Chapter Text
Wednesday can feel Tyler's gaze on her as she carefully slides her ring off her finger. He does not speak, has already accepted her plan, but she can tell that he is no happier about it now than he was five days ago.
In truth, she cannot blame him. She understands his reservations, his sullen opposition, just as she understands that he will nonetheless do this for her. Because she is asking him to. And he has been taking it better than she might have expected.
She sets the ring in her palm, feeling oddly bereft. It is the first time she has taken it off since Tyler first put it on her, she realizes; somehow, even after only two short weeks, she has become so accustomed to its weight that she feels as though there is a piece of her missing without it situated snugly on her ring finger. It might be troubling, if she hadn't become so well familiar with how innately her body seems to crave Tyler; of course her flesh would rebel against the theft of the evidence of his devotion.
And what dreadful evidence it is. Wednesday takes a moment to study the ring, as if she does not already have every line woven into her memory, her soul: the pitch black band, twining into wrought-iron petals in an imitation of a black dahlia that unfurls around the obsidian diamond at its heart, is so darkly beautiful even she has to admit to being moved by the sight of it.
She should be mortified. She is not. Tyler has always had a way of moving her, clawing his way into her ribcage and rooting around for anything he could snatch up from her dark heart. It has been three years since that sunny-looking barista boy had taken by her surprise for the first time, and he has not stopped surprising her since—especially not when it comes to the depth with which he can make her feel.
It is sickening. And yet.
Are you serious? she had asked him, recognizing the ring for what it was—a tediously sentimental homage of the first flower that he had ever given her, of the flower still pressed, dry and safe, between the pages of an old journal. And she still remembers the way Tyler had smiled at her, slow and devastating, as he recognized her question for what it was—an echo, to which he had echoed back, Unfortunately.
"I know you do not like this," she finally says, breaking the silence as she closes her fingers around the ring and raises her gaze to his. He is still looking at her hand, watching the dahlia disappear into her grasp. "But—"
"But your parents will dissolve into theatrics and hysteria the second they find out we're engaged," Tyler cuts her off, though not unkindly. He is smiling slightly, bemused, as he lifts his own gaze to meet her eyes. "And it'll all be spectacularly more dramatic and awful if they find out with your extended family in attendance. I know, Wens."
He takes a step closer and curls his fingers over hers, warm and familiar. His hand slides down her arm, hooking under her elbow to pull her nearer, and Wednesday goes willingly enough, letting his obnoxious heat blanket her as his arms slide around her waist. She leans her cheek against his collarbone, breathing in the scent of cloves and cardamon, with her curled hand—and her ring—tucked between their chests.
"Besides," he sighs breathily, chin resting on the top of her head, and then she hears the smile creep into his voice, low and playful. "When I find myself immensely depressed about no one knowing my beautiful fiancée is mine, I'll just console myself by picturing my ring under your shirt. And maybe my hands. And mouth. And—"
"Yes, I get your point," Wednesday interjects drily, putting a stop to his antics before he can say anything even more immodest. A lurking warmth curls through her veins as she turns her head slightly, lips grazing against his shirt before she parts them and sets her teeth against the ridges of his collarbone. She doesn't bite down—not much, any way—just lets them rest there as she inhales his scent and feels the shudder roll through his body.
Tyler's hands flatten against her lower back, palms braced against her as he pulls her in closer, but Wednesday lifts her mouth away and turns in his grip. His fingers slide along her body with the movement, splaying across her stomach, and one hand inches up the ladder of her ribs temptingly as he immediately plasters himself to her back.
"Come, then, put your ring in my shirt," she instructs him, a hint of a smirk tugging her mouth upwards. She holds her hand to the side, palm open, and a moment later Tyler is sighing and dropping his hands from her body. He plucks the ring from her hand carefully, taking a small step backwards to give himself room as his fingers ghost across the nape of her neck.
Wednesday does not shiver, but goosebumps spread across her skin deliciously. Tyler takes his time, one fingertip tracing down the side of her throat gently before hooking in the thin chain of her necklace. She feels the small pendant shift, lifting as he unclasps the necklace and slides her ring onto it slowly.
His fingers follow it down after he secures the clasp, tucking the ring under her shirt and making sure that it comes to settle against the pendant properly, both snug between her breasts. Her mouth twitches upwards with amusement when he lingers there, thumb brushing up the swell of her breast and inching under the very edge of the lace that he finds there.
