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The Addams house is unusually bustling, if such a word can be applied to a family whose preferred atmosphere tends toward the funereal. Balloons (black, of course, and helium-deflated just enough to sag mournfully) drift against the ceiling beams. Gomez is bellowing some affectionate nonsense in Spanish about his son’s birthday, while Pugsley, mortified by the very notion of celebration, lurks in the corner sharpening a set of fishhooks.
Wednesday watches it all with the same distant amusement she has always carried, her expression carved from shadow, her dark eyes trailing over each absurd detail without betraying whether she approves or disdains. She is dressed with meticulous purpose: black satin blouse with delicate jet buttons, a fitted skirt that cuts ruthlessly at the knee, stockings patterned so faintly with roses they look like bruises if the light catches them wrong. She has painted her lips an uncompromising shade of black cherry. It is not for the restaurant they are meant to attend, it is armor, an old instinct sharpened by her time away.
There is, of course, the matter of the guest of honor. Not Pugsley, whose own birthday is merely the excuse for gathering, but Larissa Weems, whose tall figure glides into the house just as the clock chimes six. Larissa looks maddeningly composed, as always, her platinum hair swept up in that careful wave, her height exaggerated by heels that could probably be used as weapons if necessary. She is wrapped in a dark teal coat that flatters her broad shoulders, the collar turned down to reveal just enough of her pale throat. The sound of her heels against the Addams’ black-and-white tiles is enough to command the room, though her smile is soft when she leans into Morticia’s arms for a lingering embrace.
Wednesday, who has sworn to herself that she is far past those adolescent humiliations of impossible crushes, feels the air tighten all the same. She had thought time, distance and relentless intellectual focus would kill the memory of Larissa’s voice, her laugh, the way she had seemed to stand taller than the whole world when Wednesday first met her at sixteen (but the body has its own betrayals, and hers is quick to remind her with the sudden burn at the back of her neck).
Morticia ushers Larissa in with theatrical delight, Gomez clasping her hand and kissing it extravagantly before launching into some anecdote about their school days. Larissa laughs, the sound low and rich, and for a moment the whole room feels smaller just to fit her into it.
Wednesday is careful not to stare. She pours herself another half-glass of crimson wine, though her head has been faintly aching all evening. It had started earlier, when she had stooped too low to adjust her stockings and clipped her temple against the sharp corner of her vanity. A small thing, at first, just enough to make her vision swim for a heartbeat but as the preparations for dinner stretch on, the dull throb grows heavier, blooming behind her eyes until she finds herself pressing her fingertips against her brow as though she could knead it away (Morticia notices, Morticia always notices).
“My little deathblossom,” Morticia croons, her voice like a caress of midnight silk. She drifts over, her long fingers tilting Wednesday’s chin up to inspect her with the same care one might give a wilted rose. “You look pale, even for you.” Wednesday resists the urge to roll her eyes, but the room does tilt faintly again when she tries to stand straighter. She mutters that she is fine, but her tone lacks its usual steel.
Morticia sighs, then flicks a glance over her shoulder at Larissa. Her expression softens into something conspiratorial. “Perhaps it would be best if Wednesday stayed behind tonight. Pugsley can survive his birthday without his sister glowering in the corner. And Larissa, dearest, would you indulge me by keeping her company while we go to dinner? You remember what she was like as a child. Leave her unattended and she’d have set fire to the curtains just to spite me.”
Larissa’s lips curve, her amusement brightening her pale eyes. She says smoothly that of course she would be glad to stay… but Morticia is not finished. She bends close to Larissa’s ear, her voice a hushed purr meant for no one else. “She used to have the most dreadful crush on you, you know. Around sixteen, seventeen. It was sweet in its way, if she brings anything up tonight, let her down gently. I trust you to be kind.”
Wednesday catches only the shape of their closeness, not the words, though suspicion prickles at the back of her mind (she knows her mother’s talent for meddling). Larissa tilts her head, feigning solemnity. “Always gentle, darling,” she promises, and the irony glitters faintly in her smile as Morticia sweeps away.
Within minutes the rest of the family is spilling out the door in their morbid finery, Gomez’s booming voice echoing down the drive. The house quiets like a graveyard after a funeral. Only Larissa and Wednesday remain, the distance between them suddenly weighted, the air thick with something unnamed. Wednesday sets her half-finished wine down with careful precision, her fingers lingering on the glass stem as though calculating the precise pressure it would take to snap it in two. Her head throbs more insistently, but she ignores it, choosing instead to lift her gaze and let it rest, cool and unflinching, on Larissa.
“Apparently,” she says, her tone dry enough to wither a lesser soul, “I require a babysitter. I trust you brought a rattle to amuse me.” The corner of Larissa’s mouth curves again, and she moves further into the room, shrugging out of her teal coat with languid grace. She drapes it over the back of a chair before answering, her voice a warm ribbon that threads through the quiet. “I hardly think you need a babysitter, Wednesday. But I am flattered to be entrusted with your company.”
Wednesday does not allow herself to look at the line of Larissa’s shoulders beneath her silk blouse, nor the way her height commands the Addams’ parlor as though she belongs in it. Instead, she leans back in her chair, letting her legs cross neatly at the knee, her expression smooth as a blade’s edge. “If this is company,” she remarks, “then I should hope you are more entertaining than my family believes me to be. Otherwise this will be a wasted evening for us both.”
