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Her mornings used to be poetry, sun-baked and lazy. In the early days of Spring, the light would burn cold, the air frosty and fragrant. Everything frozen, from the top tree branches to the blades of grass, moss-green dulled into a glacial sage. And before the warmth began to set in, she could squeeze in a few extra hours of writing time. Her fingers restless on her typewriter, ink smudged, fresh pages crumpled into her waste bin. Those morning used to belong to her. Now, Wednesday found herself curled up on her side, tucked up in a little ball, watching the rays of morning light grow across their floorboards. Sunlight a little less icy, a little less rigid. A reminder of the time that had past. The stripes of hazy yellow starting to turn golden, starting to dance across the pale skin of her arm. Wednesday lay there for hours, staring wistfully. Wondering how it was possible to miss some part of her that never existed in the first place. Wondering how she could feel homesick for a place she had never been, not really.
It was all an illusion. A pathetic mirage that her subconscious seemed to desperately cling onto, trying to stay afloat on memories that simply weren’t real.
Wednesday did not believe in heaven, all cloudless and crystallised. But she didn’t exactly believe in hell, either. They were polar opposites and Wednesday did not believe that anything could be that black and white. Lately, everything seemed to fall into a grey-area in between. And Wednesday finally realised that she was stuck in purgatory - endless and inescapable.
The dreams were just the beginning.
— — —
Her bathroom was filled with steam, condensation sliding down the wall of the shower. Wednesday stepped out, wrapping a towel around her small frame, reaching for the comb that lay by the sink. She started mindlessly combing through her long hair, hardly squeezing out any of the water before retying it in two neat braids. It was something that she had been doing for as long as she could remember, more than capable of doing it with her eyes closed. It was easier to keep it out of the way. As she reached to pick up her toothbrush, another hand covered her own, pausing her movements. Wednesday stopped still, noticing the size difference in their palms, the contrasting shades of their skin. And when she looked up into the mirror in front of her, he was there. Standing behind her, far too close.
She couldn’t move, let alone open her mouth to speak. Her lips parted, but that was as far as she could get. Tyler didn’t seem so smug anymore. In fact, he seemed more preoccupied with trying to touch her. A finger running down the slope of her neck, catching the water droplets from her damp hair. Another hand curled around her hip loosely, feeling the thick material of her towel separating his skin from hers. He pressed a thumb into the side of her neck and rage erupted within her. It was so easy for him to touch her - as if he was entitled to it. Before she could rip his fingers away from her pulse point, his hands found the back of her thighs. Then he was lifting her, depositing her right on the edge of the sink. She was too horrified to say, or do anything to stop him. She could only watch.
His head dipped down, inhaling deeply in the space where her neck met her shoulder. He seemed a little less concentrated on aggravating her, a little less cruel than before. There was an element of desperation to him. As if he just wanted to be close. Maybe he didn’t know how to want anything else.
“Wednesday”, he murmured.
Her name had never sounded so sinful. His voice was so low, so deep. It set aflame parts of her that she didn’t know existed.
She should have pushed him away. She should have wrapped her hands around his neck and squeezed, watching the life draining out of his eyes. He was so tender, so helpless between her thighs. She was in his arms, but he was the one clinging to her. His jugular was exposed. It was time for the kill, time for her to finish this. But the second that her hands started to shake with anticipation of what they knew needed to happen next, Tyler’s lips found her ear.
“Are you angry at me?” It felt like sharp ice sliding down her throat, cutting her open on its way. “Or is it something else?”
— — —
Wednesday’s eyes snapped open the next morning. She almost fell out of her bed. Her room was exactly as she left it, and the early colours of dawn were already sliding across the length of their dorm. Nothing was out of place, no evidence that the dream even happened - if not for her heart fighting ruthlessly against her ribcage. It must have been a glitch. An error in her system, some kind of bug that had crawled its way into her mainframe. It was easy to brush off, and soon enough, she was preparing for the day as if it were just like any other.
And if she kept her back turned to the bathroom mirror whilst brushing her teeth, then that was nobody’s business but her own.
