Curves and Consequences

by KingRat77

Summary:

Enid is trying out clothes to win the attention of new boys in class. Wednesday is trying not to notice that Enid looks unfairly good in leggings. They both know there's something more.

Neither realizes how much things will change.

Chapter 1: Wednesday's Dilemma

The dorm wasn’t divided by tape or furniture, but by intent.

Enid’s half hummed with warmth — pillows in riotous colors, glittery hair potions masquerading as beauty products, posters that winked if you caught them at the right angle. Even her mirror had decals that blinked sometimes, like they were in on a private joke.

Wednesday’s half opposed it: books stacked like fortifications, storm-gray sheets, a raven presiding over her desk. The air smelled of ink and cold smoke, a barricade against intrusion.

It worked. Usually.

Enid stood barefoot on her pink rug, one leg bare, the other already swallowed by a black, high-waisted legging. She wriggled into the fabric with an exaggerated hop, then tugged it into place, smoothing her hands down her thigh. Her cropped top clung close, baring the subtle line of her stomach each time she reached and stretched. She bent at the waist, straightened again, twisted side to side as though making sure everything sat just right. The movements were casual on the surface, but deliberate in rhythm, each one holding an extra heartbeat longer than necessary.

Gravity followed her like a pet.

Wednesday forced her pen across the page, every letter shaped with brutal precision. Her face remained still. Her breathing did not.

“Weds,” Enid said, settling her hands on her hips, toe pointed, posture almost dancer-like. Her smile was bright, guileless. “Important question.”

“If this involves your posterior,” Wednesday muttered, “I will renounce speech and take up smoke signals.”

Enid’s grin widened, friendly as ever. “It does. I want to impress the boys in class.”

Her tone was sunny, innocently confiding. But her eyes flicked sideways, quick, hopeful, and when she swayed her hips once, then again, it wasn’t for the boys.

Wednesday’s pen hesitated, the ink pooling too long. She refused to look. She looked anyway.

Enid Sinclair was not the kind of beautiful written into sonnets. She was the kind that seared itself into memory. Heat-shimmer and wildfire, impossible to ignore. And her ass, Wednesday thought grimly, was magnificent. Not the crude language of boys. Not conquest. Form. Intent. A curve shaped into statement. And every bit of it aimed directly at her.

“I’ve been working on it,” Enid said cheerfully, checking her profile in the mirror, turning one way, then the other, pretending to judge with a critical squint. “Hill sprints. Lunges. The werewolf workout where you collapse and scare your roommates.” She straightened, smiling. “The boys will notice now, right?”

Wednesday’s pen carved too deep, tearing straight through the page. “They won’t,” she said flatly. “They’re too stupid.”

Enid glanced over her shoulder, catching her reflection and then Wednesday in the same movement. Her grin curved, softer now, a little more certain. “Good thing I’ve got a smarter test subject.”

Wednesday’s pulse tripped hard against her throat. “If I’m the control, this trial is doomed.”

Enid took a step closer, bare toes pressing into the rug, the sway in her walk natural but unmistakable. Her voice lowered, still warm, still friendly — but leaning, hopeful.

“Guess we’ll see.”

Enid bent down to rummage in her drawer, her hair spilling forward, golden strands catching the lamplight. She hummed to herself, bright and casual, as if she weren’t aware that every movement tugged Wednesday’s focus like a hook.

When she straightened again, she held another pair of leggings aloft; crimson, slick as lacquered cherries, gleaming wetly in her hands. “These,” she said, almost sing-song, holding them up to her waist. “What do you think? The boys would definitely notice these.”

She turned toward the mirror, pressing the fabric flat against her hips and thighs, shifting side to side as though checking for fit. The red clung by suggestion alone, painting itself along the lines of her body. She twisted, arched, and laughed softly at her own reflection, cheerful and innocent, as though she really were just polling her roommate for fashion advice.

Wednesday’s grip on her pen tightened. She told herself she would not look. Then she did, and her pulse stuttered. The red was obscene in the lamplight, a flare of heat in a room designed for cold control. Her skin prickled, damp with a sheen of sweat that gathered at her temple. She held herself perfectly still, praying it wasn’t visible, praying Enid’s werewolf senses wouldn’t betray her.

“They look,” she said at last, her voice precise but thinned by effort, “like something salvaged from a succubus’s crime scene.”

Enid’s grin bloomed, friendly as always, but her eyes glittered with quiet satisfaction. “So yes?” she chirped, like she’d just won a harmless debate.

“It’s yes,” Wednesday replied, her throat dry, “if your intention is chaos in a public corridor.”

Enid let the leggings slide slowly back down, fabric whispering over her skin until it dangled from her fingertips. She tossed them onto her bed with careless grace, then turned, her smile sunny, as if this were all a game. “So… black wins?”

Wednesday forced her pen to move again, though the sweat at her wrist smudged the ink. “They’re the choice of someone who already knows she’s being watched,” she said, measured and steady, “and knows exactly when to turn.” That earned her a smile that lingered a beat too long, not teasing, not sharp, but warm. Hopeful.

“Perfect,” Enid murmured, padding across the rug toward the desk. Her gait was unhurried, her sway natural, yet every step tugged heat closer.

She leaned down, just close enough for the faint brush of her breath to stir the air between them, bright eyes intent on Wednesday’s face.

“Thanks,” she whispered, still friendly, still innocent in tone. “Even when you pretend to hate it.”

Wednesday’s chest tightened, her body betraying her further with another whisper-thin sheen of sweat she hoped Enid would ignore. “I do hate it.”

Enid’s smile softened, steady and sure. “Sure you do.”

Later, as Enid curled beneath her covers, her breathing even and calm, Wednesday sat rigid in the lamplight, her chest aching from restraint. Her ruined page bore grooves where her pen had carved too hard, ink smudged dark where sweat had touched it.

She folded it once, twice, until only creases remained.

She tucked it behind the raven’s claw.

A record.

Desire, tested, offered, and answered with silence.

Chapter 2: Enid's Overreach

Enid woke up with a buzz in her chest and no chance of going back to sleep. Wednesday had looked last night. Not long, not soft, but long enough that Enid had seen it. And that was enough. Enough to keep her tossing until sunrise, buzzing like she’d mainlined six Red Bulls and a guilty conscience.

So: new day, new game. Leggings were yesterday. Today was makeup.

Her vanity looked like a fairy-tale crime scene already, bottles glittering, powders winking like they had secrets. She perched there, brush in hand, sweeping highlighter across her cheekbones like she was sharpening a blade. Out of the corner of her eye, Wednesday hunched over her desk, pen scratching like it was digging a grave.

Step one: narration. “Okay, so if I angle the shimmer just right—bam! Goddess cheekbones.” She tipped her head, smirking at her reflection. “Think the boys’ll notice, or will they just keep drooling over their lacrosse sticks?”

Not a word. But there was the tiniest hitch in the pen. Oh, she’d heard that.

Step two: lips. Gloss the color of candied cherries. Drag the wand slow. Smack. Smack. Loud enough to echo. Then swivel, full smile, wet lips catching the lamplight. “Too much? Be honest.”

Still nothing. But Wednesday’s shoulders stiffened, which was basically a scream in Addams-speak.

Step three: proximity. She bounced up and leaned her elbows right onto Wednesday’s desk, close enough her perfume curled between them. Vanilla sweet, wolf sharp. “I could tone it down,” she said, cocking her head. Then grinned, wide and sunny. “Or maybe bold is better.”

And there it was. The pen stalled, just a flicker. Cracks in the mask. Enid felt a thrill go hot in her chest. Time to push.

Step four: escalation. Ribbon from the nightstand, tied loose in her hair. Gold spilling over her shoulder. A slow spin, way too theatrical, then a flop onto her bed with a sigh worthy of soap opera reruns. She propped her chin on her hand, smile curving sharp. “So tell me, Weds—if you saw me walk into class like this, would you be impressed?”

God. It was too much. Even she knew it. She felt like the cover model for “Bad Romance: Werewolf Edition.” Next thing you knew, Fabio would show up with an accordion. She was two seconds from laughing herself off the bed—

“Enid.” One word. Guillotine clean.

She froze mid-pose, hair spilling, gloss still wet.

Wednesday laid her pen down like a weapon returned to its case, blot of ink bleeding across the page. Eyes locked, black and merciless. “What,” Wednesday said, voice low and surgical, “are you trying to prove?”

Enid’s stomach flipped. Instinct screamed: laugh, deflect, wag her way out. But the scalpel had already cut too deep. She sat up straighter, smoothed the ribbon, forced her eyes to stay on Wednesday’s.

“That you see me,” she said, quieter now. No grin. No spin. “That you don’t just… look past. That I’m not wasting my time.”

The room went heavy. Glitter bottles winked like they were in on the joke. The raven shifted on its perch, feathers clicking. And for once, Enid Sinclair didn’t chatter, didn’t grin, didn’t cover the silence. She just waited.

It started with the pen. Just a soft click as it touched the desk. Nothing loud. But in a room like this, quiet was sharper than shouting. “You are making me uncomfortable.”

Enid blinked. “What, like—because of the gloss? Or the—”

Wednesday didn’t even sigh. “Not fashion. Not glitter. Not your usual noise.” Her voice was flat. Clipped. But not cold. Not quite. “You’re approaching me,” she said slowly, “the way you approach boys you’re interested in.”

Enid’s stomach dropped.

“Or the way they approach you. All compliments and perfume and testing the angles of your hips in the mirror.” Her expression didn’t shift, but her eyes were locked, sharp. “It feels romantic. Or sexual.”

And that, that was the scalpel. It cut cleaner than anything. Enid sat back slightly, lips parted from where she’d been trying to form a joke. Nothing funny came out.

“I trusted you,” Wednesday said, her voice like the edge of frost. “You were my first real friend here. And I thought that meant I didn’t have to… be on guard. With you.”

Enid opened her mouth. Closed it. The glitter on her cheeks felt ridiculous now. Juvenile.

“I didn’t know you’d want more,” Wednesday continued, a little quieter. “Or that you’d try to get more by circling me like one of them. Like I’m something to pursue.”

Enid’s throat went tight. “I wasn’t trying to trap you or anything—”

“Then what were you trying to do?” Voice cutting through, solid and sharp.

Enid’s voice was thin. “I just wanted to matter. Closer.”

Silence. A pause just long enough to burn. Then Wednesday: “…You want contact.”

“Not if it hurts you,” Enid said immediately. A little broken. “I don’t want that. I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” Wednesday said. And for the first time, she sounded like she meant it. “I don’t think you meant to.”

And then,movement. Wednesday stood. Took one step, then another.

Enid didn’t breathe.

Then, arms around her. By any measure, a terrible hug; weird pressure, wrong angle. Yet somehow, perfect.

Because Wednesday was trying. Her body was stiff. Shoulders tense. But she was close. Holding on. Enid felt the effort. The heat of sweat at her temple. The shake in her arms. The way every part of her screamed retreat, and she stayed anyway.

Enid didn’t hug back. Not yet. She just breathed. Hands loose in her lap. Let Wednesday decide how long she could stand this.

Because this wasn’t about seduction. This was about trying. Trying to love someone the way they understood it. And Enid finally got it.

Wednesday wasn’t upset about the feelings. She was upset that Enid had tried to shortcut her way in. Tried to touch before asking. Tried to seduce instead of just... reaching.

So Enid closed her eyes. “I’m here,” she whispered. And this time, it wasn’t an invitation. It was a promise.

 

Chapter 3: Wednesday's Vigil

The air between them shifted after that. Enid was eager in their moments alone, almost achingly so. Not demanding, not pushing, but alive with anticipation, as if every small touch might open a door Wednesday hadn’t yet named. A hand brushing her sleeve. A shoulder pressed in quiet defiance of personal space at the windowsill. Fingers lingering at her braid, grazing skin.

Wednesday allowed it. More than that, she had started to notice, really notice, what she had once trained herself not to see. Enid’s body was impossible to ignore when it had been thrust at her in gaudy displays—glossed lips, forced poses, angles designed to demand attention. That had been cheap theater. And Wednesday had dismissed it accordingly.

But now? Now Enid moved naturally. Her frame curled on the couch in ways that showed off a body at ease in itself, long lines flowing without self-consciousness. Uniform skirts swaying with her stride. Dresses clinging and loosening in all the right places, emphasizing curves that spoke more of strength than ornament. Even unclothed in the neutral, domestic moments they sometimes shared, Enid carried herself with a kind of unstudied sensuality; skin and muscle and color worn as comfortably as a second heart.

It was, Wednesday realized, what Enid had probably wanted her to see all along. The curve of hip. The bright spill of hair. The warmth of her grin that carried into every line of her body. Only now, when it wasn’t shoved into her face as spectacle, did Wednesday allow herself to appreciate it. Not aloud. Not even framed as attraction. She told herself it was observation, nothing more. Appreciation for her friend’s joy in inhabiting her own skin.

And yet—her body betrayed her. The flutter in her chest when Enid leaned close. The tightening low in her abdomen when she felt the ghost of breath against her ear as Enid adjusted a braid. Physical signs that anyone else might call butterflies. Wednesday refused the metaphor, but she couldn’t refute the evidence.

Enid seemed almost impatient for the next step, her touches carrying that electric eagerness. Waiting for Wednesday to leap first.

But she would not. She could not.

Enid Sinclair would have to decide that herself. Risk silence. Risk rejection. Risk what came after.

And when she did? Wednesday knew she would not meet it with the cold dismissal she once thought inevitable. She would meet it as she had begun to meet all these smaller touches: unflinching, unyielding… but unable to deny the heat crawling traitorously through her body.

 

---

 

The boys hadn’t gone away. If anything, they were multiplying, as though stupidity could clone itself. The lacrosse meatheads. The scarf-wearing poet who smelled like stale incense. Even a cello major who looked like he’d wandered out of a tragic French film.

They orbited, stupid and persistent. And Enid cut them off.

She smiled too brightly, dragged them into conversations, intercepted them in hallways like she was some overenthusiastic bouncer in glitter sneakers. They peeled off, confused. And Enid smiled like she’d done them a favor.

The other girls noticed. They whispered, hissed, even asked outright why she was “stealing” Wednesday’s boys. Enid let them think it. Let them scorn her. Later, Wednesday overheard her mutter to herself: Better they blame me than bother her. Better they hate me than get close enough to be gutted.

The logic was absurd. Noble. Maddening. Entirely Enid.

It didn’t take long for the whispers to escalate into polite interventions. Girls who fancied themselves more like Wednesday—serious, dark, allergic to glitter—pulled her aside. One in the quad, voice pitched low like they were planning a heist:

“Look, we know Enid’s your roommate and all, but… don’t you think she’s using you? She’s everywhere the boys are. People are starting to say she’s doing it just to get more attention.”

Wednesday blinked at her with the deliberate weight of a raven staring at a worm. “Your concern is touching,” she said flatly. “Utterly misplaced, but touching.”

Another time, outside the fencing hall, a second girl leaned in like she was sharing state secrets. “I’m only telling you because I’d want someone to tell me—she’s making you look like bait. Like you’re the dark backdrop so she shines brighter. Doesn’t that bother you?”

Wednesday closed her locker with surgical precision. “No. Enid Sinclair is perfectly capable of making herself ridiculous without assistance. If she were using me, she’d have far more to show for it.”

The girl blinked, thrown off. “So… you’re okay with it?”

“Yes. But thank you for your vigilance.” Wednesday’s mouth twitched in what might have been a smile, though it looked more like the barest threat. “I assure you, if Enid Sinclair ever attempted to use me, she would not survive the effort.”

That ended the conversation neatly.

 

---

 

It was a Wednesday when the correction came. The irony wasn't lost on her. Enid was on the floor, working homework to death with a pencil stub. Wednesday was halfway through Dostoevsky, cataloguing his exquisite talent for human rot. She closed the book.

“You don’t need to keep taking the bullet.”

Enid looked up, wary. “What bullet?”

“The boys. The rumors. The accusations that you’re some shameless thief. You let them think you’re taking what’s mine.”

Enid flushed, then shrugged. “Easier if they’re mad at me than circling you. I can handle it.”

“You are absorbing hostility that belongs to me.”

“Yeah, but you don’t need to waste your energy on them. You’re… well. You’re a lot. They don’t know what they’re poking at. Someone’s gonna get hurt.”

Wednesday arched a brow. “You believe you’re protecting them from me?”

Enid met her eyes. “Both of you, actually. Them from you. You from the constant annoyance.”

Wednesday studied her. The chewed pencil. The ridiculous glitter clinging to her temple. The grin she used like a shield. Always bright, even when it frayed at the edges.

This wasn’t posturing. It wasn’t even for Wednesday’s benefit. It was Enid deciding she could take the bruises herself rather than let them land elsewhere.

Which made it—infuriatingly—something Wednesday respected. She stood. Stepped close enough that Enid stilled. “I don’t require your interference. If they trouble me, I will end it.”

Enid gave a nervous laugh. “Yeah, but then they’d really learn the hard way. I’d rather they just detour.”

“You already mattered,” Wednesday said evenly, raising a hand to press her fingers against Enid’s cheek. Deliberate. Grounding. “You didn’t have to sharpen your teeth to prove it.”

Enid’s eyes softened. “Worth it anyway.”

Wednesday allowed herself the faintest curl of a smile. “As long as you remember—I bite back.” A pause. Measured. Then she added, “And not all of them are circling like flies. A few attempt something else.”

Enid blinked, suspicion flickering. “Something else?”

“They talk,” Wednesday said, voice dry. “About things that are not themselves. Books. Music. History. Murder trials. They attempt honest reach. Primitive, yes, but less insulting than drool.”

Enid froze. Her throat worked as though she’d swallowed glass. Wednesday saw it: the sharp flicker of something territorial in her eyes. Not fear that the boys might succeed; fear that they might step further than she had. Interesting. “You dislike the idea,” Wednesday observed.

Enid tried for casual and missed. “I just… didn’t think you’d want them reaching that far.”

“Want?” Wednesday tilted her head. “Want is relative. I prefer observation. And I suggest you do the same. Study their reaches. Redirect them when you must. But if you’re going to involve yourself, at least treat it as a lesson.”

Enid looked caught between relief and insult. “A lesson?”