Larissa pours herself a glass of wine before taking the seat opposite. She lifts it with elegant fingers, the gesture deliberate, before letting her eyes meet Wednesday’s over the rim. “I have a few talents that might entertain you. It only depends on what you’re willing to indulge.” The words hum with suggestion, though Larissa’s expression remains composed, almost innocent (almost).
Wednesday feels the familiar spark of irritation that is not irritation at all, it is the thing she has never named, the thing she once thought would wither and die when she left home at sixteen… it has not, if anything, it has sharpened.
The fire in the parlor crackles with a languid rhythm, throwing shadows across the patterned wallpaper and gilding the angles of Larissa’s face in amber light. Wednesday’s eyes catch on the movement despite herself, the firelight tracing sharp cheekbones, the elegant slope of her nose, the faint smudge of lipstick that looks too precise to have been accidental.
Larissa settles into the armchair opposite, one long leg crossing over the other, her glass balanced with perfect poise in her hand. The wine glows blood-red in the bowl of the glass, and when she swirls it lightly, it looks almost alive, as though responding to the low vibration of her voice.
Wednesday tilts her head, observing her in silence longer than most would bear. Finally, she speaks, her tone threaded with irony. “When my mother said you were coming tonight, I assumed you’d be seated at the head of the restaurant table, telling some tedious story about your school days. I didn’t anticipate you’d be left behind to play nursemaid.”
The sound Larissa makes in response is something between a laugh and a hum of satisfaction. She takes a slow sip of wine before answering, the movement deliberate enough that Wednesday’s attention lingers against her will. “You sound almost disappointed,” Larissa replies, her tone lilting with quiet amusement. “One might think you were looking forward to my tedious stories.”
Wednesday narrows her gaze, though the corner of her mouth betrays the faintest twitch of a smirk. She lifts her own glass and lets the liquid coat her tongue before speaking again, her voice precise. “Looking forward is not an expression in my lexicon. I endure, occasionally I suffer… rarely, I am intrigued. That is the extent of my spectrum.”
The words are meant to cut, but Larissa seems immune to her blades. She leans back, unbothered, her eyes flickering with interest rather than offense. “Intrigued, hm?” she repeats softly, as if rolling the word around her tongue to test its flavor. “Well then. If I can keep you from boredom, I shall consider the evening a success.”
There is something dangerous in how she says it, the same way one might remark on taming a wild thing (Wednesday feels her pulse flicker once at her throat before she smothers it). She shifts in her chair, letting the movement speak of restless disdain rather than any nervous energy.
“You have always been too eager to perform,” Wednesday says, her voice dry, though the insult feels strangely toothless in her mouth. “A peacock in silk stockings. It’s remarkable you haven’t combusted from the strain of being charming at all hours of the day.” Larissa tips her head, considering her across the rim of her glass. The corner of her lips curve upward into something wry, almost sharp. “And yet, it seems to have kept me in your thoughts.”
The air stills around them, the fire snapping louder in the silence that follows. Wednesday does not blink, but her fingers tighten faintly against her glass. She knows the heat rising in her chest is only partially from the wine, partially from the ache at her temples… the rest is Larissa’s fault (entirely). She sets her glass down on the small table beside her with a click, her gaze unwavering. “You flatter yourself if you imagine you occupy my thoughts,” she says coolly, though the precision of her words feels like armor hastily fastened.
Larissa lets the silence linger before she answers, her voice velvet smooth. “Perhaps… or perhaps I know what your mother whispered before she left.” The words strike like a blade slipped between ribs, and Wednesday’s eyes sharpen instantly. She had suspected, of course, but hearing it confirmed sends a current of mortification twisting low in her stomach. Morticia Addams, ever meddling, ever gleeful in weaving secrets into weapons.
Wednesday sits straighter, her back a rigid line. Her voice, when it comes, is colder than the frost that sometimes lingers on the Addams gates. “I imagine she said something insipid. You’d do well to forget it.”
Larissa does not forget (she does not yield) she leans forward instead, the fire catching in her eyes, the shadows deepening along the curve of her mouth. “She said you had a crush on me,” Larissa murmurs, her voice soft, intimate, deliberately cruel in its gentleness. “Once upon a time.”
The heat that rushes through Wednesday’s body feels unbearable, an ache at her temples blooming into full fire. She wants to deny it with surgical precision, to slice the admission into ribbons and let it bleed out between them but she remembers herself at sixteen, watching this very woman command a room, catching herself staring too long at the sweep of her hair, the cadence of her voice (to deny it would be laughable).
Instead, she lifts her chin, her voice calm as ever, though her pulse pounds too fast. “Once upon a time,” she echoes, as though it were an academic observation and not a confession dragged from her throat.
Larissa smiles, not wide but slow, blooming across her lips like a secret victory. She leans back in her chair again, as though satisfied, though her eyes remain fixed on Wednesday, their focus almost predatory. “I should be flattered,” she says, letting the syllables fall warm into the room. “Though it does make me wonder whether time has cured you of it, or merely… sharpened the edges.”
Wednesday reaches for her glass again, if only to anchor her hands. Her head still throbs with that dull, insistent ache, but it is overpowered now by the sharper heat crawling through her veins. She takes a deliberate sip of wine, lets it burn at the back of her throat, and lowers the glass with controlled elegance.