— — —
The moonlight bounced off every surface, making room for itself. It swallowed everything that it touched, blanketing everything in its sight. The moon made its way into their space every night, even on particularly cloudy forecasts. It always found a way, shining through their large window, divided equally. But something was different about it that night. Mellow and silvery - less eerie and more magnetic. It dripped over the walls, sliding across her dark sheets, feeling its way around her skin. It was a cool night, there wasn’t a need for Wednesday to wear anything other than a camisole and panties. The thin straps barely touched her narrow shoulders, sliding down to her upper arms as she twisted in her bedding. The room was still, the air slightly chilled. She couldn’t help her fingertips from dragging over her skin, feeling the smoothness, discovering the most sensitive spots. The moonlight made it look like she was glowing, effervescent from where she lay in her bed, touching herself.
She could feel her audience, even as he was quiet in the corner. Barely hidden by the darkness, breathing ragged. For some reason, she wanted him to watch. His outline was blurry, but she could hear him move closer, ears pricking at the rustling of her sheets. He crawled over her, his weight sinking into her own, pressing her down further into the mattress. But he didn’t interrupt her careful exploration, her fingertips gliding over her own arms, collarbone and heaving chest. Her thighs were pinned underneath him, and she longed to part them. As if he could sense what she needed, Tyler’s hands slid down and pulled them apart, his own fingers trailing lightly over the thin fabric of her underwear.
As she opened her eyes, she saw Tyler’s lips part. His eyes were dark underneath the moonlight, drowning in desire. But despite the impatience on his face, he took his time with her. Barely grazing his knuckles over her panties, watching as her hips bucked upwards, tilting towards him for more.
“Do you ever think about our kiss?”
He didn’t really expect a reply, and she didn’t give one. They both knew the answer. In her darkest hours, in her weakest moments - the memory played on a loop. The softness of his lips, the curve of his cupid’s bow, the press of his hand against the back of her neck. The feeling of his body pressed against hers, the warmth of his jacket. There was less fabric between them now, and she was painfully aware of it.
Tyler’s fingers finally slid beneath her underwear, feeling her wetness. She was so soft, so sensitive. He let out a groan, lips brushing against her forehead.
Wednesday begged for more with everything except her words. Her hips reached upwards, searching for more pressure, for more of his touch. Her nipples pebbled beneath the thin fabric of her camisole. Her eyes screwed shut, pulse fluttering with anticipation. He was barely touching her, just sliding his fingers between her heat, memorising every part of her. When his thumb brushed her clit, she let out a sigh that was dangerously close to a high-pitched whine, and Tyler stopped.
Her eyes fluttered open, filled with confusion and need. He stared right back down at her, gaze as intense as ever. He never grew tired of looking at her, it would seem. When lying, most people feel the urge to look away. To focus on the ground, or a window, or anything else in their line of vision. Something to distract, to buy them some time to make themselves sound more convincing. It is an instinct, but a clear tell. But Tyler knew better. Every single lie was told straight to her face. He didn’t look away once - not even for a second. He knew that if he worked hard enough, that she would believe him. And she did. He knew exactly what he was doing. Playing the love interest, stepping into the role with such ease. It was all so easy for him. Hiding his intentions, telling her just enough, being just truthful enough. Keeping her close, keeping her curious. Letting her dangle like a worm on a hook. And he still had her there, even now.
“Take over”, he ordered gently, eyes boring into hers.
Wednesday shook her head stubbornly, fingers fisting in his clothes.
He ignored her every attempt to pull him closer, pressing his knee between her thighs so that she couldn’t squeeze them together for relief. “Touch yourself for me.”
A frustrated sound left her, but she did as she was told. Underneath the glow of moonlight, his words were less harsh, his eyes less cruel. And her heart could easily overpower her head. Wednesday’s fingers trailed down between her legs, a place she never had much desire to explore. But with Tyler hovering above her, watching so intently, she wanted to put on a show. She began to ache. Her fingers circled the swollen bud, and she hated that it didn’t feel the same as when he touched her. Her hand was too soft, her touch too firm. She couldn’t tease herself like he did. But underneath the weighted blanket of his eyes, she tilted her head back and let herself relax into it.
