Bal•ter
(v.) to dance artlessly, without particular grace or skill but usually with enjoyment.
In which Y/n Addams is adopted into a family of pure outcast, being an outcast herself.
What will she do when she ends up going to a school that her ado...
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Burn Statue
"Still thinking." You plainly told him.
"Your decision doesn't have to revolve around her, you know?" He pushes his hair away from his face again. As if it was a nervous tic he needed to do all the time.
You shook your head, "My decisions don't always revolve around her, I have my own conscience."
"Really, I thought differently." He pulls you under the umbrella. "Even as we were kids, you were always behind her like a shadow. Why?"
Your steps faltered and he stopped completely, not planning to leave your side anytime soon. The reason was none more than clear to you. She brought you reassurance, gave you words of encouragement, and actions of love. She was your sister, your rock. The only person you could ever be dependent on. "Because she's my sister." You wave off.
Xavier hums doubtfully, "Hmm, yeah, because she's your sister?" He repeats. "It's not the fact that people tend to call you "fake" Addams?" You froze completely standing like a statue. You wish you were one in that moment. "So you stay by her side because then no one would ever dare to call you a fake Addams." His eyes stare into yours, trying to read every aspect of you, trying to get more out of you than a single page you allow those to read.
"Let me guess, your vision showed you or was it Bianca?" You stepped closer to him, your hair dripping water onto your face. "Trying to make you run for the hills since she's been jealous ever since you stopped staring at her."
He tilts his head lower, biting his lower lip. "How'd you know?"
"I have my ways." You hum out.
A moth came flying under the umbrella flying in between you and the long haired teenager. Lifting up your hand, you watched as the moth perched itself on the back of your s/c hand. Staring at it intently, everything around you flickered from raining to night.
Someone else's voice filled the air, "What kind is it?" It sounded like it came from a teenage boy.
Looking over at him, you saw two people standing close by without an umbrella instead it was raining stars. "It's a death head hawk moth." A much softer feminine voice sliced through the air.
You walked over to them tilting your head at them. The time was very much different. Rather than the present where it was raining like cats and dogs and every puddle could soak your shoes, this was a night filled with twinkling stars and a few dark clouds in the sky, with a huge singular light source.
"I would never understand why you love moths so much." The teenage boy states.
A small heavenly laugh left the girl's lips, "Oh come on, darling—" It looked like he held his breath when being called such a pet name. "—every psychic has different abilities. Mine are to control these wonderful creatures. It's only fair that I learn them as they learn me."