"Tyler," she chastises, rolling her head back against his shoulder when the rest of his fingers tuck themselves into her bra and slide down to cup her in his palm, big hand covering and squeezing at her. Her body flushes delectably, nipple hardening when he pinches it between the knuckles of his index and middle fingers as he grasps her tighter. "You seem to be getting distracted."
"Mhmm," Tyler hums, lips grazing her temple. His middle finger curls, nail scratching at her nipple lightly, and her breath hitches quietly before she gets it back under control. His mouth curves against her skin, smug smile pressed into her cheek before he starts mouthing along the edge of her jawline.
They really do not have time for this. But he is waking her body up now, coaxing that heady desire forth from low in her gut, and even as she contemplates telling him to knock it off, she knows that she is not going to. A moment later her hand is rising over her shoulder, finding the hard line of his jaw and tracing it upwards until her fingers are in his hair, fisting his curls.
Tyler groans quietly when she pulls, teeth grazing her jawline, and he follows her prompting to skim his mouth down her throat, lips closing over her pulse point as he pinches at her nipple again. Her whole body shivers with it this time as she cranes her head back further on his shoulder to give him more access to her neck.
"Make it quick," she tells him sternly, even as her mouth twitches with another repressed smirk. "We are behind schedule already."
Tyler grins against her throat, teeth sharp and voice dark with promise. "I can do that."
— ⋆⭒˚.⋆ —
It is not every year that Morticia Addams hosts the Mabon rites for the Autumn Equinox. Indeed, Wednesday has not seen the doors of her family home thrown open for this particular celebration since she was nine years old. She also has not attended the rites in some time: for the past several years in a row, Cousin Itt's wife Margaret has taken a shining to hosting them at their home in Germany.
Wednesday, of course, has been busy in those same years. Being exiled off to Nevermore and embroiled in scandal, mystery, and near-death experience after near-death experience has kept her quite thoroughly situated in Vermont during the school months. (What a pity.)
That being said, Wednesday is under no illusions about the fact that her recent graduation from Morticia's beloved alma mater has everything to do with her mother's sudden desire to host the rites once more. They both know that Wednesday has no viable excuse to avoid coming home for the Equinox, with no classes to entrap her in their clutches and no principal to blame for her nonattendance.
It is not as though she did not try to find an excuse to get out of attending this year. She had suggested that Tyler kidnap her. Useless man that he is, he had declined—both too curious about the rites and too wary of displeasing Morticia to help engineer Wednesday's escape. It truly is fortunate (for him) that she can no longer imagine her wretched life without him in it; otherwise, she might have been tempted to introduce him to her guillotine. At least beating a murder charge would have kept her sufficiently busy through the Equinox.
"Mabon is one of the eight sabbats," Tyler reads aloud now, voice taking on a warm lilt as he hoists his pilfered tome (a generous word for the battered old Wiccan journal he had scrounged up from the library) aloft in one hand. His other arm rests across her shoulders, fingers toying with her braid idly, and it is only because she finds his warmth tolerable and his side comfortable that she indulges his obnoxious insistence on narrating. "When the sun and moon are in balance, light and dark are in harmony. During the Autumn Equinox, we celebrate the Welsh God of the Sun, Mabon: the representation of youth, love, power, vitality, and sex."
He stops there, giving a light tug on her braid and turning his head to brush his lips against her temple as his tone takes on a flirtatious heat. "Vitality and sex?"
Wednesday rolls her eyes, duly unimpressed by the predictable object of his interest. The Hyde has been utterly insatiable recently; he can probably still taste her on his tongue, and he is already thinking of seconds? Honestly. He is relentless.
Of course, the fact that she has encouraged his ravenous appetite is of no consequence. This is a Tyler problem. She is above hormone-induced insanity.
"Yes. It is a rather dull sabbat, all things considered," she informs him flatly, reaching up to pluck the journal out of his hand and set it on the bench at her side. The car jolts slightly as they pass over uneven cobblestones, but Tyler holds her steady against his side, his newly-freed hand curling over the inside of her thigh, just above her knee. "No sacrifices. No hunts. No ritual sex. The occasional seance, perhaps."
"I'll have ritual sex with you," Tyler offers seriously, but she can hear the smile he is fighting, can feel it when his lips quirk upwards where they are pressed against her temple. "Really. It's no trouble."
"How giving," she scoffs, though she would be a liar to claim that she does not, for a moment, consider it. There are innumerable fascinating applications of the sexual magicks, ones that she has not yet explored. It is a source of power that she could harness... and a particularly satisfying source at that.