“That’s it”, he praised sweetly, “I want to watch you fall apart under your own touch.”
She sighed, squirming underneath him. His hands cupped her cheeks, holding her face in his grip while it contorted with pleasure. He liked watching her up close. He could notice every twitch of her eyebrow, could feel her breath coming out in small pants against his thumb. He brushed the thumb over her full lower lip and without thought, her teeth clamped down on it. She whimpered around his thumb, and Tyler groaned in reply, letting her keep it between her lips.
“You’re being so good for me”, he whispered against her sweaty bangs.
Wednesday sped up her movements, hips bucking up uncontrollably. She could feel the tension building within her, and it was almost ready to snap. With Tyler above her, guiding her silently, it didn’t feel so scary. It didn’t feel so overwhelming.
He pressed a kiss to the top of her cheekbone. “I want you to come knowing that I’m watching.”
— — —
When reality hit, there was no stopping it. No labelling it as a slip, or a technical error. The morning light had never felt so harsh, and once her eyes snapped open, they started to burn with the ferocity of it. Her hands ripped the sheets away from her body, feet practically tripping on their way to the bathroom. The sound of the running water muffled until it sounded more like demented cackling. She called almost picture Tyler pointing his finger in her face, cooing at her condescendingly as if she were a child. Somewhere deep inside of herself, she convulsed with repulsion. Every organ in her body violently trying to reject him, aside from her stupid, naive heart. It was reluctant to let go - clinging to the remnants of something that was nothing more than a trick. Wednesday wondered if Tyler could still be tricking her somehow. She wondered if he was had a backseat view, siting and watching her subconscious conjure him up. She certainly felt violated enough, it wouldn’t surprise her if he somehow knew. If he did, she wondered if he was keeping score. If he was, he was certainly winning.
Wednesday turned the temperature control as far to the left as possible, letting the water turn icy cold. She shivered under the spray, scrubbing at her skin until it was red raw. Only wishing that she could scrub every corner of her mind, and heart clean, too.
— — —
When her eyes started to flutter open, the world was spinning. There were flickers of soft, amber candlelight and blurry images of faceless bodies hovering around her. They were too close, their whispers too loud. Wednesday felt her stomach start to churn, miserable with motion sickness. When she finally came to - she could feel the weight of the shackles around her wrists. They were cold against her skin.
And that’s when she noticed him - inching towards her, outline slightly hazy. From where she hung like a limp rag doll, she couldn’t make out his eyes. She didn’t know if they were still cold. Or if they were even capable of softening anymore. Maybe once the mask had been taken off, he had thrown it away. But she felt so alone, and so afraid. Her body was still waking up, not really understanding where she was. He was the only thing that she recognised. Maybe if his eyes softened for her just once more - the room would grow still. If they softened, this time she would make sure to appreciate it. Maybe he would turn back into the person that she knew, and maybe Wednesday would feel less like a trembling rabbit exposing her soft underbelly. He was the predator, but somehow she was clinging to blind hope that he might take mercy on her. He was all that she knew, all that was familiar to her shaking limbs. But just as he got close enough to her, another voice cut through. Cold and sharp as ice, leaving no room for argument.
‘Tyler, go wait by the boat.”
When his eyes left hers for a second, panic gripped at full force. A pitiful noise left her and as his gaze focused on her own once more, Wednesday pleaded with him. Her eyes filled with unshed tears, she practically begged - shaking her head over and over. Asking him to stop and think, asking him not to do this. Asking him not to leave her alone. But he looked right past her, and she knew that she had lost him.