“Yes.” Wednesday’s tone sharpened, though her hand stayed where it was. “On what actual interest looks like. Not performance. Not perfume. Effort.”

Enid swallowed again. Said nothing.

Wednesday let her hand fall, stepping back with the grace of someone sheathing a knife. “Of course, that assumes you have the time. With all your… dates.”

That earned her a blink and then a blush, pink blooming high on Enid’s cheeks. She muttered, “Some of them are fun.”

Wednesday noted it with satisfaction. Enid’s fun was important. Necessary. It kept her alive, kept her messy and warm and unbearable. And yet, Wednesday also noted the hesitation, the quiet calculation in Enid’s eyes at the idea of others reaching her in ways Enid had not.

She didn’t press it. She didn’t need to.

Enid would think about it.

And Wednesday would enjoy watching her do so.

 

---

 

The boys, for their part, remained background noise. Annoying, persistent, occasionally useful when they strayed into subjects she actually cared about. Their fumbling attention wasn’t threatening; it was tolerable, like a low-level itch. Easy to ignore, easy to dismiss.

Enid was not.

Her nearness had become its own pulse in the room, steady and bright, her eagerness humming through every small touch. Wednesday found herself half-expecting the next one before it arrived, cataloguing each brush of skin, each too-long pause.

And yet, beneath the routine, Wednesday felt the tension building toward something larger. A leap Enid hadn’t yet taken.

That thought left her divided. Her mind whispered of boundaries and control, rehearsed the ways she would dissect the moment and neutralize it. But her body, the traitor, leaned forward in quiet anticipation. Each flutter in her chest, each tight coil low in her abdomen, betrayed her interest far more than she would ever say aloud.

So she endured the boys. She endured the waiting. And she wondered, with something perilously close to eagerness, what Enid Sinclair would dare when she finally broke past the safety of small touches.

And what Wednesday Addams would do when she did.

 

Chapter 4: Meeting in the Middle

Enid tugged at her jacket again and gave herself a look in the mirror like she was on trial.

It wasn’t about trying to look hot, whatever that even meant on a Tuesday with no plans. This was about being deliberate. Coordinated. Presentable in a way that said she’d thought about it, but not too much. The color palette was muted (for her), the skirt tasteful (but swishy), and the boots stomp-worthy. Earrings sparkled, but not obnoxiously. It was still Enid Sinclair… just one who had finally admitted to herself that she wanted one person’s opinion more than her own.

Behind her, Wednesday was pretending to read. Book open. Page unturned for ten minutes. Statues blinked more.

“I know this is probably a waste of time,” Enid said suddenly, twisting to face her, “but I kind of… care what you think. I mean—this is still me. Just me, considering you.” She winced. “That sounded less needy in my head.”

Wednesday tilted her head, inspecting. “Less sparkle. Fewer clashing colors. You appear dressed for a tasteful funeral afterparty on some over dramatized teen drama.”

Enid beamed. “So you like it?”

“I find it… acceptable.”

Before Wednesday could retract the admission or qualify it into oblivion, Enid surged forward a step and kissed her on the cheek. It was, if anything, nervous and sincere and… sweet.

Wednesday stepped back a single pace like someone measuring fallout radius. Apparently recalibrating.

Enid’s stomach flipped. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. That was so dumb—I didn’t mean to push—”

“You didn’t flinch,” Wednesday said, voice quieter now. “You reached.”

Enid blinked. “I mean, yeah. That’s kinda been the problem, right?”

“I was waiting for that,” Wednesday said, almost to herself. “But now I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t like feeling unprepared. Or like a fraud.”

Enid hesitated only a beat before she gently placed her hand on Wednesday’s shoulder. Just anchoring contact.

Wednesday didn’t move away. Not forward, either. But she allowed it. She just breathed, slowly and quietly. Then the door opened with a whack of cheer.

“Hey guys!” Yoko called, clearly assuming Enid would be the one paying attention.

Enid startled hard; still too high on the moment to modulate, and turned around with a low, instinctive growl before she caught herself.

Yoko froze in place. “…Okay, that was either a very intimate no or someone forgot to eat today.”

“Oh god,” Enid gasped, face going red. “Yoko—I—Sorry! I didn’t mean to growl at you!”

Yoko blinked. “Right. That wasn’t threatening at all. Very sexy lioness energy. Not terrifying.”

She glanced at Wednesday, who was watching the entire thing with a look that was… inscrutable, but slightly fond.

“Anyway,” Yoko said, recovering quickly, “just came to see if you wanted to hang out. We've got Mario Kart, tarot cards, and one last pack of the fake mochi that tastes like sadness. But if you’re in the middle of a moment…”

Enid looked ready to melt into the floor. “Give us a few?” she said, sheepishly.

Yoko gave a mock-salute and started backing out. “I’ll text you. Growl if you want me to bring snacks.” The door clicked shut.

Enid groaned and leaned forward again, burying her face lightly against Wednesday’s shoulder—not too close, but close enough to ground herself.

“I cannot believe I growled at Yoko,” she muttered. “I’m gonna die.”

“She’ll recover,” Wednesday said. “You didn’t even bare your teeth.”

“That’s… not reassuring.”

Wednesday’s eyes flicked to her hand still on her shoulder. Then back to Enid.

“I’m not scared of you, you know,” she said.

Enid lifted her head. “Really?”

“I’m scared of what you make me want,” Wednesday replied.

Wednesday’s eyes flicked to her again. Not her face, this time. Her hand.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, and yet something she’d clearly rehearsed in her head fifty times—Wednesday Addams reached out and took Enid’s hand.

Just like that.

Enid froze. Her breath hitched. And then she hiccuped.

“Sorry,” she squeaked.

Wednesday didn’t let go. “Apparently, I’m still terrifying,” she murmured.

 

---

 

Enid had only just started breathing again. Her fingers were still tangled with Wednesday’s, her palm warm and kind of sweaty, but Wednesday hadn’t let go.

Then came the voice. Calm. Blunt. Wedneday.

“That was… nice.”

Enid perked up immediately. “Wait, really? Do you want another—?”

“The outfit,” Wednesday said.

“Oh.”

There was a pause. Then, with impeccable timing that could’ve been mistaken for a dramatic sting if there’d been music:

“The kiss was rushed and flat,” Wednesday added. “I’m sure you can do better.”

Enid’s jaw opened slightly. “Wait. You—what?”

Wednesday turned her head slightly, gaze steady. Not smug. Just… waiting.

Enid blinked, brain visibly short-circuiting. “Okay. Okay, um—wow. Pressure. But like, good pressure? Or like, dissected frog pressure?”

“I trust your instincts,” Wednesday replied, dry as bone. 

Enid gave a tiny, giddy scoff. “I’m not going to growl at you. I don’t want to scare you off.”

“You won’t,” Wednesday said, so flatly it took a second for Enid to register it. Then she grinned; slow, thrilled. “Okay then. Better kiss coming up. At some point. When you're ready. Just, you know… FYI.”

“I’m holding you to it.”

They sat together like that for a while.

 

Chapter 5: Rumors in the Quad

Enid tried to act like nothing had changed.

She failed.

The boots had bounce. The hair had lift. Even her hum—tuneless, persistent, probably stolen from the bridge of some boy band ballad—trailed after her like a confession she didn’t mean to make.

Breakfast didn’t help. Four separate people asked why she looked like she was starring in her own internal music video. Yoko caught her mid-spin at the juice station. Ajax put down his fork like she’d just announced she was giving up sugar.

“You okay?” Ajax asked, eyes narrowed. “You’re glowing. Like… promposal glow. Weird moonlight kind.”

“I’m fine,” Enid chirped, stabbing her fruit cup a little too enthusiastically. “Totally fine. Absolutely normal, nothing-to-report fine.”

Yoko tilted her sunglasses down. “You’re humming.”

“I hum.”

“And swaying.”

“I sway.”

“You smiled at Weems.”

“…Accident.”

Ajax leaned closer, squinting like she was an alien specimen. “So, what—are you in love, or did you just have really good yogurt?”

Enid grinned. Too wide. Too many teeth. “Both. Maybe. Could be. You’ll never know.”

Ajax’s suspicion deepened. “This about that senior from Jericho? Vape pen, tragic hair?”

“First of all, his hair was moody, not tragic. Second—no ghosting. We’re still texting.”

“But not just texting?” Yoko asked, tone dripping with nosy energy.

Enid hesitated. Calculating how much giddiness she could leak without blowing her cover. “Not just him. Not just anyone.”

Bianca, across the way, didn’t even look up from her apple slices. “Big talk for the girl who went feral over a rhythm guitarist that couldn’t play past four chords.”

“He had depth,” Enid shot back.

“He had a Tumblr,” Yoko muttered.

“And a black-and-white profile pic,” Bianca added. “That’s how you know he’s emotionally unstable and begging for attention.”

Enid groaned, hands in the air. “Fine! I have a type! Maybe I’m… trying out a new one.”

Yoko raised her glass of beet juice in mock salute. “To character development.”

Enid clinked her spoon against it solemnly. “To confusing everyone.”

She looked down at herself. Still coordinated. Still Enid. But bolder. Pinks warmer. Blacks deliberate. The silver necklace too nice for a Wednesday morning, catching the light anyway. Not just fashion—expression. An experiment. Seeing what else felt like her… and maybe what felt like them.

Wednesday hadn’t commented that morning. Not exactly.

She’d looked up from her book. Eyes flicked down, then back up. One pause. One nod.

“Better,” Wednesday said.

Which, in Addams-speak, was a standing ovation.

Enid had nearly tripped over her backpack. And if she’d spun once in front of the mirror before leaving—well. That was between her and the mirror.

Except it wasn’t. By 9:30 AM, everybody knew.

---

By mid-morning, the gossip had mutated.

The question wasn’t why Enid was sparkling like a soda can in July. It was who was responsible.

Names circulated. Jericho boy. Fencing partner. Ajax (denied loudly enough to nearly choke on his own breakfast).

Then Bianca, predator instincts humming, leaned back in her chair. “If anyone knows, it’s her roommate.”

Silence. Heads turned.

Three tables away, Wednesday Addams sat alone, sipping black coffee like it was brewed from sins. Book open. Medieval torture devices. Her natural habitat.

Someone snorted. “Right. Because Wednesday’s totally in on… whatever this is.”

Laughter. Agreement. Relief. Absurd idea. Wednesday didn’t do sunshine. She didn’t do anyone.

And yet.

Eyes lingered. Because if Enid Sinclair was glowing this bright, who else could know the truth but the girl who shared her walls?

Wednesday flipped a page. The sound was too sharp, too timed. She looked up.

Her gaze cut through the whisperers like wire. No words. No threat. Just a look that made them regret every choice leading up to this meal.

Eggs. Eyes down. Everyone scattered back into their food. Everyone but Bianca, who held the stare a second longer. Long enough to see it: not denial. Not confirmation. Something else. Unreadable.

For Bianca, that was enough to make a new note on the chalkboard in her head.

---

Rumors dripped after that.
Not wildfire. Drip. Drip.

Someone swore they’d seen Enid brush Wednesday’s wrist in the greenhouse. Casual. Deliberate. Shocking.
Another swore Enid had growled at a guy for staring too long in fencing class… then made out with the same guy behind the bleachers by third period.

Both technically true. Neither the whole story.

---

Teacher lounge.

“Have you noticed?” Thornhill asked, sipping from her mushroom mug.

“I try not to,” Mr. Grimsley muttered. Man taught Mythical Ethics and once caught Wednesday disassembling a pressure-trigger hex with bare hands. He had the haunted look of a man who no longer wanted to notice anything.

“No, I mean Enid and Wednesday.”

He blinked. “…Are they murdering someone together?”

“No. Just—tone shift. The growling’s still there, but it’s more… possessive than aggressive. Wednesday’s sarcasm is slower. Like she actually listens. Very weird.”

“Teenagers,” Grimsley sighed. “Disease.”

“Adolescence is transformation,” Thornhill countered.

“Like lycanthropy,” he said.

Thornhill didn’t deny it.

---

That night, Enid bounced once on her heels before sitting on Wednesday’s bed like it was an altar she wasn’t sure she was supposed to touch.

“You’re staring,” she said.

“I’m considering the hypocrisy of allowing you to invade my space while resenting everyone else.”

“Wanna kick me out?”

“You’d just come back.”

“Correct.”

Silence.

Enid swallowed. “I kissed Xavier last night.”

Nothing. Mask steady.

“It was nice,” Enid said quickly. “But like eating a mint after dessert. Refreshing. Not wrong. Just… not what I wanted.”

Wednesday’s gaze didn’t flicker. “Are you telling me this to provoke me?”

“No. I’m telling you so I can understand.”

A pause. Then a small nod. “You’re still attracted to boys.”

“Yeah. But you’re the exception I can’t seem to label.”

“Good. I dislike categories.”

Wednesday’s hand moved—calm, mechanical. A single finger brushed the back of Enid’s wrist before her hand closed over it, cool and deliberate.

“I don’t want to be your exception,” she said. “I want to be your decision.”

Enid’s breath hitched. She leaned in, quick and nervous, and kissed Wednesday’s cheek.

Soft. Real. Stayed this time.

Wednesday blinked once. “Marginally improved.”

Enid scowled. “That’s it?”

“You didn’t squeak. And you aimed properly.”

“Wow. Harsh grader.”

“I’m precise,” Wednesday said. A beat. “But I won’t object to continued practice. For the sake of measurable data.”

Enid grinned, helpless. “Oh no. You’ve made it a project.”

Wednesday’s thumb brushed her palm. “You make everything difficult.”

“But worth it?”

Expression unchanged. But the silence carried weight.

“Noted,” Enid said softly.

She leaned her head on Wednesday’s shoulder, fully relaxed for once. “Next kiss? Solid B-plus. Minimum.”

“Your confidence is disturbing.”

Enid chuckled. “You like it.”

Wednesday didn’t answer. But she didn’t disagree.

---

Later, Enid passed Xavier in the quad. He was talking about charcoal technique. She waved. He smiled. She smiled back.

Then she crossed to Wednesday, dropped into the seat across, and opened her sketchpad. Wolves in bowties spilled onto the page. Tail swished once.

Wednesday glanced up. Eyes swept the crowd, then returned to her book.

“Visible spectrum,” she murmured.

Enid looked up. “Hmm?”

“You’re the visible spectrum. Everyone sees you. Hears you. Feels you.”

“And you?”

“I am the ultraviolet.” Wednesday’s voice was low, certain.

Enid’s smile spread, slow and incredulous. “Only visible to a few?”

Wednesday’s gaze lingered.

“To you.”

---

Chapter 6: Controlled Variables

Three days.
That was how long Enid had been running on fumes and butterflies since Wednesday dropped the ultraviolet line. Three days of pretending to function like a normal teenage werewolf when she wasn’t. Three days of trying to keep her heart from short-circuiting every time her roommate turned a page.

She’d even gone on another date with one of the Jericho boys, just to prove—to herself, to Wednesday, maybe to the moon, that she could still do the thing. Boy. Movie. Soda. Kissing in the dark. It should’ve been enough.

It wasn’t.

She came back to campus wired and frustrated, and Wednesday was there, sitting cross-legged on her bed with a book thick enough to be used as a murder weapon. Same as always. Like Enid wasn’t losing her mind. So she snapped.

“You know what’s not fair?” Enid said, dropping onto the quilt hard enough to jolt Wednesday’s coffee cup.

Wednesday didn’t look up immediately. “Existence.”

Enid threw her hands up. “You. Saying stuff like—you’re ultraviolet, only visible to me—and then just… flipping to the next page like it’s nothing. Do you even realize what that does to me?”

Wednesday’s eyes flicked upward, flat and unblinking. “I’m aware.”

“That’s the problem!” Enid half-growled. “Normally, when somebody gets me wound up like this, I’d just—” She broke off, cheeks burning. “I’d pounce. Kiss them until they forgot their own name. Maybe more. But with you?” She laughed, sharp and nervous. “With you, I feel like if I even tried, I’d either break you into a million pieces or end up with a blade through my ribs. And that is a really, really uncomfortable place to be when I—” Her voice cracked, but she forced the words out. “—when I feel this much.”

For a second, the room was nothing but the sound of Enid’s pulse trying to hammer its way out of her throat.

Then Wednesday closed the book with the kind of careful precision that was somehow scarier than if she’d slammed it. She set it aside. “Then perhaps,” she said, tone flat as a scalpel, “you should stop narrating your anxieties and test your hypothesis.”

Enid blinked. “Wait, you mean—”

Her body made the decision before her brain caught up. She leaned in and kissed her. It wasn’t dramatic. Just a trembling, steady press of lips, desperate and terrified all at once.

And then she saw it: a single tear sliding down Wednesday’s cheek.

“Oh no,” Enid gasped, pulling back in panic. “Oh no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean, I thought maybe—crap, crap, crap—”

Wednesday cut her off without a word, hand coming up to grip her jaw, cold and deliberate.

And then Wednesday Addams kissed her back. Precise. Unhurried. Surgical. The kind of kiss that didn’t leave any room for misunderstanding.

Enid made a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh, breathless. “You—you kissed me back.”

“Yes,” Wednesday said softly. “Thank you.”

Enid’s heart tried to escape her chest. Before she could even respond, Wednesday leaned in again. This time there was nothing tentative about it. Her mouth was firm, exact, claiming. A decision made and executed.

When she drew back, her hand still anchored to Enid’s jaw, her eyes were steady.

“I hope that tells you where we stand.”

Enid laughed, half-hysterical, half overjoyed, tears pricking her own eyes. “Oh my god. You’re going to ruin me.”

Wednesday’s lips curved, the barest flicker of a smile. “That is the plan.”

 

---

The Next Day

Enid didn’t bounce out of bed. Didn’t hum. Didn’t skip her way across the quad.

She moved slowly, like the ground might crumble if she stepped too hard.

Her friends noticed.

“You’re quiet,” Ajax said carefully, as if he were trying not to spook her.

Yoko shoved her sunglasses down her nose. “Brooding. She’s brooding. It’s weird.”

Enid stirred her yogurt, eyes fixed on the swirl at the bottom of the cup. “I’m just… thinking.”

Bianca snorted. “That’s a first.”

Enid didn’t bite or tease. She let it roll off, because the truth was still buzzing in her chest, too big to cover with words.

