Run Run Run

by anonmemeulous

Summary:

'run, baby, run...
or you're gonna get hurt...'

it was supposed to be simple. kill the hyde and end the investgation.
threats turned to tension. tension that burned through them both.
making them crave each other, in a sick and twisted game....

Chapter 1: 01

The hideout was dimly lit, the only light filtering through the cracks in the boarded-up windows and the jagged holes in the roof where rain had long since eroded the shingles. Dust clung to the stale air, and the smell of old stone, mildew, and iron lingered like a memory of forgotten battles. It wasn’t the first time Wednesday had followed Tyler Galpin into the shadows, but this time the atmosphere felt heavier, thicker, like a noose drawing tight around both their throats.

Wednesday’s raven-dark braids were loosened and frayed from the scuffle. Her once-pristine black dress had torn at the shoulder when she tackled him, fabric ripped down the side, leaving scratches of exposed pale skin. Tyler hadn’t transformed, though the threat of it still hummed beneath his skin, visible in the restless twitch of his muscles, the simmering rage in his eyes.

He was shirtless, his torso slick with sweat and laced with angry red cuts—some shallow, some deep, the raw reminders of his recent fights with both himself and others. The cuts mapped him like battle scars, as though his body itself bore the burden of his cursed duality. His chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, nostrils flaring, every inch of him coiled in the animal tension of someone always on the edge of violence.

And despite everything, despite the memories of blood and betrayal that should have kept her cold and detached, Wednesday found herself standing close enough to hear the irregular cadence of his heartbeat.

Tyler’s hand gripped her wrist with bruising force, pulling her flush against him as if daring her to resist. His other hand pressed hard into her waist, fingers digging into the torn fabric of her dress. The heat radiating off him made the closeness unbearable, yet her body betrayed her by not recoiling.

“I should kill you right now,” he growled, his voice low, guttural, vibrating from somewhere deep inside his chest. His breath was hot against her face, his jaw clenched tight, as though every word was restrained by the thinnest thread.

Wednesday tilted her chin upward, her obsidian eyes meeting his without flinching. Her expression was blank, but her lips curled with calculated cruelty. “You’re weak, Tyler.” The words fell from her tongue like venom, precise and merciless.

Her taunt made his eyes blaze, the green in them catching the dim light like an animal’s in the dark. For a moment, his grip on her tightened so fiercely she felt the sting of bone beneath his hand. His smirk formed slowly, darkly, as if he welcomed the cruelty rather than denied it.

“Am I?” he rasped, his gaze dragging across her face, lingering at her mouth before snapping back to her unyielding eyes.

She didn’t answer. Her silence was sharper than any blade, sharper than her words, because it told him she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a verbal reaction.

But then, unexpectedly, Tyler changed tactics. His smirk softened into something dangerous, something reckless. Before she could anticipate, he crushed his lips against hers.

It wasn’t gentle—it was a collision, a messy, desperate clash of months of rage, betrayal, and unbearable tension. Wednesday’s hands instinctively went to his chest, nails pressing into the ridges of his cuts. He hissed into her mouth, but didn’t let go. Instead, he pressed harder, forcing her back until the rough surface of the brick wall dug into her spine. The wall was cold, but his body against hers was scorching, suffocating.

For a heartbeat, Wednesday considered biting him hard enough to draw blood. She wanted to. The metallic taste of violence would have been satisfying. But her mind betrayed her body, because instead of pushing him away, she kissed him back.

Desperately.

Messily.

Her lips were unyielding but hungry, matching his aggression with her own. The months of hunting him, of seeing him as prey and predator, of imagining how it would feel to finally catch him—it all crashed down in that moment. The kiss was not tender. It was not redemptive. It was war, fought mouth to mouth, with both sides refusing to surrender.

Tyler groaned against her lips, his hand sliding from her waist to the back of her neck, forcing her closer, as though he wanted to consume every inch of her. His body pinned her to the wall, caging her in. Every muscle in his torso flexed against her, his wounds stinging beneath her touch, but he didn’t seem to care. He only pressed harder, as if the pain fueled him.

Wednesday’s braids brushed against his bare skin as she tilted her head, deepening the kiss with a sharp defiance that matched his. Her teeth grazed his lower lip—not gentle, not playful, but demanding. He growled again, this time into her mouth, the sound vibrating through her chest.

When she finally pulled back, it wasn’t because she wanted to. It was because her lungs burned from lack of air. Their foreheads pressed together, both of them breathing heavily, the space between them practically sparking.

Her lips were swollen, her usually composed demeanour cracked open, but her voice was steady as she whispered, “You think this makes you strong?”

Tyler smirked, lips curved in a dangerous line as his thumb brushed against her jaw. “No, Wednesday. This makes us both monsters.”

And yet neither of them pulled away.

Chapter 2: 02

The first sensation that broke through the haze of Wednesday’s consciousness was pain. Not sharp or immediate, but dull and heavy, thrumming through her body like a bruise she could not escape. Her neck ached when she turned her head, her shoulders burned when she flexed them, and the faint sting of scraped skin decorated her arms and hips like trophies of the night before.