Tyler shoved his shoulder against her on his way past, and something inside Wednesday broke. It may as well have been her sighed death sentence. All that was left was Laurel walking her up to the cinderblock - oh, no - the electric chair. Laurel wouldn’t want it to be over so quickly. Her hands dangled uselessly, head dropping, eyes down on the floor. It felt like giving up. She wouldn’t let Laurel see her face as she met her end. As she hung, boots scraping against the ground, she stopped to think about what she could have done differently. If she didn’t retaliate in the only way she knew how, she might not have been sent to Nevermore. The fate of the school might not have been left in her hands. If she didn’t stop for coffee, she might not have met Tyler. If she hadn’t been so busy falling into his trap, maybe she would have figured it out before she ended up here. A tear slid down her cheek, the tear of a sore loser.
Wednesday sniffed pathetically, too distracted to hear the sound of heavy boots climbing back up the stairs. A hand grasped her chin between two fingers, tilting it upwards. Her head throbbed, wound covered in blood that was beginning to dry. She reluctantly followed and met a pair of eyes. Light eyes. Tyler cradled her cheek, pressing delicate kisses all over her face. Wednesday trembled in his hold, confused at his sign of weakness, his show of tenderness. A quiet, pleading whimper echoed around the crypt.
One of his hands reached up, swiftly unlocking her chains. Her weight fell against him and Tyler wrapped an arm around her waist to help her gain some balance. He was so warm, the material of his jacket so familiar. He was touching her like she was familiar, too.
“You didn’t think that I was going to leave you, did you?” He whispered gently, kissing her forehead.
She sobbed with relief. She clung to him desperately as her body gained strength. It was so weak, so exhausted. She didn’t have any fight left in her. She wanted him to wrap her up in his arms and carry her away, hide her away somewhere safe. Tyler held her close, rubbing sweetly at the the sore marks around her wrists from where the metal shackles had been digging in. He let her lean against him with exhaustion and gratitude, stroking her hair. He whispered soothingly in her ear, telling her to rest.
— — —
And the next morning, Wednesday woke up.
She opened her eyes, knowing exactly where she was. Tyler was not there. This time, it was less of a dream and more of a memory. Except he didn’t come back. He didn’t press kisses all over her face and hold her tight, tucking her into his arms. He didn’t save her. He walked out of the crypt, the door slamming shut behind him. Wednesday felt her body begin to give up and she fought against it, using the last of her strength to break out of her chains. She crawled her way out of the crypt, pulling the door back open. And she saved herself.
This time, as the blades of grass began to dampen with early morning dew, Wednesday crawled back into the shower.
And she let herself cry.
— — —
Crackstone’s Crypt was devoid of colour, of warmth - devoid of life. There was something comforting about that. It reminded her of the countless gravestones surrounding their family estate, and how she would dig through the ground to spend time with her ancestors. She would push her hands through the earthy soil, feeling the mud cake underneath her fingernails. And she would smile, just a little. It was a colourless place, and yet Tyler had found a way to bring the colour himself. He covered the length of the walls with twinkling lights, tediously lighting small tea lights and candles, placing them in every corner and groove. He lit up every inch of the crypt, chasing away the shadows. In the middle of the golden kaleidoscope - lay a tartan picnic blanket. The entire thing was stupid. She wanted to tell him just that. But Tyler was smiling at her so earnestly - eager for approval and praise, and Wednesday clamped her mouth shut.
They sat down side by side, sharing the blanket spread out on the floor. She made sure that they were not touching, but that didn’t stop him from looking. He watched her instead of the movie, smiling at every scowl on her face, laughing in the face of her fear. Over the length of the movie, his hand inched closer to her own and Wednesday pretended not to notice it. She was afraid that if she acknowledged it, he would expect her to do something about it. Like hold his hand, or something stupid like that.
She didn’t want to hold his hand. She didn’t want to lean her head against his shoulder. She didn’t want to be sat next to him on the picnic blanket, and she didn’t want to let him look at her. And yet - there she was. And as much as she hated it, she couldn’t think of anywhere she would rather be.
Once the movie was over, he was close and she didn’t know how to move away. She tried instructed her feet to turn and walk away, but they wouldn’t listen to her. It seemed they had a mind of their own. His hair was golden underneath the lighting, more blonde than brown. Salted caramel - way too sweet. He looked at her like he would never get sick of it, like he wanted to pull a rope tight around the moon and the stars, begging the night to last a little longer.