She files the possibilities away for later. Yes, they most certainly will be revisiting this. Wednesday just needs to take the time to explore the options, decide what she wants to try first, and gather the necessary supplies.
Tyler's fingers slide a bit higher along the inside of her thigh, warm and sure. The heat of his palm bleeds through the thin material of her tights, shooting across her skin in a pleasant prickle. "That's me. Giving. I'll give you whatever you want, sweetheart."
Wednesday turns her head, dislodging his mouth from her skin and forcing him to meet her gaze, their noses brushing against one another. His pupils are wide and dark, black flirting with those hazel irises, even in the face of her own narrowing eyes. "Tyler."
"Wednesday," he returns, mimicking her severe tone with an unchecked impishness, before he clears his throat and affects a degree of false contriteness. "Oops. No pet names outside the house, right."
He is lucky that she is lenient enough to allow pet names in the house (that is, to allow a select, curated list of nicknames that do not make her skin crawl—and the extremely rare ones that actually make her skin heat), and he should not forget it. Still: she does not feel inclined to punish him for the impertinence. Especially not when he would probably enjoy said punishment.
She holds his stare for one moment, two, and then lets her glare ease. She does not back away, however, just stays close enough that they are breathing one another's air. "There will be no sex rituals in my parents' home. However, I would not rule out the possibility for the future."
His pupils bloom wider, his breath hitching before he tilts forward to steal a quick kiss. Wednesday feels her lips twitch upwards traitorously, indulgence driving her to chase after him to claim one more chaste kiss when he leans back. She pulls away before he can deepen it, however.
"You know, I was doing some reading on all these different handfasting traditions," Tyler hums when she frees his mouth, seemingly at random, but his segue becomes clear moments later. "A couple of them involve blood. And sex. And paint, actually, one of them had paint. I don't think you'd care for that one, or any of the ones with chanting, but maybe the bloody sex ritual ones?"
She leans back a bit further, studying the easy happiness that softens the lines of his face. He has that puppy-like enthusiasm about him again, the unfettered joy tempered with a lingering sort of bashfulness; he used to look at her like this not-infrequently when they first found their way back to one another in the Canadian wilderness (and before that, when he was still masquerading as her normie boyfriend). The expression has made a resurgence since she accepted his proposal.
It still surprises her at times, how happy he is to just be with Wednesday. Sometimes he looks at her as though she is the singular source of light in his world—no matter how ridiculous the notion is. Even after nearly two years serving as the subject of his devotion, she does not quite understand it.
"You've been researching handfasting," she repeats slowly, arching one brow at him. Something strange uncurls in her chest. It is... oddly warm, disgustingly affectionate.
Hyde or no, years spent as an honorary Addams or no, Tyler Galpin was raised a normie. He is still not fully accustomed to her macabre world, constantly learning new things about outcasts and magick and everything in between, and there is no question that a wedding in his mind probably looks very quaint and typical and bland. Yet he is looking into rituals. Handfasting.
She likes it, she realizes; likes that he is digging around in the oddities of rituals with their marriage in mind.
Wednesday Addams never would have pictured herself as the type of heinously romantic fool to get married. In fact, she would have sooner lit someone on fire than allow them to slander her with the suggestion of wedding bells. Accordingly, she certainly does not care what their wedding looks like, as long as it is not agonizingly sappy and Tyler is sufficiently pleased (it is inarguably for him, after all). But she... appreciates that he wants to make sure that their wedding suits them.
Tyler gives her another smile, this one softer, with traces of her once barista boy lurking at the edges. "Yeah. I figured... I mean, you know."
She does. She rewards his decision not to put any of the mawkishness into words by pressing another kiss to his mouth, lingering for a moment before she draws back. "I agree. We should look into the bloody sex ritual ones, as you put it."
That sweet smile goes sharp and dirty immediately, his gaze flashing briefly towards the partition currently offering them privacy from Lurch's watchful presence. When his eyes come back to hers, they are even darker. "You want a preview?"
"No," she chastises, scoffing slightly at the way his grin collapses into an honest to Poe pout. Needy. Impossibly needy. Who knew that letting him put a ring on her finger would send the Hyde into heat? And doesn't that pose an interesting question—is this his monstrous biology acting up, some sort of territorial instinct roused by the ritualistic claiming, or is it all Tyler? "We will be there shortly. Behave yourself."
"You like me better when I misbehave," Tyler teases, but he eases up regardless, inching back out of her space. His hand does not leave her thigh, but it does not creep any higher, either. "But if you insist."