She could still feel Wednesday’s hand on her jaw. Still hear that last line. I hope that tells you where we stand. It hadn’t lit her up like fireworks this time. It had sunk deeper, heavier. An anchor.

For once, she didn’t want to run off the energy. She wanted to sit with it. To process what it meant that Wednesday, who didn’t cry, didn’t bend, didn’t break, had shed a tear and kissed her back. Twice.

So she stayed quiet. She thought. And when people whispered she seemed “off,” she didn’t correct them. Because she wasn’t off at all.

For the first time in a long time, Enid Sinclair felt exactly, terrifyingly, right.

 

Chapter 7: Unwritten Words

Wednesday didn’t write today.

Her journal sat in her lap, splayed open like something wounded. The blank page stared up at her smug, like it had already guessed the thing she hadn’t said yet.

She’d been staring at the last line for... she wasn’t sure how long. “The first girl I kissed wasn’t a monster.”

It had come out of her hand unfiltered, which was rare. She usually carved her thoughts into the page with precision, the way surgeons cut away rot. But this one had slipped out soft, unscalpelled. Honest. And now she had nothing to follow it.

The conservatory, usually her preferred retreat for silence and rot and the calming presence of carnivorous plants, felt too alive today. The moss smelled like it had been overwatered. There was a beetle crawling across her boot, too slow, too exposed. She didn’t squash it.

She should’ve been analyzing the kiss — cataloguing her heart rate, noting the exact moment Enid tilted her head, where her hand landed first, the angle of her breath. That was what she did. Control the data. Draw a conclusion. Box the thing and label it.

But nothing like that had happened. Not even a mental snapshot. Just… Stillness. Warmth.

That quiet click of something fitting exactly where it was supposed to go.

The memory kept looping in her head — the softness of Enid’s mouth, the way her lips had trembled at first, like she hadn’t expected Wednesday to actually do it. But she had. With no agenda. No shield of irony. No calculated detachment. She’d kissed Enid because she wanted to.

And her body hadn’t flinched. Her mind hadn’t curled in on itself. No nausea. No sense of being cracked open for someone else's amusement. That was the part that unnerved her most.

Because when Tyler kissed her, there had been an immediate sense of wrongness, like someone was picking the lock on her spine, trying to steal something. She hadn’t known why, then. She’d called it nerves, or confusion. Maybe that was just how it was supposed to feel, she’d reasoned. Maybe discomfort was part of the exchange.

It wasn’t. Enid had proven that in under ten seconds.

Her kiss had felt like someone placing a hand on her shoulder and not asking for anything in return. Just letting her be seen, and held, and somehow still herself. No intrusion. No masks. No danger. Just Enid.

And then there was the room.

Their room.

She’d hated it at first. Too colorful. Too loud. Too saturated with feelings she didn’t have words for. It had smelled like candy and shampoo and whatever body spray Enid insisted on using even though it gave Wednesday a low-grade headache.

But somewhere along the way, it had become a kind of… anchor.

The chaos had become texture. The scent had become familiar. There was a throw blanket on Enid’s bed that Wednesday would find herself glancing at during storms. She’d pretend it was visual clutter, but the truth was it reminded her of presence.

She’d come to recognize the rhythm of Enid’s breathing when she was asleep. The sound of her bouncing a lip gloss tube off the dresser when she couldn’t focus. The way she hummed tunelessly under her breath when she thought no one was listening.

The dorm room wasn’t just tolerable now. It was theirs. And maybe that meant something too.

Wednesday exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh, but close.

She closed the journal with a soft snap, stood, and left the conservatory behind.

No words today.

She didn’t need them yet.

 

---

 

“Okay, wait—she kissed you?” Divina blinked, half-laughing.

Enid buried her face in her hands. “Yes. I mean. I kissed back. Obviously. But yeah.”

Yoko leaned back against her desk, arms crossed. “Damn. I thought she’d combust if someone touched her for more than five seconds.”

Enid groaned. “Guys, I’m freaking out.”

Divina’s voice softened. “Because of her, or because of… everything else?”

Enid hesitated. “Not her. No, never her. She actually… I don’t know. Made me feel calm. Not butterflies, exactly. Just—like I could exhale.”

She hugged her knees, worrying at her thumbnail. “It’s the other stuff. My mom’s already convinced Nevermore is some lawless den of corruption. If she finds out I’m dating a girl who collects medieval weaponry and names her spiders after 19th-century assassins—”

“—she’s gonna lose her mind,” Yoko finished, deadpan.

Enid huffed out a laugh. “Pretty much. I mean, my dad? He’d probably throw a glitter parade. But my mom… she thinks people like me are fine in theory. Just not if they’re related to her.”

Silence settled for a beat.

Divina leaned forward. “Do you like her?”

Enid looked up. “It’s not even about like. I get her. I want to be near her, even when she’s silent and weird and clearly trying not to feel anything. And when she does let herself feel something? It’s like watching the moon rise in reverse. You don’t know when it started, just suddenly, it’s there.”

Yoko gave a quiet nod. “Then don’t let fear talk you out of something good.”

 

---

 

The dorm was quiet when Enid returned.

She didn’t knock. Of course she didn’t — it was her room too. But some part of her heart fluttered like she should. Like something had changed and she didn’t know the new rules yet.

Wednesday was perched on their windowsill, book abandoned in her lap. The silver light caught the curve of her profile, softening her usual edges.

She looked up when Enid walked in. And she smiled.

It wasn’t showy or theatrical. Not the toothy kind she gave Uncle Fester when he smuggled her a new set of lock picks. No smug sarcasm, no wicked gleam. Just a small, quiet pull at the corner of her mouth — genuine and unfinished and strangely fragile.

Enid froze. “…Hi,” she said, voice too soft.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Wednesday said simply.

Enid crossed the room like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to yet. When she sat beside Wednesday, their knees touched. Neither moved away.

They looked at each other — and this time, neither looked away first.

Wednesday turned a little more toward her. Enid’s breath caught. She knew this moment. That heartbeat before something real. She reached up, instinctive and eager, fingertips brushing Wednesday’s cheek—

But Wednesday flinched back just slightly.

Enid stopped, hand retreating halfway. “Sorry—did I mess it up?”

“No,” Wednesday said. “I just…”

She looked down, then back at Enid, gaze steady but unarmored.

“I want to do this. Just—my way. Slowly.”

Enid nodded, heart in her throat.

So she stayed still. Let Wednesday lean forward, slow and sure, until their lips met again.

This kiss was quieter than the first — not hesitant, but aware. Like both of them understood exactly what they were doing now.

Enid’s arms slipped around Wednesday’s waist with a gentleness that surprised even her. Wednesday’s hands found her shoulders, then the back of her neck, then stayed there. Holding. Not gripping.

They stayed like that for a long moment, arms around each other on the windowsill, legs tangled up in moonlight and shadows. The world outside didn’t seem to matter. There was only the hush between them — soft, deep, holding.

Wednesday didn’t pull away this time. She kept one hand at the back of Enid’s neck, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of her collar. There was no urgency. Just presence.

Then, quietly, like she wasn’t quite sure if she should say it out loud but was going to anyway, Wednesday spoke.

“I suppose I should put a name to this.”

Enid pulled back just far enough to see her face. Wednesday’s expression was unreadable, but her voice stayed level. “It’s mentioned enough in old poems,” she continued, “though usually in an overwrought, overly symbolic fashion. People throw the word around until it dissolves. But when it’s real, it doesn’t feel like some huge, thunderous thing.”

She paused. Then, simply: “It just fits.”

Enid watched her, breath still.

Wednesday’s voice went even quieter. “I think I love you, Enid Sinclair.”

For a heartbeat, Enid just stared at her.

She hadn’t expected Wednesday to be the one to say it first. Not because she didn’t feel it — Enid knew she did, had felt it in every quiet shift, every look that lingered when Wednesday thought she wasn’t paying attention. But Wednesday wasn’t one to leap. She measured. She dissected.

Still… it made sense. Wednesday would never let the feeling pile up, let it fester into something that took root in her without her consent. She’d want it defined, studied, spoken out loud. It was her version of control — naming the thing so it didn’t name her.

And Enid?

Well, Enid kissed her again. Because her brain had completely shut off from the joy blooming out of her chest, and her heart had decided it could do the talking for now.

When she finally pulled back, her voice was breathless but sure.

“I love you too, Wednesday Addams.”

Wednesday did smile then; her eyes softened, and she let her forehead rest against Enid’s like she could finally stop holding herself so tightly.

Outside, the moon kept rising.

Inside, two girls who should’ve never worked, one wrapped in sunlight, the other in stormclouds, had found something steady.

Just love.

And that, for both of them, was more than enough.

 

Chapter 8: Mutually Assured Distraction

 

Jericho was off-limits. Officially.

The town had closed its gates after the Hyde attacks. After the fire at the pilgrim crypt. After a student from Nevermore was blamed for everything from grave desecration to trauma-inducing poetry at the town hall.

It didn’t matter that the Hyde had been apprehended. That Tyler Galpin was now locked inside Willowby Sanitarium, sedated and shackled in silence.

The humans were afraid. And fear hardened into rules.

Principal Barry Dort, newly appointed and perpetually enthusiastic, addressed the student body with jazz hands and visible flames.

“No crossing into Jericho,” he bellowed at orientation, practically vibrating with energy. “Even if you smell espresso. Even if you miss Target. No. It’s not safe. For them or us.”

Then he lit his sleeve on fire accidentally and had to stop-drop-and-roll through the decorative succubus banner.

 

---

Date One: Twilight in the Woods

They weren’t allowed in Jericho. So they went offroad instead. Into the woods, where no one bothered posting rules.

Enid brought cocoa. Two thermoses. Extra cinnamon. No apology.

Wednesday brought a lantern, a blank journal, and a long black scarf she refused to explain. The scarf never came off.

They sat under a skeletal sycamore. Its bark looked like frostbite. Above, owls had a screeching match over something territorial and stupid. The wind smelled like old fire and cold earth.

It was Enid who leaned in first. Of course it was.

She started at the ear. Just a kiss. Barely there.

Wednesday flinched. Not away—from gravity, apparently. Her spine straightened like she’d been rewired.

“I assume you’re testing a hypothesis,” she said, deadpan.

Enid smiled against her skin. “Maybe. Maybe I just like the way you smell when you’re being smug.”

Another kiss. Below the ear this time. Then the side of her neck. Then just above the edge of her collarbone.

Wednesday inhaled sharply. Like her breath had skipped the line. She didn’t say anything after that.

Just reached for Enid’s hand, slow and steady, like it was a ritual. She kissed the fingers. Each one. Then the center of her palm like a promise. Then her wrist, where her pulse gave her away.

“Are we conducting an experiment now?” Enid whispered.

“Yes,” Wednesday said. “In restraint.”

And then neither of them moved for a while.

---

 

Ajax wasn’t spying. He just had excellent peripheral vision and a talent for being in the wrong place with the right line of sight.

He was walking past the greenhouse, hands in his pockets, chewing on a stale granola bar, when something caught in the corner of his eye. He paused.

Enid, standing behind Wednesday. Arms around her waist. Forehead resting gently at the nape of her neck, like it belonged there.

Wednesday didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Her hands were tucked over Enid’s forearms like she’d done the math and decided this was the safest place on campus.

Ajax blinked. Then blinked again, slower.

“I’m not saying I didn’t think it could happen,” he muttered to himself. “Just didn’t think I’d see it without a telescope and a blood moon.”

Behind him, Yoko stepped up, sunglasses still on despite the overcast sky. She didn’t bother looking. Just held out her hand. Palm up.

Ajax sighed and pulled a crumpled ten from his hoodie. “You’re the devil.”

Yoko smirked. “Nope. Just observant.” She tucked the bill away without ceremony. “They make a weird kind of sense.”

Ajax nodded once. “Yeah. Like… a thunderstorm dating a bonfire.”

They stood there a moment longer, watching the girls not move. Not needing to.

Then Ajax said, “Think we should tell someone?”

Yoko raised an eyebrow. “Who, exactly? The Pope? A guidance counselor? Let them have it.” They walked on.

Behind the glass, Enid smiled into Wednesday’s shoulder.

And Wednesday, eyes half-lidded and still, looked like the world had finally shut up for a second.

---

Date Two: The Music Room

With Jericho off-limits, the old music room became their haven.

No one else wanted it. The wailing piano still played itself at midnight, and there was a rumor a banshee had lived under the floorboards during the 70s.

Perfect. Enid spread out a blanket beneath the cracked window. The moonlight sliced through like a painting. Wednesday brought old records and a gramophone that screeched before it harmonized.

They didn’t talk at first. They lay side by side, listening to mournful strings. Then Enid turned toward her.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said softly. “That I want to kiss every inch of you that won’t make you flinch.”

Wednesday’s throat bobbed. She didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. But she rolled slightly onto her side in invitation.

Enid started again at the ear. Lower this time. Kissed the spot where her jaw curved down into her neck. Then the line of her throat. Then her upper chest, just beneath her collarbones, where the edge of Wednesday’s black shirt shifted slightly with her breathing.

Wednesday’s breath was shallow now, but not panicked. Her hand came up slowly to rest at Enid’s back, just there.

When it was her turn, Wednesday kissed Enid’s eyelids. One, then the other. Then the bridge of her nose. Then, unexpectedly, her shoulder, just above where her tank top strap had slipped loose.

“I didn’t flinch,” she whispered.

“I know,” Enid breathed.

“I wanted it.”

“I know.”

 

---

 

Barry Dort did not believe in chaos. He believed in preemptive paperwork, personal responsibility, and fire exits that weren’t metaphorical.

Which was why, when he reached the second-floor mezzanine of the library and saw Wednesday Addams tucked against Enid Sinclair on the window bench; legs tangled, poison text open between them, Enid casually braiding a streak of midnight hair like it was a stress toy, he did not smile.

He sighed, then cleared his throat in a way that suggested someone else might be about to have a very bad day.

“Addams. Sinclair.”

The reaction was slow and deliberate. Wednesday turned her head like a gargoyle pivoting on a spire. Enid paused mid-braid but didn’t let go.

“We’re engaging in an interdisciplinary project,” Wednesday said. “Mythological kinesthesia and somatosensory bonding as mapped through classical toxicology texts.”

There was a long, polite silence. Then Dort said, “So… you’re touching each other while reading about poison.”

Enid blinked. Wednesday blinked slower.

He descended two steps and fixed them with a look. “Let me be clear,” he said, voice measured. “I don’t care who you date. I don’t care who you hold hands with. You could bring a gremlin to prom and as long as she RSVPs, I’ll find a corsage. But we’ve already lost one major donor this year. Xavier’s father pulled his kid and his money. That endowment, though I’m not at liberty to say, covered more than you might think.”

He paused. Looked directly at Wednesday.

“And whatever this is, it’s not the problem. The problem is parents and trustees who don’t know how to mind their own business and absolutely love moral panic.”

Wednesday’s jaw twitched. Just barely.

Enid started to speak. “We weren’t trying to—”

“I know,” Dort said, holding up a hand. “But intentions don’t stop headlines. They don’t stop phone calls. And they don’t stop someone’s mom from demanding a sexual conduct review board because two girls hugged near a Fernet bottle and a Bible quote.”

He looked at them both again.

“I need you to be careful. Not because you’re doing anything wrong. But because optics are now my second job.”

There was a beat. Just a beat.

Then Wednesday nodded. Tight. “Acknowledged.”

Enid swallowed, her face somewhere between embarrassed and guilty. “We’ll be more careful.”

“Good.” Dort exhaled. “Now, when I walk back this way in ten minutes, I’d really appreciate it if you were sitting on opposite sides of that bench with at least two visible books and a healthy buffer of plausible deniability.”

He turned to go, paused, and added without looking:

“And no, the archives are not private. They echo. Please do not make me install literal wards of chastity. I’m tired.”

He left.

Enid sat back. “He’s… kind of good at this.”

Wednesday stared after him. “That’s deeply concerning.” Then she reached back and plucked her own braid out of Enid’s hands.

“Ten minutes,” she said dryly. “Find something with footnotes.”

Enid snorted and grabbed a random tome off the table.

Neither of them moved too far apart.

But the book did have footnotes. And that, for now, was enough.

---

That night, the storm had settled into the bones of the school. The roof creaked. The old heating pipes hissed. Wind fluted through the narrow dorm windows like a haunted lullaby.

But in their room, it was warm.

Not just from the electric radiator humming by the dresser, or the throw blanket Enid had stolen from the faculty lounge. It was warm because Wednesday had pulled Enid close and hadn’t let go.

Because tonight, neither of them had flinched.

Wednesday’s fingers moved first.

She traced the line of Enid’s arm, from shoulder to wrist, then back up again—before leaning in to kiss the inside of her bicep.

Enid's breath caught.

“You’re charting me,” she whispered.

“I’m confirming a hypothesis,” Wednesday murmured. “That you respond to attention.”

Then she kissed her way up toward Enid’s collarbone. Then across it. Then just below, where skin softened and her pulse thudded with anticipation.

Enid’s fingers clutched at the blanket. Her voice dropped.

“I respond to you.”

 

They took turns after that. Gentle. Unhurried.

Mapping the human - well, werewolf and Addams - body as if it were sacred topography.

Enid leaned down and kissed the curve of Wednesday’s hip, where the fabric of her sleep shorts gave way to skin. Then again on her side, over the faint hollow between rib and waist. Wednesday didn’t tremble.

She reached back, sliding her hand across Enid’s lower back—and when Enid bent to kiss her there, just above the tailbone, she exhaled like a violin string drawn too tight finally relaxing into pitch.

Later, Wednesday guided Enid onto her side, tracing each vertebra down the ridge of her spine with a fingertip. Then her mouth followed, kissing gently over the knobs of bone, like reading braille in reverse.

Enid sighed into the pillow, a surrender to trust.

“I didn’t think you’d ever want this,” she said softly.

Wednesday kissed the back of her neck. Then the dip between shoulder blades. Then the slope of her shoulder again.

“I never thought it would feel like this,” she admitted. “And still be fully myself.”

“Do you like who you are when you’re with me?”

“I like who I’m allowed to be.”

 

Enid explored too.

