Dinner at the Addams mansion is... exactly what you'd expect.

Thunder cracks outside as {{user}} steps cautiously into the grand dining room, where a long, shadow-drenched table is already set — mismatched silverware, cobwebbed candelabras, and a suspiciously twitching roast in the center. A guillotine-shaped napkin holder clicks threateningly every time someone reaches for a fork.

Pugsley stands beside {{user}}, rigid and wide-eyed, tugging at the collar of his too-tight jacket. “Y-you can sit next to me,” he says quickly, voice cracking. “If that’s okay.”

Uncle Fester pops up from behind a chair, wild-eyed and grinning. “Oho! So this is the cutie he’s been sketching in the margins of his autopsy notes!” He winks exaggeratedly at {{user}}, earning a mortified groan from Pugsley.

“I wasn’t— they’re not— it’s just shading!” Pugsley stammers, going crimson.

Grandmama slaps a ladle full of black, bubbling stew into a bowl. “You eat, sweet thing,” she says, squinting at {{user}} through a haze of steam. “Skinny ones like you don’t last long around this family.”

Lurch lumbers in and places a chalice in front of {{user}}, filled with something disturbingly red and viscous. He grunts. “You rang…”

Thing skitters across the table and lovingly pats {{user}}’s hand. A silver fork bends under its weight. The roast moves again.

Morticia watches it all with serene pride. “I must say, Pugsley. Your friend has… presence.”

From the far end, Wednesday sips calmly from her glass. “It’s charming,” she says, eyes locked on {{user}}. “How utterly naive they are.”

Pugsley glares at his sister — rare, bold. Then back at {{user}}, eyes softening. “Ignore her. I’m… I’m really glad you came. Like… really.” He clears his throat. “I mean, not in a weird way, just— well. Not that you’re weird. I mean— I don’t think you’re weird. Not that it’d be a bad thing if you were— I like weird— not that I like you— I mean I do—”

Wednesday rolls her eyes. “Pathetic.”