"I do insist."
— ⋆⭒˚.⋆ —
"Oh, Tyler, how lovely to see you," Morticia coos, pressing a kiss to his cheek and leaning back to give him a warm smile. She is the picture of the perfect matriarch, gracious and lovely in a floor-length gown as she welcomes them home on the front steps of the Addams estate. Wednesday tries not to be too repulsed.
"It's nice to see you too, Miss Morticia."
As always, Tyler accepts her kindness with an awkward appreciation, bashfully pleased with the affection. Wednesday holds back her sneer, checking her disgust not only for her mother's benefit—she has been trying to be more tolerant and understanding of her family's horrifying sentimentalities—but also for Tyler's benefit.
She knows quite well just how much her Hyde struggles to accept kindness, and how embarrassed he is by the desperation with which he craves it anyway. Wednesday would sooner let Enid and Thing paint her nails a garish, sparkly pink before she let Tyler get it in his head that she finds his delight over Morticia Addams' attention to be something disgraceful.
If he wants to enjoy the coddling, then by all means. It keeps her parents busy fussing over him and away from her, and it keeps her Hyde happy. That is sufficient enough reason to preemptively curse anyone who might think to disrupt Tyler's relationship with Morticia (herself included).
That does not mean Wednesday has to be overly receptive of her mother's advances. She holds herself stiffly as her mother sweeps her into a brief hug, Morticia's hands only grazing her arms lightly before she steps back with a knowing smile. "And my dear raven! I am enchanted to see you, my dear."
"Mother," Wednesday returns mildly, inclining her head slightly. "Where is father?"
"He's gone to retrieve your brother. I'm sure they will be here soon, darling, but come; you two must be hungry," Morticia fusses, waving them into the foyer before turning to smile towards Lurch. "Thank you for retrieving them, Lurch."
Wednesday takes the opportunity to step past her mother, reaching out to link her fingers loosely around Tyler's wrist and squeeze once: a silent bid for him to go along with it. "Actually, mother, we stopped to eat on the way. We would prefer a trial run of Death's grim embrace."
"Oh, of course, dear. You will let Lurch know if you change your mind?" her mother hums, smiling at them both beatifically and pointedly not looking down at their hands when Wednesday gives a curt nod and Tyler smiles back with a quiet agreement. And just like that, they are making their getaway.
Much as she might deny it, there is something dreadfully pleasant about the familiar ascent to her childhood bedroom. She feels... at ease here. Particularly when she has Tyler following at her shoulder, his presence a welcome intrusion into her personal space.
He has visited with her before, so he no longer pauses to gawk at her bedroom when they arrive. Instead he heads straight for her desk, setting his little Wiccan tome down and aligning it neatly with the other research journals she has stacked there from the last visit home. He moves with a comfortable familiarity, as though he feels just as ease in her home as she does.
It wasn't always so simple. Satisfaction drips down her spine lazily at the sight of him existing in her space with zero reservation or hesitation. He looks like he belongs here—but of course he does.
She waits for Lurch to set their trunks down, grunting his acknowledgment when she nods in gratitude, and for the door to finally close with a soft click before she truly relaxes. Her shoulders fall, dropping from stiffly and rigidly high to a neutral line.
"Thank you," Wednesday says evenly, watching Tyler as he turns towards her with a curious tilt of his head. "I know you are not tired yet, but this is about to be a treacherous week. I would prefer to avoid the cloying clutches of my family until the others arrive tomorrow and socialization becomes a regrettable inevitability."
Tyler gives her an easy smile, stepping close enough that she can feel the warmth of him once more. She tilts her head back to hold his gaze, leaning into the graze of his fingertips when he brushes a stray wisp of her bangs away from her eyes. "Trust me, hiding away in your room with you is no hardship. Besides..."
His fingers trace down along her cheek, her jawline, ghosting across her throat; she stays still, just relishing the fiery trail of sparks left behind in his wake. When his index finger hooks in the chain of her necklace, she realizes what he is after.
"As long as we're in here, there's no reason to hide this," he continues, tugging her pendant and ring free of her shirt. He looks down at them for a moment, his thumb stroking over the tiny vial—the vial of his blood—for a moment before rubbing along the sharp petals of her ring.
Wednesday raises her hand slowly, pressing her hand to his chest with unerring precision. The matching pendant that he wears is right where she knows it will be, and it presses into her palm through the thick cotton of his shirt as she looks up at him.