“If you are attempting to provoke me, you’ll have to try harder,” she says, her tone steady. Yet beneath the words lies the truth she will not name (that Larissa Weems has always provoked her simply by existing).
The weight of Larissa’s gaze lingers long after her words fade, a pressure that seems to spread through Wednesday’s skin like an ink stain. The room is too warm, the fire’s glow too steady, her temples pulsing in time with the faint clink of Larissa’s glass when she sets it down.
Wednesday tells herself it is only the headache that makes her chest feel tight, only the wine that has set a restless hum beneath her skin. But her body knows better than her mind, and treachery has always been a faithful companion of desire. She has lived for years away from home, among her books and her cadavers and her studies, cultivating herself into an instrument of logic and cruelty. She thought herself hardened, immune. Yet here, now, with Larissa’s voice curling low in the firelight, she feels all those sharpened edges turned inward.
Larissa shifts in her chair, long legs crossing once more, the motion fluid, unhurried, as if she knows the effect it has. The silk of her blouse catches faintly in the firelight, outlining the subtle curve of her waist, the rise and fall of her breath. Wednesday’s eyes flick there for a fraction of a second, and she hates herself for it immediately, even as the image brands itself into her skull.
She forces her attention back to the wine, which has grown thin in her glass. Her mouth feels dry, and she resents the fact that it is not Larissa’s fault this time but her own. Rising smoothly, she announces in a tone colder than necessary, “This bottle is nearly finished, I’ll fetch another.”
Larissa arches one pale brow, the gesture infuriatingly elegant. “Do you require assistance?” she asks, though her voice carries the faint note of teasing, as though she knows full well that Wednesday would rather swallow glass than admit to weakness.
Wednesday ignores the question. She crosses the parlor toward the sideboard where the decanters and bottles rest, her stride precise, her skirt swaying with controlled severity. The dull ache at her temples throbs with each step, but she dismisses it, reaching for a fresh bottle nestled against the back of the shelf. She bends forward, her hand closing around the glass neck, only for her temple to connect, mercilessly, with the carved edge of the cabinet door she has failed to notice left ajar.
The crack of contact rings louder than the fire, a sharp thud that sends her vision flashing white for an instant. She stumbles back a fraction, the bottle clutched but tilting dangerously in her grip, her free hand rising instinctively to her forehead where pain radiates in a hot bloom. For a heartbeat, the room tilts treacherously, her breath caught between a hiss and a curse.
Larissa is on her feet before Wednesday can straighten. The click of her heels crosses the rug in three swift steps, her hand reaching out to steady Wednesday’s arm with a grip that is firm but maddeningly gentle. “My dear, you’re bleeding,” Larissa murmurs, her voice rich with concern but edged with something else (something warmer, sharper, lingering between them).
Wednesday pulls her head back instinctively, though the movement makes the ache worse. “I am perfectly capable of suffering in silence,” she replies, her voice clipped, though the effect is ruined slightly by the wince she cannot suppress. Larissa’s fingers do not release her arm. They rest against the fabric of her sleeve, cool and steady, as her other hand hovers near the bottle Wednesday clutches. “And yet, you nearly shattered a perfectly good Bordeaux. That would have been a tragedy I cannot allow.”
The faint smile tugging at Larissa’s lips is infuriating, and it sparks something reckless in Wednesday’s chest. “Then take it,” Wednesday says, thrusting the bottle toward her, though her movements are sharper than her equilibrium allows. The glass wavers between them, nearly slipping, and Larissa’s hand closes over hers to steady it before disaster can strike.
The contact is immediate, the warmth of Larissa’s skin pressing against her knuckles, her long fingers enveloping Wednesday’s smaller ones (the pressure of it is a jolt through Wednesday’s already frayed nerves, a pulse that seems to settle low in her spine and coil there like a snake). Larissa holds the bottle easily now, her hand still brushing against Wednesday’s.
Her eyes, close enough to be read in detail, shimmer with an amusement laced with something far more dangerous. “Stubborn as ever,” she murmurs, her tone pitched low, intimate, as though this were a confession shared between conspirators. Wednesday stiffens, her spine taut, though she makes no move to break the contact. The warmth sears through her like a second heartbeat, and she hates the way her body betrays her still. “Do not mistake stubbornness for weakness,” she says, her words as precise as blades. “I am fully aware of my limits.”
Larissa tilts her head, her smile deepening. “Are you?” she asks softly, and the question hums through the air between them like the pluck of a violin string. The weight of Larissa’s hand against hers makes the bottle suddenly feel irrelevant, its glass body forgotten in the thrum of contact. For a moment, they stand locked together, Wednesday’s pulse hammering in her temple, Larissa’s gaze fixed too intently to be mistaken for anything as benign as concern.
Then Larissa tilts her chin, her voice dipping lower, carrying an authority that brooks no refusal. “Sit down,” she instructs, easing the bottle from Wednesday’s grip with a grace that feels less like force and more like inevitability. “Before you split your head a third time. I’d prefer to keep your skull intact.”
Wednesday wants to protest, to hurl something cutting about how she’s survived far worse than a cabinet door, but the throbbing in her temple makes the thought of standing an act of stubborn martyrdom. And the way Larissa’s hand lingers, firm at the crook of her arm, makes refusal feel like surrendering ground in a battle she isn’t ready to concede.