With her lips, she kissed the hollow of Wednesday’s stomach, then just beside her hip, then the inside of her knee as they curled together. She kissed her ankle, then up her calf, and when Wednesday gave her a curious, suspicious look, Enid simply smiled.

“Just making sure you know you’re loved in places no one else thinks to check.”

Wednesday stared at her. Then cupped her cheek and kissed her forehead like it was holy ground.

At one point, Wednesday pushed back Enid’s hair and kissed behind her ear, then down her neck, then further—placing a kiss just below her breast, where ribs flared and breath deepened.

Enid melted into her arms. Wednesday pulled back just enough to speak.

 

---

 

Somewhere between the third round of kissing and the part where Enid’s thigh had found a permanent home between Wednesday’s, things hit a volume issue.

Specifically: Enid’s.

Wednesday pulled back, breathing steady despite the mess they’d made of the blanket and each other. Her hands stayed exactly where they were—one on Enid’s waist, the other bracing the mattress like she was trying to stop the earth from spinning out of control.

“We need to address the sound problem,” she said, calm as murder.

Enid blinked. “I’m sorry, the what?”

“You’re getting loud.”

Enid opened her mouth. Closed it. Then grinned. “You saying I make you lose focus?”

“I’m saying if you keep moaning in that specific pitch, the entire floor’s going to assume I’m either killing you or impressively not.”

Enid flushed. “Oh.”

Wednesday didn’t move. Just started listing. “We can get some white noise generators. We can also layer an acoustic ward over the door. And the windows. I’ll need chalk. Possibly sage. I can fold a charm into the curtain hem if you stop stealing my sewing kit.”

Enid blinked again. “You have a sewing kit?”

“I had one,” Wednesday said. “Until you used it to fix a sock.”

“Okay but it was a really important sock.”

Wednesday stared. Moved on. “We can also use location. Two cabins on the north edge, abandoned, intact, nobody checks them except maybe deer. One crypt near the old chapel. Dry. Quiet. Mostly un-haunted.”

Enid made a noise that could charitably be called a whimper. “So what I’m hearing is we have options.”

“What you’re hearing is that you need to stop trying to mount me with no logistics in place.”

Enid surged forward anyway, caught her in another kiss, this one all heat and no brakes. She tugged at Wednesday’s shirt like she might get somewhere.

Wednesday let it happen for four seconds, then pushed her back with a firm hand to the sternum. “You are seconds away from steamrolling my entire plan because your lizard brain got a whiff of moss and opportunity,” she said, tone flat.

Enid grinned, breathless. “But moss and opportunity are my type.”

Wednesday didn’t dignify that. “We go too far, too loud, in here, and Dort gets a complaint. He follows protocol. We get split. Possibly suspended. Worst-case scenario, you get reassigned a roommate with a gluten allergy and I have to explain affection to a floor administrator with two first names and a clipboard fetish.”

Enid groaned, collapsing backward. “You’re killing the mood.”

“I’m preserving the mood. For future use. In a safer, dumber building.”

A beat. Then: “So… cabin?”

“Or crypt. Eventually,” Wednesday said, already reaching for her journal like she was penciling in a crime. “With snacks. And plausible deniability.”

Enid peeked out from under her arm. “And maybe one of those flannel blankets.”

Wednesday didn’t look up. “Only if you stop saying flannel like it’s foreplay.”

Enid grinned. “You noticed that?”

Wednesday didn’t answer. Which was an answer.

 

---

 

They didn’t sleep right away.

They lay entangled. Bare skin here and there where shirts had ridden up, legs overlapped, hair spilled across pillows.

They kissed, occasionally. Lightly. Behind a knee. Over a knuckle. Along a shoulder blade.

Hours passed. The storm outside moved on.

But they stayed, held together by warmth and want and wonder.

No demands. No noise.

Only firelight in flesh and soft breath shared like secrets. And a love that didn’t need permission—because it had already taken root, quietly, irrevocably, in every place their lips had found home.

 

Chapter 9: Velvet and Neon

The storm had clawed through Nevermore Academy with a vengeance, a howling beast that shook the ancient windows and left the air crackling with raw, untamed energy. When it finally slunk away, the silence was thick, charged, like the pause before a guillotine drops. In their dorm, Enid and Wednesday were already caught in that current, lips crashing in slow, hungry kisses on Enid’s bed, the room heavy with the weight of things unsaid but fiercely felt.

Sleep? Not a chance. Not with the night pulsing like a living thing. They were pressed close, Enid’s pastel nightgown half-off, one shoulder bare, the hem bunched high on her thigh, teasing skin. Wednesday’s black nightgown cut the air like a blade—sharp, deliberate, a dark elegance that made Enid’s pulse stutter.

“You’re staring,” Wednesday purred, her voice low, a velvet challenge brushing Enid’s lips.

Enid’s grin was all teeth, unashamed, pulling back just enough to lock eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re like some haunted portrait come to life.”

Wednesday’s mouth twitched, a ghost of a smirk. “And you’re a neon fever dream.”

Enid’s laugh was soft, swallowed by another kiss, her fingers grazing Wednesday’s arm. The touch was a spark, a slow burn that neither wanted to douse.

They kept finding excuses to stay tangled. A snort over some absurd campus gossip. A shiver from the cold seeping through the cracked windows, making Enid drag a blanket over them. “Don’t move,” she murmured, half-playful, half-desperate. Wednesday slid closer, her grace almost predatory, every move intentional.

The nightgowns hit the floor in a hushed frenzy. Enid’s went first, tossed with a cheeky “too damn hot.” Wednesday’s followed, her fingers untying the straps with the precision of a ritual. Not fully bare—not yet. Enid’s pastel underwear clung to her, mismatched but soft, brushing against Wednesday’s black silk, sleek and breathable, deceptively comfortable for something so stark. Enid’s breath hitched, eyes tracing the silk’s edges. “Seriously? That’s your everyday stuff?”

Wednesday’s gaze didn’t waver. “I don’t waste time on mediocrity.”

Enid’s laugh was warm, almost worshipful. She shifted, one leg slipping between Wednesday’s, the contact a jolt that rippled through them. Her fingers danced over Wednesday’s hip, hesitant at first, then bolder, teasing along the silk’s edge, grazing private curves but staying above the fabric, a torturous restraint. Wednesday mirrored her, hand firm on Enid’s waist, fingers brushing sensitive skin through the thin cloth, teasing but never crossing the line, a shared pact to savor the tension. They lingered on that knife’s edge, hearts pounding, but held back—for now.

 

---

 

They stole more moments across campus. Behind the library, Wednesday pinned Enid against cold stone, lips grazing her collarbone, a promise without possession. In the empty music room, Enid’s hands knotted in Wednesday’s hair, pulling her close until their breaths were one, ragged and warm. Each stolen second was a vow, a step toward something inevitable.

Dawn broke, and they didn’t bother hiding. Their hands locked during break, fingers laced with brazen certainty. A junior nymph sidled up, eyes gleaming with nosy delight. “So, you two are, like, a thing now?”

Wednesday didn’t glance up from her tea. “Yes. And no, you’re not turning it into gossip fodder.”

The nymph smirked. “Fine, but was it the storm? Did it, like, ignite you?”

Enid squeezed Wednesday’s hand, her smile wicked. “Storm just fanned the flames.”

A siren leaned in, grin sharp. “You hex Ajax yet for that grabby dance move?”

Wednesday’s tone was ice. “I’m considering it. Thanks for the reminder.”

Enid choked back a laugh. “We’re solid. Like, really solid.”

A whistle cut the air. Bianca arched a brow from across the quad, her nod screaming fucking finally. Thing, perched by a pumpkin planter, finger-spelled “POWER COUPLE,” drawing snickers. A vampire stage-whispered, “So, no more pining? You’re legit girlfriends?”

Enid’s cheeks flushed, but her grin was radiant. “Yup. Girlfriends. Official.”

“About damn time,” the vampire said, fangs flashing. “The tension was killing us.”

Wednesday’s lip curled. “Your suffering was entertaining.”

 

---

 

“I owe Bruno an explanation,” Enid said, pulling on her coat later. “For being… not exactly transparent.”

Wednesday raised an eyebrow. “You mean for letting him think he had a shot while using him as a convenient emotional shield.”

Enid winced. “Yeah. That.”

“I’m coming,” Wednesday said, already retrieving her boots. “He deserves full clarity. You’re not doing this with half-sentences and nervous tail twitches.”

They found Bruno near the archery range, fiddling with a broken quiver strap. He looked up, blinked, then visibly stiffened when he saw Wednesday beside her.

Enid rubbed her neck. “Hey, Bruno. Got a minute?”

He shrugged. “Sure.”

She took a breath. “I wasn’t fair to you. I let you think I wasn’t involved with anyone because I wasn’t sure what was happening with me and Wednesday. That wasn’t okay.”

Bruno didn’t speak immediately. He glanced at Wednesday, then back to Enid. His nostrils flared slightly—wolf tells, reading the air, the tension, maybe the remnants of their scent mingled.

“I figured it out,” he said finally. “Still sucked.”

Enid nodded. “Yeah. It does.”

He kicked the grass. “But you’re happy?”

“I really am.”

Bruno gave a short, rough laugh. “Then I’m over it.”

And that was that.

Well—until a sophomore wolf girl behind the bleachers nearly sprained her arm trying not to fist pump.

Enid caught it. Raised an eyebrow. The girl froze, grinned sheepishly, and mouthed, please don’t be mad.

Enid smirked. “He’s all yours.”

 

---

 

Later, they lay together again. Skin to skin from the waist up—and the waist down, save for the gauzy whispers of what counted as modesty.

Wednesday lay on her back, Enid half across her, cheek to stomach, one hand tracing lazy patterns along the curve of a hipbone.

“You know, I’ve worn cuter pajamas,” Enid murmured, “but somehow you out-fancy me even when half-naked.”

“I prefer to remain consistent.”

“In everything but volume,” Enid teased, brushing a kiss along the lace edge of Wednesday’s bra. “Because I was the one who got told off last night for being too loud.”

“Correct,” Wednesday said. “We’ll have to account for that next time.”

Enid looked up. “You already have plans for next time?”

Wednesday’s hand slid up her back, slow and certain. “I already have blueprints.”

Enid hummed, pleased. “I love how your brain works.”

“I love how your everything works,” Wednesday replied.

They didn’t sleep right away.
They just... stayed. Entwined. Breathing. Anticipating. Planning.

Chapter 10: First Time, Last Rites

Notes:

This chapter does get Mature. Reader discretion is advised.

 

They'd picked a night when the moon was playing hooky, because sneaking around under a full spotlight was about as subtle as Enid's wardrobe exploding in a glitter bomb. Wednesday had insisted on the crypt—not just any dusty hole in the ground, but Crackstone's crypt. The one where that Puritan fossil had tried to barbecue the school and everyone in it. "It's poetic justice," she'd said, voice flat as a gravestone. "Desecrating his final resting place with... vitality. Plus, Addams family tradition. Graveyards are basically our version of a candlelit dinner."

Enid had blinked at that, thermos of cocoa clutched in her hands like a lifeline. "Vitality? Is that Addams-speak for getting frisky in a tomb?" She'd grinned, all teeth and nerves, but her cheeks had flushed pinker than her favorite sweater. "Okay, fine. Fuck you to Crackstone it is. But if we get haunted by his ghost mid-makeout, I'm blaming you. And seriously, what if there's, like, spiders? Or worse—dust bunnies with attitude?"

Wednesday hadn't dignified that with a response. Just packed her bag with a candle (black, obviously), matches, and that unlabeled vial she swore was "preventative measures against ectoplasmic interference." Enid contributed the flannel blanket—soft, plaid, and utterly un-Addams—but Wednesday had allowed it without comment. Progress. Enid also tossed in some snacks: a couple of energy bars and a bag of gummy worms, because "romance needs fuel, and nothing says 'sexy crypt time' like chewy sugar." Wednesday had eyed them like they were contraband but didn't protest.

Slipping out after midnight felt like a bad teen movie, the kind where the protagonists end up grounded or dead. Enid's heart was doing somersaults, part excitement, part terror that some night patrol would spot them and yell about curfew violations. Wednesday moved like she owned the shadows, braid swinging like a noose in waiting, her hand cool and steady in Enid's. The cemetery loomed ahead, ivy choking the headstones, fog curling around their ankles like it was trying to trip them up.

"Why not a cabin?" Enid whispered as Wednesday jimmied the rusted gate with a lockpick that looked suspiciously like a repurposed bone. "You know, something with fewer... dead people vibes? Like, actual walls without epitaphs staring at us?"

Wednesday paused, the gate creaking open with a sound like a dying wheeze. "Cabins have splinters. And deer. This has history. Atmosphere." She stepped inside, the air hitting them like a slap—cool, musty, with that faint tang of earth and regret. "Besides, if we're interrupted by wildlife, I'd rather it be a specter than a raccoon rummaging through our snacks. And the crypt's acoustics? They'll swallow any... enthusiasm."

Enid snorted, setting down the backpack and spreading the blanket over the sarcophagus. It transformed the slab from "eternal doom" to "questionable picnic spot," though the etched warnings on the stone still peeked out at the edges like judgmental eyebrows. Wednesday lit the candle, flame dancing like it was mocking them, casting long shadows that made Enid's pulse skip. They sat, knees brushing, thermos passed back and forth. The cocoa was hot, spicy with cinnamon and that chili kick Enid had added for "extra warmth." Wednesday sipped it without flinching, but her eyes flicked to Enid's lips every time she licked foam off them, a subtle tell that ratcheted up the anticipation.

Enid felt the anticipation coiling in her gut like a spring, awkward and insistent. Okay, Sinclair, don't screw this up. It's just sex. In a crypt. With the girl who thinks romance is a form of psychological warfare. Her hands were clammy, and she wiped them on her jeans before leaning in, breath ghosting Wednesday's ear. "You smell like grave dirt and determination. It's kinda hot. Like, forbidden-hot. Are we really doing this? Here?"

Wednesday's throat bobbed, but she didn't pull away. "Flattery will get you buried." But her voice was lower, edged with something that wasn't quite disdain. Her hand found Enid's knee, fingers tracing a slow, deliberate circle that sent sparks up Enid's thigh. Enid's breath hitched, and she closed the gap, lips brushing Wednesday's neck—soft at first, testing, like she half-expected to get zapped by some Addams force field.

No zap. Just Wednesday inhaling sharply, her spine going rigid for a split second before relaxing into it. "Enid," she murmured, and oh, the way she said it—like a warning and an invitation wrapped in black ribbon. Enid's kisses trailed lower, to the collarbone, fingers fumbling with Wednesday's shirt buttons. Awkward humor bubbled up when one button snagged. "Stupid Victorian fashion. Who needs this many layers in a crypt? It's like unwrapping a cursed present."

Wednesday's lips twitched—almost a smile. "Efficiency is for the weak." But she helped, shrugging off the shirt, skin pale and glowing in the candlelight. Enid stared, mouth dry, anticipation turning her brain to mush. Holy wolf, she's beautiful. Like a goth statue come to life. Don't say that out loud, it'll sound cheesy. She reached out, tentative, tracing the line of Wednesday's sternum with her fingertips, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath. Wednesday's skin was cool at first, but warmed under Enid's touch, a flush creeping up her neck.

They took turns undressing, clothes piling up like offerings to some forgotten god. Enid's sweater came off next, then her tank top, leaving her in just her bra and jeans. Wednesday's gaze lingered, analytical but heated, like she was committing every freckle to memory. "You're... vibrant," she said, almost clinically, but her fingers betrayed her—trailing up Enid's arms, over her shoulders, down to the clasp of her bra. It unhooked with a soft click, and Enid shivered as the fabric fell away, the crypt's chill kissing her bare skin.

Enid mirrored the move, unhooking Wednesday's bra with hands that only shook a little. "Nervous?" Wednesday asked, voice steady, but her eyes held a flicker of vulnerability.

"A bit," Enid admitted, laughing softly to cover it. "First time in a tomb. What if I howl or something werewolf-y at the wrong moment?"

Wednesday's response was to pull her close, skin to skin now, the contact electric. Their breasts brushed, nipples hardening in the cool air, and Enid gasped at the sensation. Wednesday's touch was precise—fingers mapping Enid's ribs, dipping lower with a clinical curiosity that melted into heat. She traced the curve of Enid's waist, then lower, hooking into her jeans and tugging them down inch by inch, revealing the simple cotton panties underneath. Enid kicked off her shoes clumsily, nearly knocking over the candle in the process. "Whoops—fire hazard in a crypt. Classic us."

"Don't apologize," Wednesday cut in, voice husky as she slid Enid's panties down too, leaving her fully exposed. Enid felt a rush of self-consciousness—what if she thinks my scars from wolfing out are weird?—but Wednesday's fingers traced one on her thigh reverently, like it was art. "The dead don't care about volume. Or perfection." But her cheeks were flushed, and when Enid returned the favor, sliding Wednesday's shorts and underwear off in one go, she drank in the sight: Wednesday bare, lithe and unyielding, dark curls between her thighs a stark contrast to her pale skin.

They shifted onto the blanket fully, legs tangling as Wednesday pushed Enid back gently against the sarcophagus. Her mouth found Enid's breast first—lips closing around a nipple, tongue flicking with deliberate slowness that made Enid arch off the stone, a whimper escaping before she could clamp it down. "Sorry, I—oh god, do that again." Wednesday obliged, sucking lightly while her hand cupped the other breast, thumb circling the peak until Enid was squirming, heat pooling low in her belly.

Enid's hands explored in return, sliding down Wednesday's back, over the knobs of her spine, echoing those dorm room mappings but deeper now, freer. She cupped Wednesday's ass, pulling her closer, their hips grinding together instinctively. Wednesday gasped against Enid's skin, the sound muffled but raw, her own arousal slick against Enid's thigh. "Enid," she breathed, moving lower, kisses trailing down Enid's stomach, tongue dipping into her navel, then lower still, to the inside of her thigh.

Anticipation peaked as Wednesday parted Enid's legs, breath warm against her core. "Tell me if—" she started, but Enid cut her off with a nod, fingers threading into Wednesday's hair. Wednesday's tongue touched her first—tentative, exploratory, lapping at her folds with a precision that made Enid's toes curl. She found the sensitive bundle of nerves, circling it slowly, then faster, building a rhythm that had Enid moaning, echoes bouncing off the crypt walls like forbidden music. Fingers joined soon after, one, then two, sliding inside with careful thrusts, curling to hit that spot that made stars burst behind Enid's eyelids.