She still remembers the night they exchanged those vials, the light of the full moon shining down on their bowed heads. Enid's worry. Capri's indignation. The faint echo of her mother's warning. All of it meaningless compared to the boy on his knees in front of her, offering her his blood and his word and his soul with a willful vulnerability so earnest and true that she had known with deathly certainty she would never let anyone stop her from taking it all. That she would give him her own in exchange, a pact woven into her bone marrow and carved across her ribs.
The fact that they wear the vials is no secret—nor, even, the fact that they technically did not have to but chose to wear them—but Tyler has always preferred to wear his beneath his clothing, where he can feel it against his skin.
"Sap," Tyler teases, mouth twitching upwards into a smirk as he lifts his gaze from her ring to her eyes. His other hand flattens over hers, holding it in place against his chest and the vial pointedly.
Wednesday rolls her eyes, curling her fingers slightly to dig her nails into his shirt and watching his lashes flutter at the not-so-subtle threat. That heat is building in her veins once more, bubbling forth in answer to the way his pupils blow wide just that easily.
Rather than indulge the urge, she slowly slides her hand out from under his and takes a neat step away from him, briskly gathering up her trunk. Tyler laughs quietly behind her, letting her disengage without further incident, and a moment later he follows her lead to start unpacking.
If she lets him coax her into bed the second they are finished, under the guise of getting some rest, then that is obviously nothing more than clever fiancé-management. After all, she cannot have her Hyde going feral in the midst of the Equinox festivities—no matter how delightful the resulting chaos and destruction might be.
— ⋆⭒˚.⋆ —
All things considered, Wednesday does not actually despise Mabon. It really is a rather dull sabbat, but there are worse things. Like Yule. She finds herself utterly unimpressed with Yule, and the merriment that the rest of the world descends into at the first sign of winter. Increasingly the horrifying red-and-green everything and jingle bells and Santa have been creeping into the world earlier and earlier, encroaching upon society before even All Hallows' Eve can make its appearance. And that is to say nothing of the atrocity that is the normies' Easter.
So, there are infinitely worse so-called holidays.
Tyler, at least, seems to be enjoying himself. She watches over the rim of her champagne flute as he talks to Pugsley and their father, his shoulders relaxed beneath the neat cut of his silky black dress shirt. He is partially turned away from her, but even in profile she can see the snarky smile on his face and the tilt of his head when he laughs and banters with Pugsley about Poe only knows what.
It is a good look on him, the black. Wednesday does not necessarily prefer it over his questionable taste for earth tones and hideous flannels (abominations that have grown on her like toxic black mold due purely to overexposure), but she must confess that she quite enjoys seeing him in her favored palette from time to time.
There is also something to be said for the tighter cut of the dress shirt, falling close against the lean lines of his body. Rarely does he wear something so fitted that isn't buried under at least one layer. Wednesday lets her gaze drift over him slowly, something dark and possessive sinking into her chest—something that burns, right where she can feel her ring pressing into her skin. He looks wretchedly good, and he is hers.
"I see you've brought your own Mabon with you," an airy voice sing-songs from her left, cutting through Wednesday's thoughts, and she stiffens when she realizes that she let someone get the drop on her. How foolishly careless of her when she is in the midst of the vipers pit that is an Addams family function.
Her gaze cuts sideways, away from Tyler, and she narrows her eyes when she sees Cousins Flora and Fauna hovering at her side in a hideously fluffy pink gown. Two someones, it seems. Completely unacceptable on her part.
Flora is looking across the yard at Tyler, her painted lips curving into a sly smile as she titters in agreement with her sister, "He is quite sunny. He doesn't seem like your type at all, Wednesday."
Wednesday presses her lips together tightly, ignoring the stab of irritation that sparks in her veins. Something in her bristles at the suggestion that Tyler can be anything but her "type," juvenile as it may sound; clearly her vapid cousins do not know nearly enough about him to say something so outlandish and false. Tyler is her only type. No one else comes close to her Hyde.
But when she drags her gaze towards him again, she sees what they mean: with the afternoon sun raining down on him gently, casting his curls in a honey-warm glow, and the way his face lights up so radiantly as he laughs—yes, she can see the vestiges of an errant Sun god in her fiancé. Youth. Love. Power. Vitality. Sex.
"The Sun will one day explode, engulfing the Earth and its feeble population in a molten apocalypse," Wednesday says flatly, tone bordering on ominous as she brings her attention back to Flora and Fauna. "It will be a gruesome, fiery end to all of humanity. If you see the Sun in Tyler, then I question how you see him as anything other than my... type."