So she allows herself to be guided (if only technically, because the truth is she resents how natural the movement feels) back toward the settee. Larissa’s presence at her side is unyielding, her height eclipsing the firelight, her hand never straying far from Wednesday’s elbow as though she would catch her should she falter.
The settee dips under Wednesday’s weight as she sits, her spine rigid, her chin lifted in a gesture of defiance that feels thin given the faint dizziness clouding her vision. Larissa, however, seems unconcerned. She sets the rescued wine bottle on the table, pours herself another measured glass, and then, without ceremony, leans down into Wednesday’s space.
The closeness is staggering and Wednesday can smell the faint trace of Larissa’s perfume (something floral, but sharp at the edges, like night-blooming jasmine). Her hair gleams pale gold in the firelight, her eyes bright as polished steel when they meet Wednesday’s.
“Hold still,” Larissa says, her voice smooth but threaded with command. Her hand rises, cool fingers brushing at Wednesday’s temple, sweeping a strand of hair back to inspect the fresh mark. The touch burns through Wednesday like a brand, though her expression remains meticulously flat. “You needn’t fuss,” Wednesday murmurs, her voice softer than she intends, though still laced with defiance. “Head injuries are hardly novel for me.”
Larissa’s thumb drags gently along the curve of her hairline, pausing at the tender spot where the skin has reddened. “And yet you bruise so beautifully,” Larissa observes, her tone slipping into something richer, more dangerous, as her fingers linger longer than necessary.
The words thread themselves into Wednesday’s chest, tangling with the heat she refuses to name. She swallows against the dryness of her throat, forcing her tone into its familiar edge. “I suppose that’s one way to compliment someone. Most people prefer less concussive methods.”
Larissa’s smile tilts, sly and indulgent. She straightens only slightly, her hand sliding away at last, though her proximity remains suffocatingly close. “I’ve never been most people,” she says, the words curling between them like smoke. Wednesday’s fingers twitch against the upholstery of the settee, a restless betrayal of her otherwise motionless poise. She angles her head, her dark eyes unflinching as they catch Larissa’s. “No, you’ve always made a point of towering above them… quite literally.”
The remark is sharp, but it cannot cut through the sudden thrum in the air, the sense that the ground beneath them is shifting. Larissa laughs, low and warm, the sound settling into the room like velvet. She does not lean back, if anything, she leans closer, bracing one hand against the back of the settee so that her height arches over Wednesday in a way that feels deliberate.
“You used to glare at me when I visited,” Larissa says softly, her voice a purr of memory. “Sixteen, seventeen… you’d sit in the corner with your books and act as though my very existence offended you.” Wednesday’s lips twitch, though whether from irritation or something else she cannot say. “That was not an act,” she replies coolly. Yet her voice betrays the faintest tremor, so slight most would miss it (Larissa, of course, does not).
Her pale eyes narrow, catching the flicker like a predator scenting weakness. “And yet here you sit, letting me fuss over you. Almost as though my existence no longer offends you at all.” The silence that falls is heavier than the fire’s crackle, heavier than the ache in Wednesday’s skull. Her pulse skitters, her body taut, but she refuses to flinch, refuses to look away.
“If you imagine,” she says finally, her voice low and measured, “that I have mellowed with age, you are gravely mistaken.” Larissa’s smile blooms slow and devastating, her voice a murmur as she leans that fraction closer, her breath warm against Wednesday’s cheek. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The space between them hums with unspoken things, the kind that slip through ribs and coil in the marrow. Wednesday tells herself it is the wine, the pain, the firelight (but none of those explain why her breath catches, why her fingers curl into the fabric of the settee as though to anchor herself against the gravity of Larissa Weems).
Larissa lingers in that intimate lean for a heartbeat too long, her breath warm against the curve of Wednesday’s cheek. The faint scent of her perfume is threaded through with wine, a combination that feels dizzying, decadent, and wholly inescapable.
Then, with a grace (that seems rehearsed but effortless) she lowers herself onto the settee beside Wednesday. The cushions dip under her weight, tilting just enough that their knees brush: a glancing contact, deliberate in its casualness, yet impossible to ignore.
Wednesday remains perfectly still, though her spine is drawn taut as a bowstring. The ache in her temple throbs in counterpoint to the brush of Larissa’s knee against hers, and she resents how the sensation grounds her even as it unravels her focus.
Larissa sets her glass down on the low table before them, her hand brushing close enough that the movement sends a whisper of fabric against Wednesday’s sleeve. She leans back with calculated ease, stretching one arm along the back of the settee behind Wednesday, not quite touching, but close enough that Wednesday can feel the faint disturbance of air where her fingers rest. “You’re tense,” Larissa observes, her voice velvet-soft, though it carries the weight of deliberate provocation.
Wednesday’s head tilts, her dark eyes sliding toward Larissa with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “I’ve just sustained two head injuries within the span of an hour. If I weren’t tense, I’d be concussed beyond reason.”
The faint laugh that escapes Larissa is low, rich, unbothered. She shifts just slightly, letting her knee press more firmly against Wednesday’s, her height and presence consuming the space with quiet inevitability. “You’ve always had a gift for excuses,” she murmurs. “Though I suspect the truth is far more interesting.”