Her eyes opened to darkness, though thin streams of morning light crept through cracks in boarded windows. Dust drifted lazily in the air, disturbed by the faint chill that seeped into the derelict hideout. She was on a mattress—thin, uneven, the springs beneath it pressing into her spine—but it was enough to remind her that she wasn’t where she was supposed to be.

Her hair, usually bound in perfect braids, fell around her face in a dark, tangled curtain. She could feel it sticking to her cheeks, damp with sweat and the residue of exertion. Reaching up, she brushed it aside, her fingers brushing against her throat—against the undeniable ridges of bruises forming in the shape of his mouth. Love bites, if one could call them that. Wednesday preferred to think of them as the mark of an adversary who had dared to overstep.

She pulled the sheet up to cover her naked form. The thin fabric wasn’t enough to shield her from the reality of what had transpired, but it gave her the illusion of control, a small barrier between herself and the man who had brought her to this point.

Tyler was already awake.

He leaned against the far wall, shirtless, his body outlined by the weak light. His torso bore a map of scars and fresh scratches, his muscles tense yet relaxed in a way that suggested he was deliberately posing. His lips were curled in a smirk, and his eyes were trained on her with the sharpness of someone who knew he had won, at least for the moment. “Well,” he drawled, his voice rough with sleep but laced with mockery, “that was a bit messier than trying to kill each other.”

Wednesday’s glare could have frozen rivers. Her obsidian eyes locked on him, cold and unyielding, though her still-flushed skin and tangled hair betrayed the battle her body had lost hours before.

“Sex is a weak human desire,” she said evenly, her voice steady, calculated. “It was a moment of weakness—for you.”

The corner of Tyler’s mouth twitched, his smirk deepening. He pushed off the wall, sauntering closer with a confidence that carried the weight of last night. His bare feet made no sound against the wooden floor, but every step echoed like a drumbeat in the silence.

He crouched at the edge of the mattress, his gaze trailing deliberately from the sheet clutched against her chest to her unbound hair. His eyes lingered, drinking in every trace of evidence she hadn’t managed to erase. “Then how come I had you weak last night?” he challenged, his tone low and mocking. “I’ll do it again, Addams.”

The way he said her name wasn’t casual—it was a weapon, a claim, as though he enjoyed testing the boundaries of how much he could push before she snapped.

Wednesday tightened her grip on the sheet but didn’t flinch. “Your arrogance is louder than your restraint. You mistake indulgence for power.”

Tyler chuckled, the sound dark and husky. He leaned forward, close enough that she could feel his breath brush her cheek. “Call it whatever you want. But I remember the way you clawed at me. The way you didn’t stop.”

Her hand twitched under the sheet, itching for her knife, her weapon, anything to regain the advantage. But the truth sat between them, undeniable and suffocating: she hadn’t stopped.

She leaned forward too, their foreheads nearly touching, her voice a whisper sharpened like a blade. “That was not surrender. That was strategy.”

Tyler’s smirk widened, his eyes alight with dangerous amusement. “Oh? And what was the strategy, exactly? To let me ruin you before you kill me?”

The sheet shifted as Wednesday rose slightly, her composure never faltering despite her dishevelled state. “To study my enemy in every form. To know his strengths, his weaknesses… his every flaw.”

He laughed then, low and humourless, his hand reaching out to brush a strand of her fallen hair away from her face. His fingers lingered just long enough to test her patience. “Careful, Wednesday. You’re starting to sound like you liked it.”

Her lips curved in the faintest ghost of a smile, not warm but dangerous. “Careful, Tyler. You’re starting to sound like you need it.”

For a moment, silence hung heavy between them. The air was thick, charged with something that wasn’t love but wasn’t hate either. It was something far more volatile.

Tyler’s jaw flexed as he pulled back slightly, his smirk softening into something darker, more predatory. “Maybe I do. Maybe I need the girl who wanted me dead more than anyone else to admit she wanted me in her bed, too.”

Wednesday tilted her head, her black eyes unblinking. “Wanting is irrelevant. You were a puzzle. Puzzles are meant to be solved. Last night was… an answer.”

His smirk faltered just slightly at that, his pride stung. But instead of retreating, he leaned back with a mocking bow of his head. “Then maybe you’ll come looking for more answers.”

She lay back against the mattress, her grip on the sheet never loosening, her gaze still locked on him. “Or maybe next time, I’ll bring sharper instruments.”

Tyler laughed again, but this time it was edged with something rawer, something that sounded like both a threat and a promise. “You wouldn’t dare. Because deep down, you don’t want me gone.”

Wednesday didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. Her silence was sharper than any words she could have spoken.

The battle between them was far from over—if anything, it had just changed form.