"Oh—Wednesday, yes, right there," Enid panted, hips bucking. The awkwardness faded into pure sensation, her body responding like it had been waiting for this forever. Wednesday hummed against her, the vibration sending shockwaves, and Enid shattered, climax crashing over her in waves, muscles clenching around Wednesday's fingers, a cry tearing from her throat that might've woken the dead if they weren't already indifferent.

Panting, Enid pulled Wednesday up, tasting herself on her lips in a messy kiss. "Your turn," she murmured, rolling them so Wednesday was beneath her. Enid's touch was less precise, more instinctive—kisses down Wednesday's neck, sucking at her pulse point until a bruise bloomed, then lower to her breasts, lavishing attention with mouth and hands until Wednesday's breaths came in short, ragged bursts. Enid's fingers trailed down, parting Wednesday's thighs, finding her wet and ready. She stroked slowly at first, learning, circling her clit with a thumb while fingers teased her entrance.

Wednesday arched, one hand gripping the blanket, the other in Enid's hair. "More," she demanded, voice breaking on the word. Enid obliged, sliding two fingers inside, thrusting gently, then deeper, matching the pace to Wednesday's hips. Her mouth joined, tongue flicking over the sensitive nub as she pumped, feeling Wednesday tighten around her. It built fast, Wednesday's control fracturing, her moans low and throaty, until she came with a shudder, body tensing like a bowstring before releasing, her nails digging into Enid's shoulder.

They lay there after, sweat cooling, candle guttering low, bodies still intertwined as aftershocks rippled through. Enid traced patterns on Wednesday's back, grinning dopily. "That was... wow. No regrets? No sudden urge to summon a demon to erase the memory? Or, like, complain about the hard surface?"

Wednesday propped herself up, expression softer than usual, though she winced slightly as she shifted—yeah, stone wasn't forgiving. "Regrets are for amateurs. This was... acceptable." But her fingers lingered on Enid's hip, betraying the understatement, and she leaned in for a lazy kiss, tasting of salt and satisfaction.

Sneaking back was a comedy of errors. The fog had thickened, turning the cemetery into a maze. Enid tripped over a root, stifling a yelp as Wednesday hauled her up. "Graceful as ever," Wednesday deadpanned, but her hand stayed clasped in Enid's, tighter than necessary, sticky cocoa residue from the earlier spill making their palms tacky.

They dodged a patrol light by ducking behind a mausoleum, hearts pounding—not from fear, but the leftover buzz. "If we get caught," Enid whispered, giggling, "we blame it on sleepwalking. Naked sleepwalking. In a crypt. With gummy worms as evidence."

Wednesday's snort was almost a laugh. "I'd sooner confess to arson." But as they slipped into the dorm, undetected, she pulled Enid into a quick, fierce kiss in the hallway shadows. "Round two. Soon. With better logistics. And perhaps... padding."

Enid beamed, collapsing into bed as dawn peeked. The crypt had been their victory—a middle finger to Crackstone, a nod to Addams weirdness. And yeah, maybe a little awkward, a little sticky. But the good kind. The kind that promised more.

Chapter 11: Morning Principle

 

Morning light bled through the dorm window, and a note lay on the floor, slipped under the door like a guillotine’s whisper. Principal Dort’s neat script: 9 AM. My office. Bring your best behavior. Enid’s gut twisted, her fingers mangling the hem of her pastel sweater. Wednesday scanned it, her huff sharp as a blade. “Preemptive bureaucracy,” she muttered, tucking the note into her journal like it was blackmail material.

“Ugh, we didn’t even get caught, and we’re already screwed?” Enid groaned, yanking on a sweater that screamed rebellion in clashing pinks. “What’s Dort’s damage?”

“He’s strangling rumors before they choke him,” Wednesday said, adjusting her braid with lethal precision. “Let’s gut this meeting and move on.”

The trek to Dort’s office felt like marching to a noose. Enid tried to lighten the air. “Bet he’s got a scrapbook labeled ‘Addams-Sinclair Disaster Diaries.’ Got a conspiracy board with our faces pinned up?”

Wednesday’s lip twitched, almost a smirk. “If he does, it’s drowning in stale coffee and despair.”

Dort’s office was chaos with a desk: papers teetered, a wilted fern sulked, and a photo of a bowtie-wearing dog grinned beside Barry Dort, Principal. Dort stood, tie crooked, chipper as a man who’d aged ten years overnight but refused to admit it. “Addams! Sinclair! My favorite delinquents!” he boomed, gesturing to chairs hard as sin. They sat; Enid fidgeting, Wednesday carved from stone.

Dort leaned on his desk, smile flickering like a dying bulb. “Alright, no games. Rumors are spreading faster than glitter in a full-moon mosh pit. You two, getting cozy where you shouldn’t. Library? Cute, rebellious. But the cemetery? The crypt? Give me something to work with, kids.”

Enid’s face burned, memories flashing; candlelit crypt, tangled hands, cocoa staining her jeans. “We didn’t—it wasn’t—” she stammered, but Dort waved her off, grin softening the sting.

“Spare my heart the details, Sinclair.” He chuckled, then sighed, rubbing his temple. “I don’t care who you love, werewolves, goths, my fern, live your truth. You’re my kind of chaos, and I’m here for it. But you’re kicking up a storm, and I’m the one dodging bolts.”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Name the rumors. And their sources.”

Dort’s grin sharpened, but his gaze stayed heavy. “You know the drill. Kids talk, staff whisper. Someone saw you sneaking back from the graveyard at witching hour, looking like you’d wrestled a poltergeist. Yoko’s dodging me but smirking like she’s got front-row seats to your saga. Bianca muttered something about ‘fire and gloom’ vibes. Ajax just babbled about storms and ran.”

Enid sank, cheeks blazing. “Okay, yeah, sounds messy. But we were ninjas! Total stealth mode!”

Wednesday’s glance screamed you’re as subtle as a glitter bomb, and Enid shut up.

Wednesday leaned forward, voice a razor. “My parents turned graveyards into date nights in the ‘90s. Morticia and Gomez couldn’t keep their hands off each other—the dorms, slaughterhouses, the quad during one Rave'n. No one blinked. Why the witch hunt now?”

Dort barked a laugh, then caught himself. “Your folks sound like a riot, Addams. But this ain’t the ‘90s. X spreads gossip like wildfire. One blurry pic of you two locking lips in a tomb, and I’m buried in calls from parents clutching pearls. Sinclair, your vlog’s got more eyes than my dog’s fan page. People watch.”

Enid blinked, thrown. “My vlog? It’s just lip gloss and dorm vibes! Nothing about… us.”

“Exactly!” Dort said, flinging a hand. “But they speculate. They screenshot. They meme. And Jericho’s normies are itching to stir trouble for my outsiders—you’re my pride, my weirdos! Then there’s the rich parents. We lost a big donor last year, and one more scandal means I’m swimming in ‘moral conduct’ complaints.”

Wednesday’s jaw tightened. “So we muzzle ourselves for small-town prudes and petty wallets.”

Dort’s cheer cracked, raw worry spilling out. “No, kid. Be you—just quieter. I’m overreacting, I know. These rumors? Flimsier than my fern’s life force. Yoko’s smirk isn’t proof, and Ajax’s metaphors are poetic garbage. I’ll chill, promise. But help me keep the peace. Stay in your dorm, lock the door, and for my blood pressure’s sake, no more crypt hookups.”

Enid nodded, relief flooding her. “Totally! Ghost-quiet vibes. We got this.”

Wednesday didn’t nod, but her silence was a grudging truce. Her fingers drummed, plotting.

Dort’s grin softened, real now. “Good. ‘Cause if I need graveyard cameras, I’m retiring with my dog and a coffee IV. Now get out—and Addams, don’t glare my fern to death.”

They hit the hall, Enid exhaling like she’d dodged a bullet. “Okay, not the worst. Dort’s kinda dope when he’s not spiraling. Didn’t even mention the gummy worms or cocoa stains. We cool?”

Wednesday’s eyes glinted, a smirk creeping up. “For now. Yoko’s too smug—I’m starting a list.” Her voice dipped, softer. “We’ll be discreet. No public stunts. But the crypt’s private.”

Enid’s grin sparked, nudging Wednesday’s shoulder. “Crypt date, take two? No sticky cocoa, pinky swear.”

Wednesday’s smirk bloomed. “Only if you drop ‘stealth’ as your catchphrase.” 

 

---

 

Chapter 12: Cabin Fever

Notes:

This chapter does get Mature. Reader discretion is advised.

 

Enid cornered Yoko in the quad, under the shade of a gnarled oak that looked like it had seen too many teen dramas unfold beneath its branches. It was midday, the sun filtering through leaves in dappled patterns that danced on Yoko's sunglasses like they were mocking Enid's nerves. Yoko was sprawled on a bench, scrolling through her phone with that perpetual smirk, fangs just peeking out when she grinned at whatever meme had caught her eye.

"Yoko, hey—got a sec?" Enid plopped down beside her, voice pitched low, like they were plotting a heist instead of girl talk. Her cheeks were already flushing, and she hadn't even gotten to the juicy part.

Yoko didn't look up right away, but her smirk deepened. "Sinclair. To what do I owe the pleasure? Come to pay up on that bet I won from Ajax? There isn’t anything going wrong with your little lover’s situation?"

Enid winced, glancing around to make sure no one was eavesdropping—though at Nevermore, walls had ears and trees probably had microphones. "Yeah, about that. Look, Wednesday and I... we're, like, official now. Serious. We've... escalated." She leaned in closer, whispering the next part like it was a state secret. "We've had sex. Like, actual, mind-blowing, crypt-desecrating sex."

Yoko finally lowered her phone, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head to reveal eyes wide with genuine surprise—then delight. "No shit? You two finally crossed the finish line? In the crypt? That's... iconic. Addams-level iconic. Spill, girl. Was it all dark and brooding, or did she surprise you with some hidden romance?"

Enid's flush turned nuclear, but she couldn't help the goofy grin that crept in. "It was awkward at first, spilled cocoa, elbow mishaps, but then? Hot. Like, really hot. She's intense, you know? Precise. And I... well, I didn't hold back. But that's not why I'm here. Principal Dort pulled us in this morning about rumors. He mentioned you smirking and dodging questions. We need discretion, Yoko. Like, vampire-level stealth. No more betting pools or cryptic comments. Please? For me?"

Yoko's expression softened, the smirk fading into something almost sisterly. She sat up straighter, laying a hand on Enid's arm. "Hey, okay. First off, congrats—that's huge. You two make a weirdly perfect mess together. And yeah, Dort grilled me, but I didn't spill a thing. My smirks are just... my face. But I get it. Rumors suck, especially with the normies sniffing around and conservative parents on the warpath. I'll zip it. No more teasing Ajax, no more side-eyes. You've got my word—blood oath, even." She mimed slicing her palm, then winked. "Just promise me one thing: if it gets even more epic, like cabin-in-the-woods level, you owe me a vague, non-explicit update. Deal?"

Enid laughed, relief flooding her like a cool breeze. "Deal. Thanks, Yoko. You're the best undead bestie a girl could ask for."

Yoko pulled her shades back down, smirking just a little. "Damn right. Now go get your goth girl. And hey—use protection. Or wards. Whatever Addamses do. Or werewolves. Just be safe."

Enid rolled her eyes but hugged her quick before bouncing off, heart lighter. Discretion secured. Now for the fun part.

 

---

Date Four: The Cabin in the Woods

They'd chosen the cabin on the north edge of campus, he one Wednesday had scoped out weeks ago, abandoned but intact, with creaky floors and a fireplace that still worked if you ignored the faint smell of mildew. No ghosts, no patrols, and best of all, no echoing stone walls to amplify every gasp. They'd prepped better this time: Enid had smuggled in fairy lights (battery-powered, pink-tinged, because "ambiance doesn't have to be all doom and gloom"), a thicker blanket (flannel, of course, but layered with a softer fleece), snacks that weren't spill-prone (chocolate-dipped strawberries, because romantic without the mess), and even a small speaker for some low-key music, moody cello tracks mixed with Enid's secret pop playlist.

Wednesday, always the schemer, brought the “necessities”: a chalk ward scratched around the door to hush their sounds, a vial of homemade lube with a faint lavender kick (“For ease and intimacy,” she’d said, her voice flat but her eyes soft), and a black silk scarf, finally admitted to be a blindfold (“To sharpen trust,” she’d whispered, a rare warmth breaking through). Enid’s cheeks went hot just thinking about it, her heart thrumming with a need that felt like a storm brewing.

They slipped out after dusk, hands locked, the woods a familiar maze from their earlier scouting. Enid’s pulse was a wild thing, but it was all want, no fear—this wasn’t their first dance; this was a deeper burn. “You good for round two, babe?” she murmured, squeezing Wednesday’s fingers, her voice all honey and tease.

Wednesday’s eyes caught the last light, sharp and gleaming. “I’ve mapped out enhancements,” she said, a smirk tugging her lips. “Prepare for ascension.”

The cabin was dark when they got there, but Enid flicked on the fairy lights, turning the place into a warm, glowing haven. Wednesday lit candles (black, obviously, but their flames flickered like they were in on the plan), and they spread the blankets by the fireplace, Enid coaxing it to life with kindling until it crackled soft and steady. They sat close, knees brushing, the air between them charged like a live wire.

No hot cocoa this time. Enid fed Wednesday a strawberry, her fingers lingering on those lips, the juice sweet and sticky in a way that felt like a promise. Wednesday’s breath hitched, her hand sliding to Enid’s cheek, thumb tracing her jaw like she was mapping a treasure. “You’re glowing,” she said, voice low, then leaned in. Their kiss started soft, chocolate and need blending, then turned hungry, tongues tangling like they’d done this a hundred times and still couldn’t get enough.

Clothes came off smooth, no clumsy fumbles. Enid tugged Wednesday’s shirt free, kissing down her neck, her collarbone, lingering at her breasts with slow, reverent swipes of her tongue until Wednesday let out a quiet hum, her fingers knotting in Enid’s hair. “You’ve studied me well,” Wednesday murmured, her voice a soft blade, arching just enough to show she meant it. Enid grinned against her skin. “I’m a quick learner when it’s you.”

Wednesday matched her, pulling Enid’s top and bra off, her hands cupping Enid’s breasts with a tenderness that felt like worship. They sank to the blankets, bodies pressed close, the fire’s heat echoing the one sparking between them. Wednesday tied the scarf over Enid’s eyes, her voice a dark caress. “Trust me,” she said, and Enid’s world shrank to feeling, Wednesday’s lips on her throat, kisses trailing down her chest, her mouth warm and teasing on a breast while her fingers played the other. The lube, cool then warm, slicked Wednesday’s touch as she moved lower, stroking through Enid’s folds with deliberate care, circling her clit until Enid’s hips bucked, a moan spilling out, caught by the ward. “Wednesday—fuck, you’re everything,” she gasped, her climax hitting like a wave, blinding and bright behind the silk.

They switched, the blindfold on Wednesday now, Enid’s kisses slow and adoring as she worked down Wednesday’s body, lingering at her hips before settling between her thighs. Her tongue moved with love, fingers joining in a steady rhythm. Wednesday’s control cracked, her breath shaky. “Enid—more,” she whispered, raw and open, and Enid gave it, pouring her heart into every touch until Wednesday arched, a low, broken moan slipping free as she came undone.

They kept going, no blindfold now, just their eyes locked, fierce, unguarded, like they could see each other’s souls. Legs tangled, hips rocking together, they found a rhythm that was all heat and heart, clits brushing with perfect friction, hands roaming, nails grazing just enough to sting sweet. They whispered names, promises, until their climaxes crashed in sync, a shared pulse that felt like forever.

After, they curled up in the blankets, the fire dying low, Enid’s fingers tracing lazy hearts on Wednesday’s stomach. “Better than any crypt,” she murmured, her grin soft but sure.

Wednesday's fingers carded through her hair. "Agreed. Though the crypt had symbolism."

Enid chuckled. "Cabin has privacy. And no stone bruises."

Sneaking back was smoother, the fog was lighter, paths memorized this time. They dodged a distant patrol light, hands linked, giggling softly at near-misses. Back in the dorm, undetected, Wednesday pulled Enid into bed. "Round three. Soon. With variations."

Enid beamed. "I'm in. Maybe we could try the dorm itself - test the limits on the soundproofing?" Low key, but burning bright.

Chapter 13: Family Shadows

The Addams family descended upon Nevermore Academy like a plague of locusts cloaked in velvet and menace, their arrival heralded by the guttural purr of a vintage hearse that seemed to slink through the gates rather than drive. Morticia emerged first, her black gown a cascade of midnight, each step an elegant defiance of gravity. Gomez followed, his pinstripe suit sharp enough to cut glass, a cigar already smoldering between his lips, its smoke curling like a lover’s caress. Pugsley trailed behind, his duffel bag clanking with the ominous promise of homemade pyrotechnics, while Lurch loomed, a monolith of shadow and silence, his presence alone enough to make the ravens perched on the academy’s spires reconsider their life choices. The quad pulsed with whispers, students staring as the hearse’s raven hood ornament fixed them with a glassy, judgmental eye.

Wednesday had been bracing for this moment since the letter arrived, its black wax seal reeking faintly of brimstone and old promises. She stood rigid, her usual stoicism laced with a rare undercurrent of dread. Beside her, Enid was a jittery kaleidoscope of nerves and enthusiasm, bouncing on her heels like a werewolf scenting a full moon. “They’re gonna love me, right? I mean, they know I’m your roommate, but... girlfriend? That’s, like, a whole vibe. What if I blurt out something stupid, like, ‘Yo, Mrs. Addams, dope guillotine collection!’?”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed, but a ghost of a smirk betrayed her. “They’ll find you... tolerable. Your chaos aligns with their tastes. Just avoid mentioning your vlog. Mother views social media as a voluntary lobotomy.”