The implication hums in the silence between them. The fire crackles, the wine breathes in their glasses, and Wednesday feels the thin threads of her composure strain against the pull. She does not move away (she does not yield, either). Her voice, when it comes, is steady, though threaded with iron restraint. “You mistake silence for confession. An error I would not expect from you.”
Larissa turns her head, her eyes catching the firelight, her lips curving into that devastating, half-amused smile. “Perhaps,” she allows, her tone pitched low, intimate. “Or perhaps I’ve simply learned how to read the silences of Addams women. Your mother was always eloquent in hers.” Wednesday hates the flush that rises unbidden to her throat at the comparison, as though Morticia’s shadow has followed her into this room. She draws herself taller, her voice edged like a blade. “If you intend to patronize me, you’ll find I bite.”
Larissa’s smile deepens, her voice a hushed purr that curls against the shell of Wednesday’s ear. “I should hope so.” The words land heavy, deliberate, and Wednesday feels her pulse falter in the strangest way. The world tilts slightly, but whether from the wine, the ache in her temple, or the weight of Larissa’s proximity, she cannot say.
Her hand twitches once against the cushion, as though some instinctive part of her longs to shift away, to preserve her control but Larissa’s arm draped along the back of the settee, her knee pressing more insistently against Wednesday’s, her entire body angled with slow, calculated poise (it pins Wednesday in place more effectively than any physical restraint). And the worst of it, the absolute worst, is that she does not want to move.
Instead, she tips her chin higher, her eyes unwavering, though her voice drops into something sharper, quieter. “If you think proximity will intimidate me, you’re mistaken. I don’t yield to pressure.”
Larissa leans in the barest fraction more, her lips close enough that Wednesday can feel the shape of her words against her skin. “I never thought you would yield. I thought you might… respond.”
The silence that follows is unbearable. Wednesday’s breathing feels too loud in her ears, her pulse a drumbeat at her throat. She knows she should stand, step away, retreat to the safety of distance. Instead, she lets the quiet stretch taut between them, her dark gaze locked to Larissa’s, neither blinking, neither breaking.
Then, with a voice edged in steel, Wednesday asks, “What precisely did my mother say to you before she left?” The faint smile that curves Larissa’s lips is devastating in its composure, as though she has been waiting for this very question. Her eyes gleam in the glow of the fire when she answers, her tone smooth, deliberate, and cruel in its gentleness. “She told me that you had a dreadful crush on me when you were sixteen. And she asked me, should you ever bring it up tonight, to let you down gently.”
The words hang between them, thick as smoke. Wednesday’s breath catches for half a second but enough to enrage her with her own body’s betrayal. She tilts her head, her lips curling into a smirk that slices through the tension even as it feeds it.
“So this is your idea of letting me down gently?” she asks, her voice laced with mockery, her dark eyes flicking pointedly to the small but damning details of Larissa’s closeness (the press of her knee against hers, the arm draped along the back of the settee, the breath warm against her skin).
Larissa’s smile does not falter, if anything, it deepens, her voice dropping into something velvet-rich. “Would you prefer I be cruel?” she murmurs, her words brushing close to Wednesday’s cheek like a secret whispered in confidence. Wednesday’s smirk sharpens, though her pulse betrays her by skipping in her throat. “I’d prefer you be honest,” she retorts, her voice quieter now, more dangerous for its restraint. “At the moment, your posture suggests anything but rejection.”
The remark lands like a blade, and Larissa does not flinch from it. Instead, she leans that fraction closer, her height a wall of shadow and firelight. Her voice hums low, smooth as wine. “Perhaps I’m not rejecting you.” The world narrows. The ache in Wednesday’s temple, the hiss of the fire, the sagging balloons drifting listlessly against the ceiling all of it fades beneath the weight of Larissa’s words.
Wednesday’s fingers twitch against the cushion, gripping the fabric in an effort to keep her composure intact. Her voice, when it comes, is cool as steel drawn fresh from the forge. “Then you’re not keeping your promise to my mother, either.”
Larissa tilts her head, her pale eyes catching every flicker of Wednesday’s defiance. “Your mother should know better than to entrust me with promises I never intend to keep.”
The answer sears through Wednesday, an admission wrapped in silk and smoke. Her chest feels tight, her lips dry, but her voice remains calm, her smirk razor-thin. “Then I suppose it falls to me to remind you what happens to liars in this house.” Her knee presses back, meeting Larissa’s with deliberate force, a declaration in the smallest of movements.
And Larissa laughs (low, throaty, delighted) as though Wednesday’s defiance were the very thing she had been coaxing toward all along. Wednesday feels it reverberate through her bones, rattling against the iron grip she has always held over her impulses. Her knee remains braced against Larissa’s, neither giving way, the tension a steady thrum like a bowstring drawn and waiting.
Then Larissa’s hand moves (slow, deliberate, claiming the space that has been hovering just above Wednesday’s shoulder). Long fingers trace the edge of her jaw, cool at first, then warm as they settle against her cheek. The touch is maddening in its gentleness, and Wednesday feels the burn of it sink deep, a pulse that coils down her spine.
She should pull away. She should cut the moment with some sharp remark, reclaim the ground Larissa has taken. Instead, she tips her chin infinitesimally higher, allowing the touch, daring it to go further.