Chapter 3: 03

Wednesday moved silently through the dimly lit corridors of Nevermore Academy, the soles of her boots muffled against the ancient wooden floors. The early morning shadows stretched long across the stone walls, and the silence was broken only by the faint rustle of leaves against the stained-glass windows. She kept her head lowered beneath the hood of a deep green sweatshirt, a stark deviation from her usual uncompromising black attire.

Every step closer to her dormitory was measured, deliberate. The hoodie was oversized, sleeves covering her pale hands, the hem brushing against the skirt of her black dress. It wasn’t her style. It wasn’t meant to be. It was camouflage. A shield against prying eyes and pointed questions. Beneath the fabric, her skin still carried the undeniable evidence of her absence—scattered bruises and purpling marks that ran down her neck and shoulders like someone had attempted to map ownership across her body.

When Wednesday pushed the door open, the hinges creaked, betraying her.

Enid Sinclair was sitting cross-legged on her bed, wrapped in a blanket that had slipped off one shoulder. Her laptop was closed, books scattered across the duvet, and her eyes were heavy from exhaustion. But the moment she heard the door, she snapped upright, relief and irritation colliding in her expression.

“Wednesday Addams,” Enid exclaimed, her voice higher than usual, sharp with worry. “Where the hell have you been?!”

Wednesday closed the door with a soft click and stepped inside. She didn’t rush, didn’t explain. Her posture remained as straight and cold as ever, though she adjusted the hood of the sweatshirt as though tightening her armour. “I was preoccupied,” she said simply, her tone flat, dismissive.

“Preoccupied?!” Enid threw the blanket off and stood, her hair wild from running her fingers through it all night. She stress levels had nearly convinced her that she was having a heart attack, or that she had consumed too much caffeine to keep her eyes open. “You’ve been gone for thirty-six hours, Wednesday. I thought you were dead. Or worse.”

Wednesday arched a brow, her black eyes landing on her roommate with clinical detachment. “What, precisely, is worse than death?”

Enid groaned, exasperated, pressing her palms into her face before dragging them down dramatically. “You know what I mean! You just disappeared. No note, no text, nothing. You missed classes. You missed dinner. I was this close to calling Principal Weems...well, Bianca talked me out of it because she said you probably went off to dissect something—but still!”

Wednesday moved past her, heading toward her side of the room. She set her bag down with deliberate slowness, every movement measured. The hoodie clung to her, a stark contrast against her pale hands, which emerged from the sleeves. She didn’t remove it. Not yet.

Enid’s eyes narrowed as she followed her. “And what’s with the hoodie? You don’t wear hoodies. You barely wear cardigans. That colour is...” She squinted. “Is that… green? I thought you were allergic to colour!”

“Yes,” Wednesday said evenly, unzipping her bag. “Astute observation.”

Enid crossed her arms, suspicion and hurt flashing across her face. “So you vanish for a day and a half, then show up wearing someone else’s hoodie? You look like you just crawled out of a crypt—and not in your usual aesthetic way.”

Wednesday finally turned, her gaze sharp and unreadable. The hood still shadowed her face, but Enid could see the faint redness at the edges of her cheeks, an almost imperceptible detail that made her more human than she wanted to be. “I don’t owe you an itinerary of my whereabouts,” Wednesday said, her voice soft but cutting.

Enid flinched, but her worry outweighed her pride. “I’m your roommate, your best friend! Do you have any idea what it’s like not knowing if you were lying in some ditch? I—” Her voice cracked, and she quickly looked away, blinking furiously. “I thought you were gone, Wednesday.”

For the smallest of moments, Wednesday’s expression shifted—barely, but enough. A flicker of guilt. The kind she would never admit to.

She adjusted the hood again, as though to ground herself. “I am not so easily discarded.”

Enid’s eyes darted to the neckline of the hoodie. The way Wednesday tugged it higher didn’t escape her. Suspicion sharpened her features. “What are you hiding under there?”

Wednesday’s gaze darkened. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with.”

“That’s not an answer.” Enid stepped closer, her voice quiet but unrelenting. “You can trust me, you know. Whatever it is, I won’t freak out.”

Wednesday tilted her head, studying Enid in silence. For once, she didn’t immediately fire back with sarcasm. She only tightened her grip on the hoodie’s edge. “I don’t trust easily,” Wednesday said at last, her voice softer, almost like a confession, though her tone remained cold.

Enid’s shoulders slumped. “I know. But you’ve been gone, and you come back… different. Distant. And I don’t know why.”

Wednesday turned her back to her, facing the desk. “Then stop asking questions you don’t want answers to.”

The room fell into silence, heavy and unspoken. Enid stood there, torn between pressing further and letting Wednesday retreat into her fortress of secrecy. Her heart still hammered from relief, from fear, from confusion, but she forced herself to sit back down on her bed.

Wednesday remained at her desk, hands resting on the worn wood, her hood shadowing her bruised neck. The weight of Tyler’s marks burned beneath the fabric, hidden but not forgotten.

Neither spoke again. But the tension in the room said everything.