The hearse halted with a groan, and Morticia glided out, her movements liquid, as if the earth itself parted to ease her path. Gomez followed, his grin a crescent moon of mischief, already puffing clouds of cigar smoke that danced in the autumn air. “Wednesday, my venomous darling!” he bellowed, sweeping her into an embrace she endured with the grace of a guillotine blade. “You’ve been silent as a grave. Plotting dark deeds, I trust?”

Morticia’s gaze, sharp as a stiletto, settled on Enid, who offered a wave that was half-greeting, half-surrender. “Enid, my dear,” Morticia purred, her voice a silken noose, sweet and lethal. “You’ve kept our Wednesday from spiraling into the abyss of her own making. For that, we owe you.”

Enid flushed, her words tumbling out like a poorly rehearsed soliloquy. “Oh, uh, just doing my part, ya know? Making sure she eats something other than misery and doesn’t, like, summon Cthulhu in her sleep.”

Pugsley snorted, his bag hitting the ground with a clang that suggested more than firecrackers. “She summons worse awake, Sinclair.”

Lurch’s grunt might’ve been amusement, or perhaps he was clearing a cobweb from his throat.

They retreated to the dorm’s common room, where Morticia claimed a velvet chair like a queen ascending her throne, her poise turning the shabby furniture into something regal. Gomez prowled the room, restless as a caged panther, while Wednesday sat like a statue carved from obsidian, her hands clasped tightly. Enid fidgeted beside her, their knees grazing under the table, a spark in the gloom. The air thrummed with the weight of an impending storm.

Gomez lit another cigar, ignoring the faded no-smoking sign with the nonchalance of a man who’d once set fire to a ballroom for fun. “So, my little ebon dagger, what’s the heartbeat of Nevermore? Any uprisings? Murders? Forbidden trysts?” His eyes gleamed, daring the room to disappoint him.

Wednesday’s jaw clenched, but her voice was a blade, steady and precise. “No uprisings. Yet. But there’s something you should know.” She glanced at Enid, who gave a small, nervous nod, her eyes bright with encouragement. “Enid is no longer merely my roommate. She’s my... paramour.”

The room froze, as if time itself had been caught in a spider’s web. Lurch’s looming silhouette seemed to still, his shadow holding its breath. Morticia’s lips curled into a smile, slow and predatory, like a panther savoring the hunt. Gomez paused mid-puff, then exploded into laughter that rattled the chandelier’s dusty crystals.

“Glorious!” he roared, clapping his hands with enough force to wake the dead. “My little tempest, caught in love’s snare! And Enid—brava, you’ve conquered the unconquerable!” He swept Enid into a hug, spinning her until she yelped, her sneakers squeaking against the floor.

“Gomez, mon cher, let her live,” Morticia chided, her tone warm but edged with amusement. She rose, gliding to Enid and taking her hands, her touch cool as marble. “Enid, you’ve kindled a spark in Wednesday’s shadows. A perfect equilibrium. We knew you as her anchor, her confidante, but this? A delicious twist.”

Enid’s face was a ripe cherry, but she grinned, all teeth and courage. “Thanks, Mrs. Addams. It’s been... intense. Good intense. Like, chasing-a-blood-moon-through-a-haunted-forest intense.”

Pugsley gagged theatrically. “Ugh, are you two gonna start carving hearts into tombstones now?”

Wednesday’s glare could’ve flayed skin. “One more word, Pugsley, and I’ll lace your next meal with belladonna.”

Morticia’s laugh was a low, musical chime, like wind through a crypt. “Oh, Wednesday, your choice is exquisite. Enid’s fire is a blaze we hadn’t anticipated but wholly admire.”

The conversation veered to Pugsley’s latest incendiary experiments and Gomez’s newfound passion for fencing with animated pirate blades, but later, when Enid slipped away to fetch snacks (and likely to steady her racing pulse), Wednesday lingered with her parents in the dorm’s cramped study, the door sealed shut. Lurch stood sentinel outside, his presence a silent warning to curious ears.

Wednesday sat opposite Morticia and Gomez, her posture a steel rod, but her voice carried a rare tremor, a crack in her armor only they could perceive. “There’s more,” she said, fingers brushing the worn leather of her journal. “Enid and I... we’ve consummated our bond. In Crackstone’s crypt. As per tradition, though I had hoped to avoid it. We engaged there only to avoid detection.”

Gomez’s cigar nearly slipped, but he caught it, his grin splitting his face like a fault line. “The crypt! Mon amour, our daughter carries the Addams torch with diabolical panache! Crackstone’s tomb—a masterpiece of desecration!”

Morticia’s eyes gleamed, her hand entwining with Gomez’s, their rings glinting like twin moons. “My darkling, you’ve woven our legacy into your own tapestry. The crypt is hallowed ground for passion’s first flame. Was it... transcendent?”

Wednesday didn’t blush, but her gaze flicked downward, a fleeting betrayal of vulnerability. “It was... consuming. Enid is wildfire, yet disciplined in her chaos. It felt like us. Like the manor’s shadows given form.” She paused, then added, quieter, “I didn’t expect to crave her so fiercely.”

Gomez leaned forward, his eyes glistening with the romance of it all. “That’s love, my raven. It strikes like a viper—swift, venomous, and exquisitely final. Your mother and I, in that mausoleum under the lightning’s roar... it was sublime.”

Morticia’s smile was intimate, a shared secret. “And now you’ve carved your own path, Wednesday. In a crypt, no less. You’ve honored us.”

Wednesday nodded, a softness in her eyes that felt alien yet right. “I kept to tradition. I suppose I can accept that. But Enid—she makes it... more. I can’t articulate it.”

“You don’t need to,” Morticia murmured, her voice a velvet hymn. “Love speaks in silences. Treasure her, and the darkness you’ll weave together.”

When Enid returned, arms laden with a chaotic assortment of snacks, the room warmed, the tension unraveling like a frayed noose. Gomez launched into tales of his and Morticia’s own crypt-bound trysts and other Nevermore adventures, each story more outlandish than the last, while Enid laughed, torn between mortification and delight. Wednesday sat close, her hand grazing Enid’s beneath the table, a quiet vow that this, every gothic, chaotic, perfect moment, was only the beginning of their story - and an assurance her family would support them going forward.

 

Chapter 14: Steps Between

The dorm was a fever dream of interrupted desire, like a stage set for a tryst that got politely asked to take a number. Enid’s bed was a pastel apocalypse, pillows flung like confetti at a unicorn’s funeral, a throw blanket screaming whimsy with bad intentions. Wednesday’s bed, meanwhile, was a monument to control: black sheets creased with the precision of a coroner’s report, defiant against the kind of chaos that’d make a nun rewrite the Bible.

A black candle sputtered on the windowsill, its flame smirking like it had dirt on everyone. Enid’s socks dangled from the curtain rod, relics of a private festival no one else got an invite to.

They were mid-kiss when Enid crashed into the wall.

Not poetically. Her back hit the plaster with a muffled thump, Wednesday caging her in, hands planted like she was about to interrogate a sonnet. Enid was all soft heat, lips yielding like a secret begging to be told. But her fingers twitched, hesitant, and her eyes flickered with something Wednesday could taste like iron in the air.

“Cease,” Wednesday snapped, her voice cutting through the haze like a scalpel.

Enid blinked, startled. “Did I mess up?”

Wednesday’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You’re about to unload something emotionally tedious. Out with it.”

Enid’s cheeks flushed, her teeth snagging her lip. “I… started my period today. Didn’t want to say anything ‘cause you’ve been eyeing me like I’m a gothic buffet, and I didn’t want to… wreck the vibe.”

“Wreck,” Wednesday repeated, her tone flat as a tombstone. She stepped back, posture locking into place like she was building her own gallows. “You think your body’s natural functions are a personal insult to my plans?”

Enid’s eyes glistened, teetering on tears. “I mean, I want to, you know I do, but I feel like a swamp monster, and I thought maybe if I just pushed through—”

Wednesday’s hand sliced the air, silencing her. “You’re not a 24-hour diner, Enid. I don’t expect you to be open for business at all hours. Your blood doesn’t faze me. Your guilt, however, is mildly aggravating.”

Enid let out a wet snort, wiping her eyes with her wrist. “God, I love you.”

“I know,” Wednesday said, her voice quieter than she’d confess. Then, after a beat thick with purpose: “Since carnal pursuits are off the menu, I offer the only worthy substitute.”

Enid tilted her head, half-skeptical, half-curious. “Which is…?”

Wednesday extended her hand, palm up, like she was daring fate itself. “Dance with me.”

It began with a waltz, Wednesday leading with the rigidity of a guillotine’s blade, her spine so straight Enid nearly saluted. Their feet skimmed the hardwood, Enid’s fuzzy socks hissing softly, Wednesday’s bare soles silent as a specter. The candle flame twitched as they passed, like it was eavesdropping.

Then came salsa, sharp and staccato, Wednesday’s hips moving with the precision of a metronome possessed. Enid giggled, tripping over her own glee. Swing came next, wild and reckless; Enid slapped a fedora on Wednesday’s head, and Wednesday, without a flicker, spun it backward and dipped Enid so low her sleep shorts flirted with indecency. Enid’s squeal was pure sunlight; Wednesday called it “instructive.”

They tore through jazz, blues, a jitterbug that nearly collapsed the bedframe. Wednesday, scowling, flicked on the fan. Her blouse clung like a jealous lover; Enid’s tank top was plastered to her like wet paint. They tried Broadway, then a grinding, chaotic sprawl of interpretive dance that felt more like a ritual than choreography. Enid’s ballet attempt ended with a pirouette that nearly brained Wednesday. Wednesday countered with a deadpan Charleston that left Enid gasping on the floor, laughing too hard to stand.

Modern. Jazz funk. Contemporary floorwork that had them panting like they’d outrun death. Wednesday went down first—not from fatigue, but because Enid’s overzealous leap sent her sprawling like a cursed tree. They collapsed in a tangle, legs knotted, faces flushed, breathing like they’d just dodged a hex.

Enid tugged her shirt to wipe her brow, flashing a crescent birthmark above her hip. Wednesday’s gaze lingered, sharp and cataloging, like she was committing it to a private archive.

“Okay,” Enid wheezed, still giggling, “if anyone asks, we did not just dance ourselves stupid for ninety minutes.”

Wednesday’s eyebrow arched like a drawn dagger. “And when did we start caring about anyone’s opinion?”

Enid’s grin was all teeth and defiance. “Point taken.”

The showers were empty, a rare stroke of luck in a dorm that thrived on bedlam. Wednesday adjusted the nozzle with the focus of a bomb technician, coaxing warm water in a steady stream. Enid shed her clothes without fanfare, tank top and shorts hitting the tiles in a soggy pile. She stepped under the spray, exhaling as the water melted the ache from her limbs, her blonde hair darkening and sticking to her shoulders like a drenched canvas.

Wednesday followed, folding her clothes with surgical care despite the steam. They stood close, the water a soothing pulse against their overworked muscles. Wednesday’s fingers grazed Enid’s arm, a quiet touch that felt like an anchor after their whirlwind. Enid leaned into it, her hands finding Wednesday’s shoulders, steadying herself as the warmth unraveled the last knots of exhaustion.

A kiss came, soft, unhurried, the kind that didn’t ask for anything but time. Enid’s lips brushed Wednesday’s, then lingered, a silent tether. Wednesday’s hand rested on Enid’s cheek, her touch steady, grounding. The steam curled around them, and for a moment, the world was just water and quiet.

Enid smiled against Wednesday’s lips, voice low. “This is kinda perfect.”

Wednesday’s eyes softened, just a fraction. “Tolerable,” she murmured, but her thumb grazed Enid’s jaw like a confession.

Back in the dorm, they shared towels, Enid’s still tinged with strawberry sweetness. They collapsed into Enid’s bed—less haunted, warmer. Enid curled into Wednesday, lips brushing her shoulder. “Next time,” she mumbled, “I’m gonna make it up to you.”

Wednesday tucked damp hair behind Enid’s ear. “You already did.”

The candle was a melted stub, its vanilla-and-mystery scent fading. Under the bed, Enid’s plush shark glared in silence. The playlist lingered, a faint echo of their night.

Chapter 15: Quiet Night

The dorm room was calm a week after their dance-filled night. Enid’s bed was a riot of colorful pillows and a rumpled blanket, while Wednesday’s was pristine, black sheets tucked with razor-sharp precision. The candle on the windowsill was gone, a faint breeze from the cracked window stirring the air. Enid felt lighter, her body back to normal, and the tension between them had been building—stolen glances, fingers brushing in passing, a silent promise that tonight would be theirs.

Enid sat cross-legged on her bed, clutching a small black box she’d hidden under her pillow. Her heart raced, not from nerves but from the warmth of knowing Wednesday better now, their connection deeper with every shared moment. She looked at Wednesday, who was at her desk, sharpening a dagger with slow, deliberate strokes, her dark braid catching the lamplight. “Hey,” Enid said, her voice soft and warm, crossing the room in her sleep shorts and tank top. She leaned down, kissing Wednesday’s neck gently, lingering to breathe in her scent—ink and something faintly like storm clouds. “I’ve been thinking about you all day. Want to try something tonight?”

Wednesday set the dagger down, turning to face Enid, her dark eyes softening as they met hers. “You’re relentless,” she said, her lips curving into a rare, tender smile that made Enid’s chest flutter. “What’s your plan, mi loba?”

Enid’s grin was all affection, her fingers brushing Wednesday’s cheek before revealing the black box. “Got this for us,” she said, opening it to show a sleek, matte black vibrator. “We’ve gotten so good together, but I thought this might make it even more… special.” Her voice held a shy hope, her eyes searching Wednesday’s for approval.

Wednesday’s gaze lingered on the device, a spark of curiosity in her eyes. “Thoughtful,” she murmured, standing, her fingers grazing Enid’s wrist, a touch that sent warmth through her. “But first, privacy. I won’t have our moment interrupted.”

Enid nodded, her heart swelling at Wednesday’s care. She grabbed a thick towel from her laundry basket, tucking it snugly under the door to block any sound. Then she pulled her white noise machine from the nightstand, switching it on; a gentle hum filled the room, like a distant waterfall. Wednesday knelt by the door, chalk in hand, drawing a precise runic ward on the floor. It glowed briefly, a soft silver, before fading. “Sound containment,” she said, rising, her eyes meeting Enid’s with a quiet intensity that felt like a vow. “Now it’s just us.”

Enid moved to Wednesday, her hands cupping her face, kissing her deeply, pouring every unspoken feeling into the press of her lips. Wednesday’s response was immediate, her fingers unbuttoning Enid’s tank top with practiced ease, their movements smooth from nights spent learning each other. Enid tugged Wednesday toward her bed, the pastel chaos soft beneath them as they shed clothes—tank top, blouse, shorts, underwear—falling in a careless pile, their focus only on each other.

Enid guided Wednesday down, straddling her hips, their kisses slow and deliberate, a dance they’d perfected. Her hands roamed Wednesday’s chest, thumbs brushing sensitive spots, drawing a soft sigh that made Enid’s heart skip. Wednesday’s fingers dug into Enid’s thighs, pulling her closer, their bodies fitting together like they were made for this. Enid leaned in, whispering against Wednesday’s ear, “I love how you feel,” her voice thick with adoration.

Wednesday’s smile returned, small but radiant, her hands sliding up Enid’s back, tracing her spine. “You make me feel alive,” she said, her voice low, raw with honesty. Enid’s breath caught at the words, her lips finding Wednesday’s again, the kiss deepening with shared need.

Enid reached for the vibrator, switching it on with a low buzz. She tested it against Wednesday’s inner thigh, watching her eyes darken with want. “Ready?” Enid asked, her voice a gentle tease, her free hand brushing Wednesday’s cheek. Wednesday nodded, her smile softening, her hand resting over Enid’s, a silent trust. Enid moved the toy slowly, tracing Wednesday’s skin, starting at her hips and moving inward. Wednesday’s breath hitched, her hands gripping Enid’s waist as the vibrations sent shivers through her. Enid kissed her neck, syncing her lips with the toy’s rhythm, drawing a low, unguarded moan that made Enid’s heart soar.

Wednesday pulled Enid into a fierce kiss, then flipped their positions with a swift, practiced move, her strength gentle but commanding. Now on top, Wednesday took the vibrator, her touch precise as she used it on Enid, starting slow, circling with care. Enid gasped, her back arching, hands clutching Wednesday’s shoulders. “You’re perfect,” Enid breathed, her voice trembling as pleasure built, sharper and more intense with the toy’s steady hum. Wednesday’s eyes locked on hers, reading every reaction, adjusting her pace with a tenderness that felt like love in motion.

Enid’s moans grew louder, muffled by the white noise machine, her body trembling as release neared. Wednesday leaned down, kissing her deeply, swallowing her cries as Enid came, the toy amplifying the rush, leaving her shuddering and breathless, her grin wide and dazed. “You’re too good at that,” she panted, pulling Wednesday close, her lips brushing her jaw in a soft, grateful kiss.

“My turn,” Wednesday said, her voice a warm whisper, handing the toy back. Enid nodded, her hands steady now, moving with confidence as she used the vibrator, mirroring Wednesday’s skill. She kissed along Wednesday’s jaw, down her throat, lingering at her chest, drawing a rare, quiet moan that felt like a gift. Enid’s fingers worked with purpose, finding the rhythm that made Wednesday’s breath catch, her control slipping as pleasure built. When Wednesday came, it was with a sharp gasp, her hands tangling in Enid’s hair, her body melting into Enid’s, her face soft with a vulnerability Enid cherished. “You,” Wednesday murmured, her voice barely audible, “are my heart.”

They collapsed together, Enid curled against Wednesday’s side, her head on her chest, listening to her steady heartbeat. Sweat cooled on their skin, the white noise machine humming softly, the ward holding the world at bay. Enid traced gentle circles on Wednesday’s arm, her voice soft. “That was… everything. I love you.”

Wednesday’s hand rested in Enid’s hair, her smile lingering, warm and unguarded. “And I, you,” she said, her fingers brushing Enid’s cheek, a touch that felt like forever. They lay tangled in the pastel sheets, their warmth a cocoon against the night, the plush shark under the bed forgotten, their love the only thing that mattered.

