but still harsh.

'And so help me God, Thorpe, if something like this happens again-'

'It won't' He and his father answered at the same time.

The ancient vampire fixes both of them with a long stare. Shaking his head, he quietly adds one last jab.

'And let's hope the poor girl never finds out about this'

At last, something all three of them can agree with.

*

It all started on a shitty Monday morning, as most shitty things do.

Xavier lay half-splayed out in his seat, stretching in the sunlight filtering through the classroom's window like a stray cat, sleepy and dissatisfied in the pale morning light.

The lessons he had scheduled on the first day of the week were always awfully boring, but he didn't mind. In fact, he endured them with heroic courage, for no other reason than that the last one of them was art class with Mr. Crellin.

The man was a genius when it came to his craft. Even though he didn't dabble in the practical aspect of the arts, he collected rare renditions of barely known artists from all across the world and he knew every single thing about them.

His ability to analyze the most mundane detail in a painting and tell the whole history behind it, to take apart and examine the structure of the picture without depriving it of its poetry had been what had motivated Xavier to actually start studying art instead of just making it.

Drawing and painting had always been his coping mechanisms, a creative outlet to keep him from going mad. Madder, that is.

But he'd never been particularly proud of it or thought it very useful.

Mr. Crellin had changed that.

So imagine his enthusiasm when, a few minutes before dismissing class, the teacher made the announcement.

'Very well, guys. For your next assignment, I'd like each of you to find a famous painting of your choosing and try to re-draw it in your own personal perspective. Doesn't matter if you take a detail of it and transfer it in a different context or if you decide to redo the whole thing. As long as it tells me something about you'

While his classmates huffed and groaned, Xavier tried to keep his smile subtle, the gears in his head already moving.

'And remember ladies and gentlemen, it must be done by this weekend'

*

'Didn't think the day would come where I'd see you read a book without pictures'

Wednesday's words came so close to his ears that he actively had to suppress a shiver 'Oh, wait. There are pictures'

He glared at her where she stood, peeking behind his shoulder.

'This is an art history book, Addams. And they're not pictures, they're illustrations'

They were the only ones at their usual table in the quad during lunch break. The sirens had to move up choir rehearsal and Enid and Ajax were probably busy sucking face somewhere.

'Whatever helps you sleep at night' She eyed curiously his eyebags as she sat in front of him, a hint of a smile in the corners of her berry-stained lips. 'Although it's clearly not helping much.'

'Very funny' he shot back at her. He tried focusing back on his textbook, but his gaze shot up again when he noticed the odd way she had styled her custom uniform that day.

Her tie was missing entirely and the first two buttons of her shirt were undone. It wasn't promiscuous, per se, but it was still a noticeable difference from her usually pristine appearance. A pale collarbone peeked through the unfastened hem, looking as dainty and as fragile as a bird's. There, barely visible, bloomed an angry pink rash, three darker streaks in the middle as if she'd just been scratching at it.

When he realized he hadn't looked at her face for far more time than was polite, which is any amount of time, he dared to lift his gaze only to find her staring right back at him, one eyebrow raised impossibly high.

Xavier cleared his throat, fairly surprised but somehow alarmed by the lack of threats and knives. 'What happened there?' He asked, vaguely pointing at her cleavage.

Wednesday sighed in a rare display of emotion, letting her annoyance show through. 'Enid accidentally sprayed some of her nasty cheap perfume over me. Contact with clothes was only irritating it more and right now I can't afford to steal any more bandages from the infirmary without raising suspitions'

He snorted, shaking his head with an amused grin.

'Who's the elitist snob now?'

'Do shut up, Thorpe'

'As you wish, of course'

Putting her elbows on the table, Wednesday leaned in towards him to take a better look at the page he'd been studying before her arrival.

'What are you working on, anyway, so absorbed in your book with pictures'

'Illustrations'

'Whatever'

He sighed, secretly enjoying their banter. He had a feeling Wednesday did too.

'I have to work on this project for Mr.Crellin. So I'm just trying to find a painting that, you know' he trailed off, feeling clumsy in his own choice of words 'speaks to me'

Wednesday just looked back at him, seeming as unimpressed as she usually did. Then, as swiftly as she had arrived, she gathered her things to leave.

'Best of luck on your research, then'

*

A heavy sigh left his body as he stepped away from the canvas, cleaning his hands on his stained hoodie before rubbing them on his eyes, tired and heavy with sleep.

He dared to glance at what he'd been working on for the past four hours. The picture he'd managed to bring together was a rendition of The Starry Night, but instead of a peaceful city in the south of France, he'd painted the iconic sky on top of the streets of New York.