Larissa does… she leans in, her lips grazing Wednesday’s with a patience that is somehow more devastating than hunger. The kiss is a question, an invitation, and Wednesday’s answer comes in the form of her hand rising sharply to fist in Larissa’s silk blouse, dragging her closer with all the force of years spent denying this very impulse.
The kiss breaks open with that tug, deepening instantly into something feral, wine and fire and years of repressed hunger spilling into the clash of mouths. Wednesday bites, of course she does, and Larissa laughs against her lips, the sound muffled but unbothered, as if she expected nothing less.
The arm along the back of the settee curls fully around Wednesday now, pulling her flush against Larissa’s side. Their knees tangle, the brush of silk against wool, and Wednesday presses herself in with brutal precision, her hand sliding down from Larissa’s blouse to her waist, nails dragging just enough to elicit a sharp inhale. The sound ignites something merciless in Wednesday’s chest. She breaks the kiss only to murmur, her voice roughened, “Still think I’m intriguing?”
Larissa’s lips curve against hers, her breath hot as she murmurs back, “More than ever, my dear.” And then she’s kissing her again, harder, until Wednesday is flat against the settee cushions, the weight of Larissa’s body pinning her there like a hand pressing parchment to flame.
Clothes come undone with a fury that feels inevitable. Buttons scatter, silk parts and Wednesday is ruthless in tearing at every barrier between them. Larissa, though, is maddeningly controlled even in her hunger (her hands sure, her mouth everywhere, tracing bruises down Wednesday’s throat).
When Larissa pulls back just enough to shift Wednesday further into the cushions, her hand bracing near Wednesday’s head, she lets out a low chuckle, warm and wicked. “Careful, darling,” she teases, her thumb brushing dangerously close to the tender spot at Wednesday’s temple. “We wouldn’t want you knocking that clever head of yours a third time. Though I admit, the results have been… gratifying.”
Wednesday glares up at her, lips swollen, hair mussed, but the glare only sharpens the ache low in her belly. “Make another joke about my head,” she breathes, her voice rough silk, “and I’ll bite you somewhere you won’t enjoy.” The answering grin Larissa gives her is sinful. “Promises, promises.”
The rest is inevitable. Wednesday pulls her down with vicious insistence, and Larissa yields only to conquer, their bodies colliding in a rhythm that is all sharp edges and velvet heat. The settee creaks beneath them, the fire snaps wildly, and Wednesday’s head does throb again (but this time it is drowned in the far greater ache of desire… consuming and merciless).
Every movement is banter turned physical: Larissa’s deliberate pace, Wednesday’s furious retaliation, the tug of hair, the scrape of nails, the press of mouths and teeth and laughter swallowed whole. The world beyond the parlor does not exist, there is only this, the weight of Larissa Weems and the feral satisfaction of finally surrendering to the hunger she swore she had killed years ago.
The settee dips precariously under their weight, cushions groaning as Larissa presses Wednesday down into the upholstery. The fire’s glow paints both of them in gold and shadow, the room dizzy with heat and wine. Wednesday’s hands tear at Larissa’s blouse with ruthless precision, nails catching on buttons until they scatter across the rug like shrapnel.
Larissa doesn’t flinch. She lets the silk fall open, exposing the pale column of her throat, the swell of her breasts framed by black lace. She watches Wednesday’s eyes flick there (sharp, hungry, betraying her far more than words ever could) and a satisfied smile curves her lips. “You used to glare at me for existing,” she murmurs, her voice low, velvet-drenched. “Now look at you.”
Wednesday’s answer is not verbal. She surges upward, mouth closing over Larissa’s collarbone, teeth grazing sharp enough to leave a mark. The bite pulls a breathy laugh from Larissa’s chest, and she tangles one hand in Wednesday’s dark hair, tugging just enough to drag her head back. Wednesday glares up at her, lips swollen, breath ragged. “Keep talking,” she hisses, her voice laced with desire as much as threat, “and I’ll make you regret it.”
The retort is swallowed in the next kiss, a clash of tongues and teeth that leaves both of them gasping. Larissa’s arm curls fully around Wednesday now, pulling her flush against her side. Their knees tangle, the brush of silk against wool, and Wednesday presses herself in with brutal precision, her hand sliding down from Larissa’s blouse to her waist, nails dragging just enough to elicit a sharp inhale.
The sound ignites something merciless in Wednesday’s chest. Wednesday’s hands move lower, tugging at Larissa’s skirt with vicious efficiency until it pools around her hips. She slips her fingers beneath the waistband of her stockings, dragging them down inch by inch, watching with vicious satisfaction as Larissa shudders at the loss of composure. “You’re overdressed,” Wednesday mutters, her voice ragged with want.
Larissa chuckles darkly, her hand sliding down Wednesday’s thigh, fingers tugging at the hem of her skirt with unhurried grace. “And you’re impatient,” she counters, leaning down to press a kiss against Wednesday’s jaw, then her throat, then lower. “But I do find that charming.”
The skirt yields easily under Larissa’s hands, drawn upward to bare pale thighs encased in stockings. Wednesday shivers at the brush of cool air against overheated skin, her legs parting just enough to allow Larissa between them. The movement is precise, deliberate, as though she is offering a challenge rather than an invitation (Larissa accepts). Her hand slides higher, fingertips dragging along the inside of Wednesday’s thigh, slow enough to make her breath catch in fury.