“I want us to be more than friends.”
Wednesday couldn’t put her finger on it, but something felt too-familiar. A terrible, awful feeling started to twist in the pit of her stomach, like she had swallowed sour milk.
Tyler began to lean in close, his nose brushing her own. The candles lit up his skin, his eyelashes casting shadows over the tops of his cheekbones. He drew in a quiet breath, and somehow Wednesday felt as if she knew exactly what he was going to say next. As if they had been in that exact same spot before, as if the moment was turning into a memory before it was even over. The lights began to flicker menacing, a chilling wind passing through to extinguish some of the candles. The crypt once again felt devoid of warmth and life, but this time there was something less comforting about it. Wednesday blinked up at Tyler, his face so close, so familiar. She waited for his sweet, encouraging words. His hand reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, head tilting to the side. But what followed, was cruel.
“Did I make you feel special?”
— — —
Once again, Wednesday’s eyes snapped open. She was coated in sweat, hyperventilating. This time, she didn’t even make it to the shower before the tears started to fall. Hunched over on the floor next to her bed, she forced herself to take in slow, shaky breaths. A hand clasped over her mouth so that nobody could hear how pathetic she was.
The dreams didn’t end.
In some, he would simply hover. She would be typing away at her desk and he would snatch away her fresh pages, tucking them to his chest greedily. He would lay out on her bed like he belonged there, reading each word and then wordlessly placing the papers back at her side once finished. Sometimes he couldn’t wait and would resort to reading over her shoulder while she typed away furiously. He liked to hover while she played the cello, too. Out on her balcony, tucked away in the corner, sitting there quietly. Sometimes he was content just to watch. Those were the dreams that she hated the most. They started to feel horrifically normal, like little glimpses into the future. Just Tyler weaving his way into her daily routine, reminding her how well he could fit into her life. Those were the dreams that she hated the most.
After weeks of waking up disorientated and tearful, she found herself there.
The crypt looked less menacing somehow. It was still dark and empty, melted wax stuck to the ground from the candles that had been left burning months ago. And it was still cold, even with the door closed behind her. But every time Wednesday pinched her wrist harshly behind her back, she could remind herself that she was awake. It was not a dream, and he was not there. Somehow she had hoped seeing it in person, that facing it - would make her less afraid to go to sleep.
As she circled the space quietly, she thought about Tyler and her. And how well she played the fool. In her heart, she knew that Laurel would have pushed him into creating the picture-perfect, movie-esque date. She would have instructed him to bring candles, twinkling lights and popcorn in little black and white cardboard boxes. And Wednesday knew that Tyler would have tried to fight back, arguing that those were exactly the type of things that Wednesday would have hated. Still, Laurel would have insisted - telling him that Wednesday was still a teenage girl. And somehow, she hadn’t been wrong. In end, she fell for the sunshine disguise of the broken barista, she reluctantly found all of him and his stupid cliches endearing, and in doing so - she had proven Laurel right. She was just another teenage girl. She let herself become the punchline of their great, big joke. As she ran a hand over a stone wall, Wednesday wondered how Tyler felt when Laurel told him that she was dead. She wondered if the pair had raised a toast victoriously, cackling over the thought of her bleeding out. Or if it hit him - the death of the strange girl that he took on a date, sharing popcorn and laughter over a movie. She wondered if it hit him, even just for a second. Did he cry for her?
It was a startling realisation, that the devil does not look like what one might expect. There was no leathery, blistered skin or curled tail, not a single pitchfork in sight. After all, it was a shapeshifter. Hard to recognise, but impossible to mistaken for anything else. When meeting face to face, it disguised itself as a teenage boy. Instead of something grotesque and rotting, there was smooth golden skin and light eyes. A boyish smile, teeth all pearly whites. He was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Seemingly harmless, unthreatening. An easy distraction - too easy, in fact. The devil was a teenage boy, and she had danced with him, smiled at him, surrendered herself over to him. A teenage boy that knows just how to make you feel special.