Chapter 16: Study Break

The dorm room had evolved since their last intimate night. Enid’s side, once a pastel riot, was now tamer—pillows neatly stacked, blanket folded at the bed’s edge, a single unicorn plush betraying her old chaos. Her desk was organized, notebooks aligned, pens in a cup. Her influence had crept onto Wednesday’s side: a pink sticky note with a heart doodle stuck to Wednesday’s lamp, a soft gray scarf draped over her chair. Wednesday’s space stayed stark, black sheets tucked tight, but the scarf and note softened its edges, a quiet mark of Enid’s presence. Textbooks piled on both desks, untouched for days, loomed like a warning.

Enid lounged on her bed, phone in hand, stealing glances at Wednesday, who typed steadily at her typewriter, all focus and sharp lines. Enid tossed her phone aside, hopped up, and slid behind Wednesday, arms wrapping around her shoulders. She pressed a quick kiss to her neck. “That typewriter’s driving me nuts. How about a break? Just you and me, no books.” Her voice was light, hands lingering with hope.

Wednesday paused, leaning back into Enid’s touch, a smirk flickering. “You’re entirely too predictable, Enid,” she said, her tone dry but warm as she turned to meet her eyes. “What exactly are you scheming this time?”

Enid grinned, leaning closer. “I want you. Right now. Slow, close, whatever you’re feeling.” She paused, nose twitching. “Hold on. You’re on your period, aren’t you? It’s faint, but I can tell. I’ll back off if you’re not up for it.”

Wednesday spun her chair to face Enid, her dark eyes steady but softened. “You’re correct; it started this morning,” she said, her voice calm and even. “But that wouldn’t stop me. Blood is irrelevant to desire, at least in my view. If you wanted to continue, I’d be perfectly willing.”

Enid slumped onto the bed, grabbing Wednesday’s hand. “God, you’re tough. My cramps last week were brutal, like my insides were staging a coup. You doing okay with yours?”

Wednesday’s lips curved slightly, a rare hint of empathy in her gaze. “I have cramps too, sharp and persistent. For an Addams, they’re almost invigorating—pain can be its own kind of thrill. But I know not everyone feels that way; we’re built differently.” She glanced at the textbooks on her desk. “If you wanted to push through, I’d manage without issue. But we’ve been neglecting our work. Assignments, readings, deadlines—they’re piling up, and as much as it irritates me, we can’t ignore them.”

Enid groaned, flopping back. “You’re right, and I hate it. Homework’s such a vibe-killer.” She sat up, pouting. “You didn’t even want to come to Nevermore, all that ‘I’d rather be dead’ energy. But now? If we flunk, they’ll kick us out, and I can’t handle not seeing you every day.”

Wednesday sat beside her, their knees brushing. “You’re not wrong. I despised this place at first—pointless rules, forced interactions. But the thought of leaving you now is intolerable. We need to keep our grades up.” Her voice softened, a quiet conviction in her words. “We study tonight, no distractions.”

Enid leaned her head on Wednesday’s shoulder. “Fine. But let’s make it fun. Study group? Yoko and Divina are drowning in potions. It might keep us on track.”

Wednesday nodded, her hand grazing Enid’s briefly. “That’s a sensible plan. Call them.”

An hour later, Yoko and Divina showed up, lugging textbooks. They plopped on the floor around a table Enid had dragged over, coffee cups scattered among their notes. “You guys are saints,” Yoko said, flipping open her potions book. “That last quiz murdered me.”

Divina nodded, scanning the dorm. “This place is… you two. Let’s do this.”

They dug in. Wednesday broke down a potion recipe, her voice calm and precise, pointing at her notes. Enid jumped in, making the steps sound less like a death sentence, her grin pulling everyone along. But halfway through, Enid’s hand slipped into Wednesday’s under the table, fingers locking. Wednesday didn’t pull away, leaning closer, their shoulders pressed tight. Enid caught her eye, holding the look too long, a soft smile sneaking out.

Yoko coughed, shifting. “Yo, lovebirds. Potions? Kinda need you here.”

Divina smirked, eyes on her book. “You’re adorable, but it’s a lot. Maybe focus?”

Enid laughed, letting go of Wednesday’s hand but staying close. “Oops. My bad.” Wednesday’s mouth quirked, but she dove back in, helping Yoko with a formula, her patience surprising everyone.

The dorm started feeling cramped, their closeness making the air thick. “Library,” Wednesday said, standing. “Better focus, less… us.”

They grabbed their stuff and headed out. The library’s gothic arches and dim lights set a serious mood. They claimed a table, spreading out notes. Wednesday coached Divina on a curse’s history, her explanations sharp and engaging. Enid helped Yoko with werewolf lore, tying it to potions with a clarity that clicked. By midnight, they’d knocked out chapters and prepped for quizzes, cracking a few jokes over weird ingredients.

Yoko stretched, grinning. “You two saved my ass. Thanks.”

Divina packed up, nodding. “Library was a good move. Less… you know, heart-eyes.”

Back in the dorm, Enid and Wednesday crashed on Enid’s bed, homework done, the room quiet. Enid stretched, her shirt riding up, revealing the crescent birthmark Wednesday loved. Wednesday’s gaze lingered, her expression softening as she shifted closer, her hand resting on Enid’s thigh. “You were impressive tonight,” she said, her voice low, almost tender. “Your focus deserves a reward. Let me please you, Enid. My lips, your body—just us.”

Enid’s cheeks flushed, her fingers tightening around Wednesday’s hand. “You’re on your period, though. I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything, especially if you’re not comfortable.” Her voice was soft, hesitant, her eyes searching Wednesday’s.

Wednesday leaned in, her forehead brushing Enid’s, her voice steady but warm. “Your pleasure is my happiness, Enid. It’s not about obligation—it’s about wanting to see you come undone, knowing I’m the cause. My period changes nothing. I want this for you, for us.” Her fingers traced Enid’s jaw, a gentle promise, her eyes holding a rare openness.

Enid’s hesitation faded, a shy grin spreading as her heart raced. “Okay, you win. I’m yours.” She pulled Wednesday into a soft, lingering kiss, her hands sliding into Wednesday’s hair, tugging gently. Wednesday’s lips moved to Enid’s neck, kissing slowly, deliberately, as she guided Enid to lie back on the pastel sheets. Her hands slipped under Enid’s shirt, lifting it to expose her stomach, her lips following with soft, warm kisses that made Enid’s breath hitch. Wednesday’s touch was careful but confident, her fingers unbuttoning Enid’s shorts, easing them down as she arched slightly, her trust absolute. As Wednesday’s kisses trailed lower, Enid’s fingers gripped the blanket, a soft gasp escaping, the world narrowing to just them, their connection a quiet fire in the night.

Chapter 17: Parent's Day

Nevermore Academy’s Parents’ Day was a circus of the macabre, where the scent of damp stone and enchanted ivy clung to the air like a lover’s threat. The quad thrummed with the awkward energy of families pretending they belonged in a place where the wallpaper might eat you. Enid Sinclair stood at the heart of it, her bubblegum-pink aura clashing gloriously with the gothic gloom, her family a mismatched tableau against a carved stone column.

Her mother, Esther, wielded a smile sharp enough to cut glass, her eyes scanning the campus like she was cataloging sins. Hugh, her dad, was a walking exhale, chill as a werewolf on a full-moon bender. Her brothers, Jasper and Ronan, slouched against the column—Jasper radiating the disgust of a teen who’d rather be anywhere else, Ronan smirking like he’d bet on this whole day going up in flames.

“So,” Esther purred, her voice honey laced with arsenic, “this friend you’re so eager for us to meet. You two are… what, exactly?”

Enid’s jaw tightened, but her voice was steady, a spark of defiance in her pastel brightness. “Dating, Mom.”

Esther’s smile flickered like a dying bulb. “Oh. Well.” A pause, pregnant with judgment. “I mean, sure. Huh.” Another pause, longer, sharper. “I just figured, you know, after Jackson, that werewolf camp kid, and… who was the other one?”

“Logan,” Enid said, her tone flat as a gravestone.

“Right. Boys always seemed your speed. You’re young, sweetie. Phases happen.”

Enid’s eyes narrowed, claws itching beneath her skin. “This isn’t a phase. I’m not some glitter-pen pup with a crush-of-the-week.”

Esther opened her mouth, but the air turned heavy, like the prelude to a storm. Wednesday Addams was coming.

She moved like a shadow with a vendetta, her braid a black whip slicing through the afternoon’s cheer. Morticia glided beside her, a vision in black silk, her serenity a blade cloaked in velvet. Gomez bounced along, grinning like he’d just unearthed a cursed artifact and sold the curse for profit.

Wednesday halted before Enid’s family, her gaze dissecting them with the precision of a guillotine. “If grandchildren are your concern,” she said, voice cool as a crypt, “rest easy. You have two sons. Statistically, one should manage to propagate your lineage. Unless you’re fixated on Enid specifically, which would imply a matrilineal obsession I find statistically unlikely.”

The silence was a living thing, coiling tight around the group.

Enid grabbed Wednesday’s hand, tugging with a mix of panic and affection. “Wednesday! She’s fine. Just… surprised.”

Wednesday blinked, unperturbed. “Noted. Her poker face needs work.”

Before the moment could fossilize into catastrophe, Gomez swooped in, his grin a beacon of chaotic charm. “Gomez Addams! What a delight to meet the clan who birthed such a radiant soul! You must burst with pride.”

Morticia’s smile was a crescent moon, sharp and luminous. “Your daughter brings a vibrancy to our Wednesday’s world that we cherish, even if she’d rather die than admit it.”

Esther’s smile was a brittle mask. “Yes. Enid’s always been… colorful.”

Hugh extended a hand to Gomez, unbothered by the Addamses’ theatrics. “Hugh Sinclair. This place is batshit, but you folks seem right at home.”

“Oh, we are,” Gomez said, eyes gleaming. “There’s a guillotine in the art room.”

Wednesday nodded. “For still life. So far.”

Jasper stared like he’d stumbled into a fever dream. Ronan’s smirk widened, savoring the chaos.

Esther’s gaze lingered on Enid, softer but still probing. “Sweetie, I just want you happy. This… caught me off guard, but I’ll try.”

Enid’s shoulders eased, just a hair. “That’s all I need.”

Wednesday’s eyes flicked to Esther, assessing, but Enid’s gentle squeeze on her hand kept her silent—this time, it was a tether, not a leash.

Morticia stepped forward, her arm looping through Gomez’s with liquid grace. “Shall we explore the carnivorous plant exhibit? I find flora with teeth so invigorating.”

“My kind of garden,” Hugh said, falling into step.

Jasper shot Enid a look of pure bafflement before stalking off. Ronan tipped an imaginary hat to Wednesday. “You’re a walking hazard. Respect.”

“Your bone structure is adequate for genetic continuation,” Wednesday replied, deadpan.

“…Cool?” Ronan sauntered off, still grinning.

Enid leaned into Wednesday, her voice a warm murmur. “You nearly started a war.”

“I was generous,” Wednesday said, as if explaining a math proof. “Offering solutions. She should thank me.”

“She’s not banking on Ronan’s kids.”

“Shame. His jawline is structurally sound.”

Enid groaned, pressing her face into Wednesday’s shoulder. “Stop sizing up my brothers for breeding.”

“I’ll consider it,” Wednesday said, her tone utterly unconvincing.

Enid’s muffled laugh vibrated against her. “God, I love you.”

Wednesday’s lips twitched, a rare, crooked smile. “Inevitably.”

 

---

 

The families had drifted to the ivy-choked gazebo at the quad’s edge, a gothic relic that looked like it whispered curses at night. Morticia sipped from a thermos the color of fresh blood, her poise unshakable. Gomez was mid-tale, regaling Hugh with a story of fencing, a duke, and a vineyard that screamed at midnight. Ronan lounged against the rail, all lazy amusement, while Jasper had vanished—probably to brood in some shadowy corner.

Wednesday sat with Enid on a wrought-iron bench, her gloved fingers twined with Enid’s bare ones, a contrast of frost and fire. “You’re warm,” she murmured.

“You always say that,” Enid teased, her grin a splash of sunlight.

“I never tire of it,” Wednesday said, a faint note of pleasure in her voice. Then, with grave sincerity: “I love you.”

Enid’s eyes softened, her heart doing that stupid flutter thing. “I know. You’re getting better at showing it.”

A pause, then Wednesday’s voice dropped, dry as bone dust: “A pity I can’t carry your child. Though I could consider Ronan’s, to secure your family’s legacy in some tangential capacity. Your mother might appreciate the effort.”

Enid froze, her grip tightening as her brain short-circuited. Flinch or laugh? She couldn’t decide.

A beat—then Gomez’s laughter boomed like a thunderclap. “¡Mi pequeña cómica! What delivery! Morticia, did you catch that?”

Morticia’s lips curved, her amusement a quiet blade. “Exquisitely dry, darling. Her humor sharpens by the day.”

Enid blinked, still reeling. “Wait—that was a joke?”

Wednesday tilted her head, the barest smirk tugging at her mouth. “Obviously. A calculated absurdity. I have no interest in your brother’s progeny. He’s conventionally attractive, which is its own punishment.”

Gomez tsked dramatically. “Poor Ronan, spurned by fate!”

Pugsley, who’d been feeding a carnivorous plant scraps of cafeteria chicken, piped up from the sidelines. “She really is joking - if she was serious, it wouldn't be in front of us - and she'd probably have some witches and fertility clinics for you to look at."

Enid exhaled, her laugh shaky but real. “You’re all completely unhinged.”

“Utterly,” Morticia agreed, her voice a silken caress. “But devoted.”

Wednesday lifted Enid’s hand, pressing a deliberate, reverent kiss to her knuckles. “Yours alone.”

Enid’s cheeks warmed, her grin unstoppable. “No more baby jokes. I’m begging you.”

“Not even an Addams-sanctioned surrogacy pact?”

Enid groaned, loud and dramatic. “Wednesday!”

Pugsley stood, brushing off his pants. “I’m gonna track down Jasper and see if he wants to punch a gargoyle or something. Catch ya.”

Chapter 18: A Spare Night

 

The week at Nevermore had been mercifully short on attempted murders. Bianca’s club was practicing siren harmonics at full blast, a sound that made the glass in Enid’s dorm window hum like a tuning fork. Ajax spent two days sulking because someone had spread the rumor he’d mistaken the art room’s plaster busts for actual Gorgons. Even Thing had taken to stealing Enid’s hair scrunchies in broad daylight, scuttling out the window like a one-handed raccoon.

Wednesday, naturally, thrived in the relative quiet.

Enid suggested a date because she could tell her girlfriend was itching for some activity that didn’t involve homicide or cello practice. “Bowling alley,” she said, over dinner in the quad. “It’ll be fun.”

Wednesday blinked at her, slow and deliberate. “A place designed to force one into communal footwear. Delightful.”

Enid grinned. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

 

The place was packed with normal people—college kids, families, a few retirees who clearly lived for league night. Enid paid for two lanes because she figured Wednesday would refuse to share. She was right.

Wednesday approached the ball rack like a surgeon choosing her scalpel. “Heavier is better,” she announced.

Enid took the pink twelve-pounder just to spite her. “Sure it is.”

Wednesday’s form was rigid, mechanical. She sent the ball down the lane like she was conducting an execution. Three pins fell. She turned back, expression unchanged.

“Not bad,” Enid said encouragingly.

“It is a beginning,” Wednesday said. “And every beginning is merely a prelude to inevitable decay.”

Enid laughed so hard she nearly dropped her soda.

By frame six, Wednesday had developed a system: two steps, a sharp pivot, release. The ball veered left every time, but occasionally she managed a spare. Enid, meanwhile, bowled with her usual chaotic energy—half strikes, half wild gutter balls. They made a pair: one grimly consistent, the other erratic but explosive.

A man two lanes over muttered to his wife, “Are those the Addams and Sinclair girls? From that creepy school?”

Wednesday bowled a spare without looking at him. “Yes,” she said flatly. “I will put henbane in your nachos if you persist.” The man shut up.

 

Afterward they walked to a used bookstore that smelled of dust, ink, and the faint tang of old coffee. Enid made a beeline for the manga shelves while Wednesday gravitated toward crime history.

Enid pulled down a shōjo romance and held it up. “This one’s about two girls who—”

“Trite,” Wednesday interrupted. “The cover alone reeks of saccharine self-delusion.”

Enid rolled her eyes. “Not everything has to involve ritual sacrifice.”

Wednesday, without glancing up from Forensic Pathology: A Practical Guide, replied: “I disagree.”

Still, when they checked out, Wednesday slipped a slim poetry volume into Enid’s stack, a rare concession. Enid noticed, but didn’t call her on it.

 

They got back to campus late. Bianca caught them sneaking in, Enid still in her borrowed bowling shoes. “Seriously?” Bianca said. “An actual date night? You two are breaking character.”

Wednesday arched an eyebrow. “I was unaware we had one.”

Bianca shook her head and left them to it.

In their dorm, Enid collapsed on the bed, still buzzing with leftover neon energy. “Okay, admit it. You had fun.”

Wednesday unlaced her shoes with slow precision. “Fun is a hollow concept. However—” she looked up, expression steady, voice lower—“I do not regret the evening.”

Enid’s chest warmed. That was as good as a declaration of love in Wednesday-speak. She tugged Wednesday down beside her, kissed her, and for once didn’t care who might be peeking through the cracked dorm door. They'd probably heard more anyway.

Thing, naturally, gave a little round of applause before retreating.

 

Chapter 19: Leather and Promises

The dorm room was quiet, save for the faint creak of the old wooden floorboards under Wednesday’s boots as she paced. The late afternoon sun filtered through the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across the room. Enid was sprawled on her bed, scrolling through her phone, her colorful nails tapping rhythmically against the screen. The air was thick with the comfortable silence of their shared space, a sanctuary carved out amidst the chaos of Nevermore Academy.

Wednesday stopped abruptly, her sharp gaze landing on a small, unassuming black box tucked beneath her bed. She knelt, her movements precise, and pulled it out with a reverence that made Enid pause. The box was lacquered, its surface gleaming faintly, with intricate silver clasps that hinted at something precious—or dangerous—inside.

“Enid,” Wednesday said, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. “Come here.”

Enid’s brows shot up, but she set her phone aside and slid off the bed, curiosity piqued. “What’s that? Some creepy Addams family heirloom? A cursed music box? Oh, please tell me it’s not a shrunken head.”