Wednesday’s nails dig into her back, dragging down hard enough to make Larissa hiss. Their bodies grind together with brutal urgency now, the settee creaking beneath them, wine glasses trembling on the table nearby. Wednesday’s head aches, yes, but the pain is swallowed whole by the sheer flood of sensation: Larissa’s thigh pressing between hers, the press of lace and silk, the friction that sparks through her veins like firecrackers.
Her hands move lower still, tugging at Larissa’s underthings until lace gives way beneath impatient fingers. She slips her hand between Larissa’s thighs, curling her fingers with brutal purpose. “Bossy little thing,” Larissa breathes, her hips jerking forward despite herself, her voice rough with want. “Always have been.”
Wednesday’s back arches, her head pressing into the cushion, a sound tearing free that she refuses to call a moan. “Shut up,” she spits, even as her own hips grind forward against Larissa’s hand, betraying her body’s desperate hunger.
Larissa does not shut up (of course she doesn’t). She bends lower, her mouth dragging across Wednesday’s throat, her voice a sultry murmur against the pulse pounding there. “Never,” she promises, before sliding her fingers beneath the damp fabric between Wednesday’s thighs.
The gasp that breaks from Wednesday then is raw, involuntary, furious in its honesty. She claws at Larissa’s shoulders, dragging her closer, teeth sinking into her lip hard enough to draw blood. The taste of iron blooms between them, sharp and intoxicating, and Wednesday licks it away with a growl. “Look at you,” Larissa murmurs, her voice roughened with desire, before thrusting her fingers deeper, slower, savoring the way Wednesday trembles despite herself. “So perfect.”
The rhythm builds (urgent, hungry… merciless). Wednesday clings with nails and teeth, her every movement a weapon, a refusal to surrender even as her body betrays her with every sharp cry that escapes her throat. Larissa matches her in kind, her own composure fraying, her laugh breaking into gasps as Wednesday’s hand works her open in return.
The settee rocks under them, wood groaning, fabric straining, the entire room alive with their ferocity. Every kiss is a battle, every thrust of fingers a counterstrike, every sound a victory neither is willing to yield. When it breaks (when Wednesday shatters against Larissa’s hand with a cry bitten into her shoulder, when Larissa follows moments later, head thrown back, laughter and moans tangled) it feels less like surrender and more like mutually assured destruction.
The room feels heavy with heat, smoke curling lazily from the fire as though it too is sated. Larissa’s hair is mussed beyond saving, her blouse torn, her stockings abandoned in a heap by the settee. Wednesday lies beneath her, chest heaving, every line of her body sharp with the lingering tremors of release.
For a long moment, neither of them moves. The only sound is the fire, the occasional drip of wine from a toppled glass staining the rug. Then Wednesday’s voice cuts the silence, dry as bone. “You’ve ruined the upholstery.”
Larissa’s laugh is husky, still frayed at the edges of breathlessness. She leans down, brushing a kiss against the corner of Wednesday’s mouth, her tone wicked. “You didn’t seem to mind while you were clawing at it.”
Wednesday shoves lightly at her shoulder, not enough to move her but enough to make the point. “My parents will be home soon. If they walk in and find this carnage, Mother will write poetry about it.”
“Would that be such a tragedy?” Larissa murmurs, finally pushing herself upright, smoothing back her hair with as much composure as she can muster. Her blouse hangs open, ruined, her skin gleaming in the firelight. “Besides, your father would probably applaud.” Wednesday sits up, straightening her own clothes with ruthless efficiency despite their disarray. Her dark hair clings to her cheek, her lips still reddened, but her expression has already settled back into something severe. “I refuse to be a punchline at the dinner table.”
Larissa bends, collecting the torn remnants of her stockings, and tosses them onto the heap of clothing with deliberate elegance. “Then perhaps,” she says smoothly, “we should clean ourselves up. Quickly.” The suggestion hangs, charged with more than practicality. Wednesday eyes her for a beat, then rises, her stockings laddered, her skirt twisted. She smooths the fabric into place with icy precision, then stalks toward the shadowed hall. “Follow me.”
Larissa’s heels click against the tile as she does, her stride unhurried, a smile playing at her lips as she trails Wednesday through the familiar corridors of the Addams house. They slip into the downstairs bath (a room tiled in gleaming black and white, the claw-footed tub fitted with an elaborate showerhead Gomez had once insisted on calling ‘a piece of art’).
Wednesday shuts the door behind them with a definitive click. She turns the brass knobs, water sputtering before streaming hot into the tub. Steam curls upward quickly, fogging the mirror, softening the room into shadow and warmth.
Larissa sheds what remains of her blouse with a careless flick, then her skirt, her underwear, her movements unhurried, as though stripping in front of Wednesday were the most natural thing in the world. Her height, her pale skin, the lines of her body (they all seem exaggerated in the haze of steam, commanding even here).
Wednesday doesn’t linger on watching, though her eyes betray her by flicking once, twice, tracing the elegant length of Larissa’s form. She strips with efficient purpose, discarding torn stockings, blouse, skirt, until she stands bare against the tile, her posture as unyielding as ever despite her nudity. They step into the tub together, the spray of water hissing hot against overheated skin. The first touch of it drags a hiss from Wednesday’s throat, her head tilting back, hair plastering against her shoulders.