The door creaked open, but there were no candles around to flicker
Wednesday kept her back to him, reaching down to pinch at the tender flesh of her wrist. She did it over and over again, each pinch more brutal - hoping to bruise the skin. But soon enough, a hand stopped her. And she still wasn’t waking up.
“This isn’t real.”
Her voice was meek and mild, the complete opposite of everything that she was. But maybe she didn’t know how to be strong anymore.
She could feel him behind her, still carrying the scent of the woods. If she closed her eyes, maybe she would still feel his hands fisted in the lapels of her jacket, maybe she would still feel his breath on her face. He looked feral that night. The mask had been dropped on the forest floor, and there was no turning back. He wasn’t worried about frightening her anymore. Gone was the uncertain boy from the Weathervane, and rather pathetically - she missed him.
“Isn’t it?” He retorted, but there was a tiredness to his voice. It wasn’t a taunt, it was a question.
Wednesday forced herself to speak firmly this time, commanding herself. “You aren’t real.”
She could hear his smile in his voice, then. “Been dreaming of me, cockroach?”
A part of her expected hearing those words to feel mortifying - but instead, she just felt angry. In a bold, and perhaps stupid move, she spun on her heels until she was face to face with him. Staring him right in the eyes. She wouldn’t let him get away this time. But Tyler looked anything but intimidated. His lips quirked once he saw her face, all of the blind hatred there - just for him. He was greedy, and he wanted it all. It was as if he could see underneath her layers of stone, walls of graphene - and see what her anger truly meant. Wednesday bristled, squirming on the spot. No, he did not know her. But instead of spitting in her face or mocking her any further, his eyes tilted downwards. He picked up the wrist that she had cradled against her chest, and gently pulled it away from her. A thumb brushed softly over the bruising that was starting to form over her pale skin - blooming like violets. He tutted quietly, and there was something in it that felt like affection.
“What do you want?” She swallowed her bile, forcing it back down.
Tyler glanced at her from underneath his eyelashes, still caressing her self-inflicted injury. The wickedness had returned, and he was back to taunting. “To ask a question.”
She bared her teeth at him.
He continued on, undeterred. “Why are you here?”
Wednesday narrowed her eyes at him, trying to work out his angle. There she was, practically baring her neck in defeat - offering herself up as a meal. A trophy for his collection, a prize to collect. And he wasn’t taking it. She just couldn’t understand why. Instead, he wanted meaningless conversation. Small talk, like they were nothing but old friends. Or even worse, ex-boyfriend and girlfriend. She wanted to tear off his ear with her teeth.
His head tilted, an echo of their date, an echo of her dream. “Why are you here, Wednesday?”
She spoke through gritted teeth. “Attempting to perform an exorcism on myself.”
“I wouldn’t have imagined you having a problem with being haunted.”
Her left eye twitched. “I have a problem with the ghost.”
Tyler fought to hide a smile, and she knew - Wednesday knew that somehow, he could see it written plainly across her face. She wondered when she became so transparent, so fragile - practically made out of glass itself. He may not have held the strings of her dreams, controlling them like some sort of puppeteer, playing for the crowd and extra tips. But he was somewhat aware, somehow - of the nightly torture that she had been enduring. And the bastard was enjoying it. He probably got off on it, the thought of her writhing in the sheets with panic and misery, clawing her way out of her sheets in the harsh daylight. He was probably proud that it wasn’t so easy for her to forget him. He probably liked it.
“I missed you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
He would give her that. “Probably not.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
And he did, curse him. She didn’t need to tell him. It was scratched into every inch in her skin, etched over her heart. And he knew what it meant.
When he took a step closer, the toe of his boots nudging against her own, he tilted his head once more. Just to dig the nail in a little more. “And now that you’ve got me here..”, his voice was low, gravelly, “…what are you going to do with me?"