He imagined it wasn't fair to compare his father's penthouse to the Saint-Paul-de-Mausole asylum, but whatever. He supposed Van Gogh wouldn't have been too offended, fellow tortured artist and all. Besides, Xavier felt like he'd gone just as mad, left alone in that big space year after year.

The proportions were perfect, the moonlight on the skyscrapers was flawless, and he'd recreated the masterpiece's original sky in excruciating detail. It was original and yet respectful, it was objectively beautiful.

It was soulless.

Xavier banged his head hard on his worktable. Everything about his picture felt so…impersonal. He'd been so excited for this project, it was a chance to really show what he felt, to create something meaningful and personal and heartwrenching.

something that was real.

Everything had been a mess since the Hyde. Xavier felt as if he'd lost all passion for drawing. He still loved it, of course, and still needed it, but he couldn't go back to the easy way it was before. He didn't need to plan his paintings before, he used to put the pencil on paper without knowing what would come out of it. It'd been second nature, like he'd been born with a pencil in his right hand. But then the whole shitshow that was the previous semester happened and all he could manage to draw was the Hyde. And now he had to plan things out, as if he'd completely lost his instinct.

All he drew when he really let his mind wander was Wednesday.

He knew it was creepy. And unhealthy. He shouldn't just replace one obsession with another. but he just couldn't stop. during the past few months, he'd collected an alarmingly big collection of studies of her, his two most recent sketchbooks were filled exclusively with it. Just pages and pages of the curve of her hands, the bend of her fingers against the bow of her cello, the arch of her neck, the twist and knots in her spine, the bruises on her knees, the pout on her lips, her fathomless eyes.

His hands itched as his mind brought forth the image of her exposed throat from earlier that day, the pale flash stretched over her sharp collarbones, the angry rash barely visible under the open collar of her shirt.

He wasn't sure what he'd wanted more, to touch it or to draw it.

Fuck it.

In a move filled with frustration and confusion, Xavier put his New York starry night on the ground next to the door and took out a fresh canvas.

He looked at the cheap watch on his wrist that he wore specifically while painting, a bright green 1 a.m. glared back at him.

He put the blank canvas on the easel, dipped his brush in the deepest black he had, and just let his mind wander free.

*

Obviously he'd fallen asleep barely an hour before the start of classes, obviously he'd rushed and barely made it in time for Mr. Crellin's lesson, and obviously he'd taken the wrong canvas.

Good God, what a mess.

Xavier's currently contemplating what excuse he can pull out of his ass to explain to Ajax and their friends why he can no longer go with them to try the new sushi restaurant this weekend, or any other weekend, or any other day in the foreseeable future.

He shakes his head with a humorless laugh. Hell, at least his father showed up.

He's at least got a chance to a fair grade. He makes his way to his shed to retrieve the painting he had actually intended to bring to class, the one with the starry night overlooking New York City.

Mr.Crellin has graciously agreed to leave this whole thing behind them and take a look at his real project. He supposes he should be grateful.

He isn't. Mr. Crellin is a fucking snitch.

Xavier moves on autopilot through woods he knows like the back of his hand. He steps into the clearing, takes the key to the shed out of his pocket, and swings the door open all while completely lost in thought.

'I guessed you were bound to come by, sooner or later'

He comes back to reality abruptly.

His eyes go round and impossibly big as he takes in the image of Wednesday, her back to the door and voice light and distracted as she studies intently the portrait in front of her.

The portrait of her.

Xavier can feel the sweat turn ice cold on his body, the hair raising on the back of his neck as his heart starts beating so fast it feels as if it wants to crawl out of his chest, break the bones, cut through his ribcage, destroy itself and him with it.

He'd been drunk off of frustration and lust, the night he'd painted her. There wasn't space for poetry and poise, and it shows. He can only look on horrified as the real Wednesday Addams stares at the Wednesday Addams he made, eyes half close and lids heavy with promise, the sharp bones in her face, cheeks sunken in and tiny chin jutted out towards the sky, her hair unbound behind dainty shoulders, her delicate bare breasts, the deep arch in her spine as she poses as Munch's Madonna.

He wanders, wildly, how she came to find this out. If she had a vision or heard someone in the staff talk. He wonders how she managed to steal it from the headmaster's office and bring it here, if she's more offended by the nudity or the utter surrender in the stance he dared to imagine her in.

Most of all, he wonders what kind of painful, horrifying death she's planning to inflict on him.

But his nightmarish girl manages to surprise him once again.

With a chilling calm in her voice, she lifts a single graceful finger towards the canvas to point at the space right next to a small, pink nipple.

'I have a freckle right here, actually'.