Wednesday’s lips twitched, the barest hint of a smirk. “Nothing so pedestrian.” She flicked open the clasps with a soft click and lifted the lid, revealing a meticulously arranged set of leather bondage gear. The pieces were exquisite—supple black leather, polished to a sheen, with delicate stitching, gleaming silver buckles, and surgical steel chains. Wrist cuffs, ankle cuffs, a collar, a gag, and an assortment of straps and restraints lay nestled in crimson velvet, each piece crafted with an almost obsessive attention to detail.

Enid’s eyes widened, her cheeks flushing a faint pink. “Whoa. Okay, that’s… fancy. Like, really fancy.” She leaned closer, her fingers hesitantly lifting the collar from its velvet nest. The leather was buttery soft, well-lined with a smooth inner layer that felt luxurious against her fingertips, and she let out a soft, involuntary whimper. “This is… really nice. Like, really nice.” Her voice faltered as her fingers grazed the silver adornments, and she pulled back slightly, her expression shifting. “But, uh, I’d have to remove some of these bits. The silver. It’s… not great for me.”

Wednesday froze, her hand hovering over the box. Her dark eyes flicked to Enid, a rare flicker of guilt crossing her face. “I didn’t think,” she said, her voice clipped with self-reproach. “That was careless of me.” Without hesitation, she took the collar from Enid and began carefully stripping the silver pieces from it and the other items, her nimble fingers working with precision to remove the offending adornments while leaving the surgical steel chains and fastenings intact. The silver clinked softly as she set it aside in a small pile.

Enid watched, her flush deepening. “It’s okay, Weds. I mean, you didn’t know I’d react like that. And it’s still… wow.” She gestured vaguely at the box, her usual exuberance tempered by a sudden shyness. “Where did you even get this? Did you raid some secret dungeon at your house?”

Wednesday’s expression softened, though her tone remained dry. “Pugsley smuggled it to me during his last visit. It’s… a family gift.”

Enid’s jaw dropped. “Your family gave you a bondage set? Like, what, for Christmas?”

“My quinceañera,” Wednesday corrected. “I refused the celebration - too much pomp and saccharine nonsense. But my father insisted on this.” She traced a finger along the now silver-free collar, her touch almost reverent. “He said it was to ‘keep my future amour under my thumb when I was ready.’ His words, not mine.”

Enid let out a nervous laugh, her gaze darting between the box and Wednesday. “Okay, that’s… very Addams. But, uh, won’t your mom notice it’s gone? I mean, this looks expensive.”

“It’s mine,” Wednesday said simply. “My father had it made for me. Mother has no claim to it. Theirs is much more extensive.” She tilted her head, studying Enid with an intensity that made the werewolf’s heart skip. “The question is, Enid… would you like to use it?”

Enid blinked, her flush deepening. “Use it? Like… use it, use it?” She glanced down at the collar still in her hands, eyeing it for size, her fingers running along the smooth lining. “I mean, that’s… a lot. Don’t get me wrong, it’s kinda hot in a scary-sexy way, but… you’re serious?”

Wednesday’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m always serious. But I won’t push you. The priority is to never harm each other; only to enhance what we have. If this isn’t something you want, we close the box and forget it.”

Enid chewed her lip, her eyes flickering back to the leather. “I… I don’t know. I’ve never done anything like this. It’s intense.” She hesitated, then added, “But… maybe the wrist and ankle cuffs? For, like, the bed? And, um, the gag. You know, so I don’t… wake up the whole dorm.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, her cheeks now a vibrant red.

Wednesday’s smirk returned, sharper this time. “A practical choice. The gag is particularly effective for discretion.” She paused, then added, her voice softer, “But I’m open to more, if you are. You could… take control. Use whatever you want on me.”

Enid’s mouth fell open, and for a moment, she looked like she might short-circuit. “Wait, you? You’d let me…?” She gestured at the box, then at Wednesday, her eyes wide with disbelief, still clutching the collar. “You’re saying you’d let me tie you up? Wednesday Addams, queen of control, would just… hand it over?”

Wednesday stepped closer, her voice dropping to a low, deliberate cadence. “I trust you, Enid. If you want to explore this, I’m willing to let you lead. Within reason, of course.” Her lips quirked. “I’m not entirely without my limits.”

Enid swallowed hard, her fingers tightening slightly on the collar as she eyed it again, her thumb brushing the smooth leather. “Okay, that’s… wow. That’s a lot to process.” She hesitated, then blurted, “What if… what if I wanted to be, like, your puppy?” Her face turned crimson, and she clapped her free hand over her mouth, mortified. “Oh my gosh, that’s so cliché! I can’t believe I said that. But… I kinda like it.”

Wednesday’s eyes widened slightly, a rare crack in her composure, before a slow, approving smile curved her lips. “Cliché or not, Enid, it suits you.” She reached out, brushing her fingers lightly against Enid’s wrist, a silent reassurance. “If that’s what you want, we can explore it. Slowly. No demons, no harm. Just us.”

Enid nodded, her embarrassment giving way to a tentative excitement. “Okay. Let’s… let’s try it. But we go slow, yeah? And if it’s too weird, we stop.”

“Agreed,” Wednesday said, her eyes gleaming with something like pride. She closed the box with a soft snap and set it aside, then turned to Enid, her expression unreadable but soft at the edges. “Whenever you’re ready, Enid. I’m not going anywhere.”

Chapter 20: Guilt Trip

Enid Sinclair sprawled on her bed. The room was still a study in contrasts: Enid’s side exploded with color—pink and teal throw pillows, fairy lights strung haphazardly over a corkboard plastered with polaroids and concert tickets. Wednesday’s side was a grim sanctuary; black bedding, a single iron candelabra with unlit candles, and a taxidermy raven perched on her desk. A faint scent of lavender from Enid’s diffuser battled the musty leather of Wednesday’s ancient books.

Enid’s laptop was open, supposedly for history notes, but her phone had her attention. She scrolled through photos from a Nevermore hike, pausing on one of Ajax. His beanie was askew, his grin wide and goofy as he balanced on a log. Her heart did a little skip. God, he’s cute, she thought, her thumb hovering over the screen. Guilt hit like a punch, her stomach twisting. She stole a glance at Wednesday, who sat at her desk, scribbling in a leather-bound journal, her black braids stark against her pale neck. Enid’s chest ached. Wednesday was her everything, sharp, brilliant, with those rare, soft looks that made Enid’s knees weak. Their relationship was perfect. So why was her brain betraying her?

That morning in potions class, Enid had zoned out, her eyes locked on Bruno across the room. He was hunched over his cauldron, his strong hands stirring with precision, sleeves rolled up to show lean forearms. Her cheeks warmed as she imagined those hands brushing her arm. She’d shaken it off, but then at lunch, Ajax had slid onto the bench beside her, all earnest eyes and lanky limbs “Want some?” he’d asked, holding out his apple, his shy smile making her stomach flutter. “Uh, sure,” she’d mumbled, taking a bite, her heart racing as their fingers brushed. Each moment was fleeting, but the guilt lingered, heavy and sour. She loved Wednesday. She chose her. So why couldn’t she stop?

“Enid,” Wednesday’s voice cut through, cold and sharp. Enid yelped, nearly dropping her phone. Wednesday’s dark eyes pinned her from across the room, unyielding. “You’re distracted. Again.”

Enid forced a grin, heart hammering. “Just, uh, zoned out. Long day.” She shoved her phone under a pillow, tugging at a loose thread on her rainbow-striped socks.

Wednesday snapped her journal shut and crossed the room, her boots silent on the hardwood. She sat on the edge of Enid’s bed, the mattress creaking softly. The fairy lights cast a warm glow over her pale face, making her look almost ethereal. Enid’s pulse spiked; Wednesday’s closeness always did that, like the air itself held its breath.

“You’ve been like this for weeks,” Wednesday said, voice low but piercing. “Fidgeting. Avoiding conversation. Staring at boys like they’re a riddle you can’t crack.” Her lips twitched, sharp and knowing. “It’s not subtle.”

Enid’s stomach plummeted. “It’s not like that,” she said, voice cracking. “I love you, Wednesday. I don’t want anyone else, I swear.”

Wednesday tilted her head, her gaze dissecting. “Then why do you watch them? Ajax’s idiot grin, Bruno’s hands, Eugene’s pathetic charm. You blush, then look like you’ve committed murder.”

Enid buried her face in her hands, her pink nails digging into her scalp. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I don’t mean to. Ajax is just… fun, you know? And Bruno’s got this intense vibe when he’s working. And Eugene, he’s so sweet, he talked to me about his bees today, and I couldn’t help smiling. But it’s nothing. I feel like garbage every time because I don’t want to hurt you.”

Silence stretched, thick and heavy. Enid peeked through her fingers, expecting rage or betrayal. But Wednesday’s face was calm, almost curious.

“Attraction isn’t betrayal,” Wednesday said, her tone even. “It’s instinct. What matters is what you do with it.”

Enid blinked, hands dropping. “You’re not mad?”

Wednesday’s lips quirked, a ghost of a smile. “Jealousy’s pointless. But you’re drowning in guilt, and it’s annoying. Talk to me.”

Enid’s eyes stung, tears threatening. “I feel like I’m screwing this up. If I love you, I shouldn’t even notice them.”

Wednesday’s hand settled on Enid’s knee, cool through her leggings. “That’s absurd. You’re human. Mostly.” A flicker of humor. “You see beauty. It doesn’t mean you love me less. It means you’re alive.”

Enid laughed, shaky, relief flooding her. “How are you so chill? I thought you’d hex Eugene’s bees or something.”

Wednesday’s smile sharpened. “Don’t tempt me. I trust you, Enid. You chose me. That’s enough. Stop torturing yourself.”

Embarrassment burned Enid’s cheeks. Wednesday had to talk her down like a kid throwing a tantrum, and it stung. “I’m such a loser,” she muttered, picking at her sock. “You shouldn’t have to fix my dumb head.”

Wednesday’s eyebrow arched, but her eyes softened. “You’re not a loser. You’re Enid.”

Enid’s heart clenched, not from guilt but from need. She wanted to prove herself, to show Wednesday she was all in. She slid closer, grabbing Wednesday’s hand, her fingers warm against Wednesday’s cool ones. “Let me make it up to you,” she said, voice soft. She leaned in, kissing Wednesday’s jaw, then her lips, slow and sure. “You’re my everything.”

Wednesday’s breath hitched, and she kissed back, iron and deliberate. Enid’s hands cupped Wednesday’s face, her heart pounding with raw, unshakable love.

They pulled back, foreheads pressed together. Enid’s embarrassment faded, replaced by heat. “I’m yours,” she whispered.

Wednesday’s lips curved, eyes glinting in the fairy light. “Prove it.”

Enid grinned, tugging Wednesday closer, ready to show her exactly how much she meant it.

Chapter 21: Pup and Raven

Notes:

Reader discretion advised.

 

The weekend hit fast, the dorms emptying out as kids headed home or off to whatever trouble they could find. Wednesday locked their door Friday night, the key on a chain around her neck. No one in or out. Just them, the beds, and that black box waiting under the frame like it had a pulse.

Enid had been antsy all week, fidgeting in class, leaving notes on Wednesday's desk with dumb emojis: nervous dogs, shaky hearts, a locked padlock. Saturday morning, the room smelled like Enid's vanilla lotion mixed with Wednesday's sharp clove soap. They kept it easy at first: cafeteria snacks in bed, Enid butchering a crossword while Wednesday fixed it in seconds flat, both of them laughing in that quiet way they had. But the box hung there, pulling at the edges.

Around midday, Wednesday dragged it out. Sunlight slipped through the curtains' gap, hitting the leather pieces as she laid them on the floor: wrist cuffs, ankle cuffs, the collar without the silver, a coiled leash, the gag with its soft bit. No chains yet.

"You sure?" Wednesday asked, fingers resting on the collar's edge.

Enid nodded, throat tight. "Yeah. Door's locked. Nobody around. It's just us." She took the collar, felt its solid weight. Heavy, real. "Puppy play, right? Like, me on the floor, you scratching my head, maybe some snacks?" Her laugh came out shaky, trying to play it light, but her stomach twisted with heat.

Wednesday knelt in front of her, knees brushing. Close enough to feel the warmth off her skin. "It's more than games, Enid. It's letting go; instinct taking over. You'll crawl. You'll beg. Trust me to lead." Her fingers skimmed Enid's arm, light but sure. "But only if you want. 'Raven' stops it cold. Our word."

Enid's breath caught. It sounded heavier than she'd pictured, not just cute romps, but raw, exposed. Like handing over the reins to her wolf side, but softer, needier. Nerves mixed with a low ache in her gut. She tilted her head, baring her neck. "Okay. Show me."

Wednesday's mouth curved, sharp and pleased. She buckled the collar on slow, leather cool against Enid's skin, snug but easy to breathe. The leash clipped with a small snap, and Enid's pulse jumped under it. "Good girl," Wednesday said, voice low. "Floor. Hands and knees."

Enid dropped down, carpet biting her palms, her sweater suddenly too hot and heavy. She looked up at Wednesday standing there in her black dress, boots planted, leash slack in her hand. "Like this?"

Wednesday gave a light tug, pulling her forward just enough. "Pup. No talking unless I say. Bark if you need out." But her other hand cupped Enid's chin, thumb on her lip. Soft. "You're safe. Feel it."

Enid nodded, then barked, a soft, testing "woof?" It felt stupid at first, cheeks burning, but Wednesday's eyes warmed, and the room sharpened. Wednesday walked her around the bed in a slow loop, leash guiding, murmuring praise: "Good. Heel." Enid crawled, knees starting to ache, but the pull settled her, step, pause, step. Her sweater hiked up, cool air on her back, and Wednesday's boot nudged her thigh apart, a quiet order to open up.

It ramped up quick. Wednesday sat on her bed's edge, patted her lap. "Up, pup. Belly."

Enid froze for a beat; belly up was all trust, no hiding. But she rolled, hands up like paws, legs spread in a stretch that yanked her sweater higher, showing the edge of her shorts. Wednesday leaned in, fingers scratching behind her ear, then sliding down her chest. "Eager girl. So good."

Enid whined for real, the sound slipping out, and heat flooded between her legs, insistent and wet. This was bigger than she'd thought: not play, but a pull that stripped her down. She saw Wednesday's eyes widen and her nostrils flare; she'd scented it. "Bare now," she said, unhooking the leash but leaving the collar. "Strip. Everything."

Enid's face burned, but she knelt up and yanked off her sweater, then the shorts and panties in one go. Naked, air hitting her skin, nipples hard, slickness already showing between her thighs. She dropped back to all fours, rocking toward Wednesday's boot for any touch, barking low and needy.

Wednesday's breath hitched. She grabbed the wrist cuffs, snapping them on Enid's hands, then linked them loose to the ankle cuffs with a short chain—kept her low, elbows and knees only. "Not full ties yet," she said, voice rough, thumb brushing Enid's clit once, quick and teasing, pulling a sharp yelp. "Next time, I'll walk you through it on me. Tension, locks, get it wrong, and it's bruises. Not what we want."

Enid panted, body shaking, but she grinned through it, subby haze turning playful. "Woof - wait, talking okay? You're letting me tie you next? Heard switch dommes are killer. Total power flip." She wiggled her hips, like a tail flicking.

Wednesday gave a small smile, hand fisting light in Enid's hair. "Domme sub? Only so you don't mess it up, pup." She let go, eyes sharp. "Read 'The New Topping Book' by Dossie Easton. Or 'Screw the Roses, Send Me the Thorns.' Basics. Ropes and all." Her fingers trailed Enid's spine, dipping low to circle her entrance, wet and open. "But right now? Mine."

It caught fire then. Wednesday tugged her onto the bed, chain rattling as she set her on hands and knees over the dark sheets. She held the gag to Enid's mouth. "Open." Enid did, bit settling, turning her whines to muffled groans. Leash hooked to the headboard, tight enough she couldn't pull away.

"Good pup," Wednesday said, stripping her dress off, then the rest, skin pale in the low light. She pressed in behind, hand on Enid's hip, the other sliding between her legs to push in shallow, fingers slick with her. Enid arched, moaning around the gag, naked, chained, dripping down her thighs. Wednesday bit her neck, light marks that stung sweet, then her shoulder.

It built steady, no rush. Wednesday's fingers hooked deeper inside, curling to find firm pressure against Enid's G-spot, rubbing in tight circles that made her vision white out. Thumb stayed on her clit, other hand raking down her back in long scratches, soothed with trailing kisses along her spine.

Enid's world went tight: leather on wrists, chain cold, the wet slide and that building pressure inside turning her into a live wire. She broke first, body locking hard, a choked howl through the gag as the orgasm ripped out, soaking Wednesday's hand and the bed in a rush that left her shaking.

Wednesday eased the gag out right then, breath ragged, and flipped Enid onto her back, cuffs twisting to pin her arms up but loose enough she could bend at the elbows. She straddled Enid's thigh, grinding down slow at first, slick heat against skin. "Look at you," she said, low growl, pinching a nipple then licking it soft, a reward kiss following that made Enid twitch. But Enid's hands strained against the cuffs, fingers brushing Wednesday's hip, then higher when Wednesday leaned in close, rewarding the reach with a nod, shifting so Enid could slide her hand between them.

Enid didn't hesitate, fingers dipping into the wet heat, finding Wednesday's spot quick, hooking just like she'd felt it done to her, rubbing firm and steady while Wednesday rocked down harder. Wednesday's head fell back, a sharp gasp breaking free, body clenching around the touch. She moved faster, chasing it, Enid's fingers working deeper, thumb flicking her clit in echo, until Wednesday shattered too, head back, body shaking through them both, a low hiss spilling out as she clamped down, lips finding Enid's in a messy, final press.

The cuffs unclicked one by one after. They fell together, sweaty and loose, Wednesday pulling Enid in close, collar still warm on her neck. "Too much?" Wednesday asked, lips on her temple.

Enid burrowed in, spent and buzzing. "More than I figured. But... yeah. Hell yeah." Her fingers found Wednesday's, lacing tight. "Next time, I read up. And you? My turn."

Wednesday hummed, soft in the fading light. "Next time." Door stayed shut, weekend wide open.