Larissa moves closer, her hands smoothing over Wednesday’s arms, down her sides, water sluicing over both their bodies as though erasing the evidence of what they’ve done. She leans in, lips brushing Wednesday’s temple before sliding lower, her voice a murmur against damp skin. “Efficient as always. Straight from battle to clean-up.”
Wednesday snorts softly, though the sound is almost lost to the hiss of the water. “I prefer to dispose of evidence thoroughly. You should thank me for saving your reputation.” Larissa laughs, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “My reputation, darling, is already ruined.”
They wash in hurried intimacy: hands sliding soap over each other’s skin, not lingering long enough to start again, but not chaste either. Larissa takes her time with Wednesday’s hair, fingers combing dark strands under the water, while Wednesday drags a washcloth down Larissa’s back with brisk, practical strokes that are anything but impersonal.
When Larissa bends, her lips grazing Wednesday’s ear as water streams around them, her voice comes low, teasing. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you enjoy taking care of me.” Wednesday’s nails scrape deliberately against her hip in answer. “Don’t mistake efficiency for tenderness.”
“Of course not,” Larissa purrs, drawing her closer under the spray. Their mouths brush again, not urgent this time, but slow (deliberate). The water hisses to silence, the steam thick in the bathroom, curling lazily around the two of them. Larissa is first to step out, tall and unhurried even as she reaches for a towel, draping it around her body with the elegance of someone who could make a funeral shroud look like haute couture.
Wednesday follows, precise and silent, steam clinging to her skin like a veil. She wraps a towel around herself without flourish, binding it tight at her ribs. The mirror is too fogged to reflect them clearly, their shapes blurred together, which is perhaps for the best.
Larissa runs a hand through her damp hair, watching Wednesday’s efficient movements with a smirk tugging at her lips. “You do everything with such severity,” she says, her voice lazy, amused. “Even toweling off looks like an execution.” Wednesday lifts her chin, not bothering to meet her gaze. “If you’re expecting me to blush and giggle, you’ve made a catastrophic miscalculation.”
The laugh Larissa lets out is low and indulgent. She steps closer, her towel brushing Wednesday’s. “Oh, I would never expect giggling… a gasp, perhaps or a sigh. Certainly more biting.” Her lips curve, the pun deliberate. Wednesday shoots her a flat look. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” Larissa murmurs, bending just enough that their mouths brush again, water-slick and slow, “you don’t seem eager to be rid of me.”
The kiss lingers, tasting of steam and exhaustion, before Wednesday breaks it off, pulling away with ruthless precision. “Get dressed,” she orders, already reaching for her discarded skirt and blouse where they hang over the radiator. “My parents will return any moment.”
“Such a romantic,” Larissa teases, but she obeys, pulling her clothes back on, torn though they are. She buttons what remains of her blouse, smoothing the fabric down her chest with the serenity of someone who looks composed even in ruin.
By the time they slip back into the parlor, the fire has burned lower, the wine glasses empty, the settee askew but hastily rearranged. Their hair is damp, their cheeks faintly flushed, but their clothes are back in place (mostly).
The front door opens with the familiar creak, Gomez’s booming laughter spilling in, followed by Pugsley’s sullen mutter about the restaurant’s lack of suitably spiked desserts. Morticia enters last, sweeping into the room with all the elegance of a queen returning to her throne.
Her dark eyes sweep instantly to the two women by the fire (Wednesday, standing stiff and severe with damp hair clinging like ink to her throat, and Larissa, tall and languid in her rumpled blouse, her lips just a shade too swollen). Morticia pauses, her gaze sharpening, a slow smile curving her lips. There is a glint there, unmistakable, the kind that suggests not only recognition but foreknowledge.
“Ah,” she says softly, her voice rich with satisfaction. “I see you’ve both managed to keep yourselves… occupied.” Wednesday’s expression does not flicker, though her hand curls tighter against her glass. “I was hardly in need of company,” she says flatly.
Larissa’s lips curve, betraying her with a small, private smile. “She endures me beautifully,” she murmurs. Morticia’s gaze lingers between them, slow and knowing, as though every detail is a thread in a tapestry she had already woven. She glides forward, her hand brushing Larissa’s arm in greeting once more, her voice pitched lower, intimate. “It seems my little vision was correct, after all.”
Wednesday stiffens. “You meddled,” she accuses, her tone like frost cutting through the warmth of the fire. Morticia’s smile widens, her dark eyes glittering. “Darling, I merely… placed you in proximity. What blossomed from that was inevitable.”
Gomez claps his hands, oblivious to the undercurrent, booming happily about how wonderful it is that Larissa stayed behind to care for their daughter. Pugsley grunts something about leftovers and slouches toward the kitchen.
But Morticia, always more shadow than light, meets Larissa’s eyes one last time. There’s something sly in her expression, a gleam that suggests she’d known (perhaps even seen) how this night would end the moment she asked Larissa to stay.
And Larissa, tall and composed despite her rumpled clothes, inclines her head in acknowledgment, a silent concession to Morticia’s quiet orchestration. Wednesday, for once, holds her tongue but her eyes flick sharply between them both, suspicion and reluctant admiration mingling in her gaze.