In the blink of an eye, Wednesday roughly shoved him back against one of the stone walls and covered his mouth with her own. Her hands pushing on his broad shoulders, pinning him there. She wasted no time, biting at his bottom lip until there was a hiss, and then suddenly - she could taste his blood. Her tongue lapped at the small graze, curling its way into his mouth. He parted his lips for her without thought, every movement effortless. As if this had been his plan all along, all of the provoking and ridiculing - just for them to end up here. Tyler’s large hands found grip high on her ribcage, and he squeezed. Just enough for her breathing to get cut off, just so that she started to pant into his mouth. She knocked him back into the wall a little harder, using his distracted hands and mouth to rough him up a little. She wanted to leave him with bruises, with traces of blood and spit. She wanted to make him sorry for every dream, for every cruel smirk and every time that he stopped to make fun of her.
But then he was lifting her up, spinning them around and pressing her against the wall. He covered her body with his own, pressing his hardness against her. So that she could feel it, so that she knew what she did to him. Her skirt was hiked up around her waist, shirt rumpled, tie skewed. Of course she was wearing that fucking uniform. Tyler’s mouth tore away from hers, ripping her collar away so that he could reach the sensitive skin of her neck. Wednesday could not understand why a pair of lips on a different part of her body, should make her feel such a way - but there she was, gasping loudly into the echoey space. She could feel his lips quirk up against her collarbone, and dug her boots into the small of his back in retaliation.
Tyler jostled her in his arms, lifting her up a little higher so that he could rub his hardness against her. Wednesday ruthlessly tugged at the back of his curls until he pulled away from her neck to glare at her, and when his mouth was free - she pulled it back to her own. She was desperate to muffle any noises of pleasure, desperate to appear unaffected.
“You like that, don’t you?” He goaded spitefully, rolling his hips against hers.
Wednesday squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out his voice. The pressure felt so good against her aching core, and the primal part of her was eager to chase the feeling, to surrender just for a moment. If she had already stared into the eyes of the devil, she supposed she should get something out of it. She clawed at his shoulders, pressing him tighter against her, moving her hips whilst trying to match his rhythm.
But Tyler wasn’t done playing with her. “Tell me that you like it, Wednesday.”
It was a threat and she knew it. But before he could stop his movements, or drag it out any longer - she wrapped a hand around his jaw and tugged his face closer to hers. Her lips started to suckle against the hard structure, teeth catching on the delicate flesh underneath the ridge of his jaw. He grunted quietly, tightening his hold on her. When she bit down harder, cruelly playing with the skin between her teeth, his fingernails dug into the flesh of her hips.
“Fuck”, he uttered, rolling his hips against hers, slower, deeper.
Wednesday practically hiccuped, letting go of his jaw to tilt her head back. She dug her boots into his back spitefully, clawing at his scalp with her fingernails, hands in his hair. They rubbed against each other shamelessly, like animals in heat - existing purely on primal instinct. His nose ran down her neck and she shivered, clinging to him like a boa constrictor. His movements became erratic, breath haggard.
“Wednesday”, he rasped out, “…tell me that you hate me.”
She yanked at his hair, hoping to rip several strands out. “I hate you.”
He moaned against her brokenly.
It took everything in her not to say it again. If she did, there would be no more guessing. He would know, if she hadn’t given herself away already. If he shared her mornings, he would know. If he noticed the mournful way she stared at the beams of sunlight stretching across their floorboards, turning their room golden - he would see it. If he was right there, hearing her call out his name pathetically in the late hours of the night, muffled by her thin sheets - he would understand. If he watched her pass through her days and nights like a mere outline of a person, stuck in purgatory, repenting for countless sins - maybe he would have taken pity on her sooner. If he made her say that she hated him again, maybe her voice would finally break and cower - and he would know.
Their gasps and moans echoed through the empty space, and they reached their peak together - clothes rumpled, thighs sticky, hands restless.
And there, in the chilling air of the crypt, Tyler held Wednesday against the wall and breathed in deep against the skin of her neck. He pressed kisses to every inch that he could find, softening for her in the way he once did, eyes drooping. She caught her breath, letting him hold her up as he marked her flesh, whispering tenderly, “Mine. You’re mine.”
She didn’t need to say the words.
He knew.