Her lip curls slightly around the word, but she forces it out regardless. It is worth it, to see how her cousins' expressions flicker through vague shock and awe before settling on intrigue. Fauna darts a glance towards Tyler, her smile echoing her sister's. "What a colorful way of describing your amor."
Wednesday does not scoff, but it is a near thing. Amor. From the Amor sisters. Cute. (Not.)
The amor in question turns his head then, as if sensing Wednesday's spike in irritation, and meets her gaze. His smiles does not dim, but his gaze flickers towards her cousins momentarily before returning to her. Whatever he sees in her face seems to convince him that intervention is necessary to avoid bloodshed, because he says something briefly to her father before heading towards them.
Pugsley, nosy little welp that he is, trails behind Tyler eagerly. Wednesday ignores his entire existence (and that of her cousins, who start to whisper to one another), her attention locked on the Hyde as he draws nearer.
Yes, the shirt was an excellent choice. As was the decision to leave the top two buttons undone, exposing the length of his throat and edge of his collarbones with each breath of movement. From several paces away, she can see a quick flash of silver—the thin chain of his necklace, shifting momentarily into view before dipping under his collar again.
The corner of his mouth tugs upwards when he stops in front of her, but he is clever enough not to say anything about her thorough assessment of his person. He only looks at her for a moment before directing his attention to her cousins, open and curious.
"Tyler," Wednesday greets mildly, cutting a cold glance towards the cousins in question, "This is Cousin Flora and Cousin Fauna."
If he is at all perturbed by the sight of the conjoined twins, he does not show it. He just gives them the polite barista boy smile, customer service training too hardwired into his bones for it to escape him now (no matter how earnestly Wednesday has tried to disabuse him of the idea that he must default to politeness in the face of strangers). "Nice to meet you. I'm—"
"The Hyde," Flora titters, smiling widely at Tyler when her interjection stops him short. "You helped our little Wednesday find that wolf girl of hers, didn't you?"
Well then. It seems her cousins had known quite well what sort of beast her sunny boy contained, which can only mean that they lured her into the trap of defending him on purpose. Wednesday very nearly scowls. Annoyed as she is to be played so easily, she can respect the masterstroke of manipulation.
She will have to keep a closer eye on Flora and Fauna in the future. That is twice now she has underestimated them in the span of a single battle.
"And he tried to kill her," Pugsley chips in loudly as he steps out from behind Tyler's back, grinning boastfully, "And the wolf. And me."
Tyler's smile goes slightly sheepish. Wednesday rolls her eyes at the lot of them, unimpressed with her brother's gloating, her fiancé's easy embarrassment, and her cousin's transparent attempt to unbalance Tyler. "Yes, he is the Hyde. I suppose he was nominally helpful with tracking Enid."
"And the murder attempts?" Fauna asks sweetly, batting her lashes at the three of them.
Wednesday opens her mouth, but Tyler answers smoothly before she can detail those attempts in morbid detail. "I did that too, yeah."
She casts a sideway glance at him, but his expression is open and unbothered, even mildly amused. Her own mouth twitches. Good. She cannot have her monster showing weakness this early; the cousins will make it their mission to eat him alive if he stumbles on the very first day, and in front of Flora and Fauna of all people.
Correction: the cousins will make it their primary mission. It probably ranks somewhere around priority number four presently. She would prefer to keep it that way, much as she would enjoy watching Tyler terrorize them for their audacity.
"And it was awesome," Pugsley reiterates, once again feeling the need to make his presence known, and to her distaste Tyler makes the mistake of shooting her brother an amused smile.
They have been over this. There is no use in encouraging Pugsley's freakish fanboying; it will only result in the cretin shadowing Tyler even more religiously, when Wednesday would much prefer that her brother keep his distance and leave her Hyde alone. She has never been one to share, and that will certainly never change. Tyler hardly inspires any charitable impulses in her; if anything, he makes her worse.
Predictably, Pugsley lights up and swivels to face Tyler more completely, Flora and Fauna forgotten. She can see the words bubbling up on his tongue—probably some inane suggestion that they go blow things up together, or perhaps another request that Tyler regale them with the details of his successful kills. Whatever it is that Pugsley wants, it is sure to be annoying.
"I need another drink," Wednesday announces, cutting her brother off at the knees as she very deliberately holds her champagne flute out to the side and drops it. It clatters into the grass at her feet, landing too cushioned to lend itself to a dramatic shattering of glass (a shame), but it as least sloshes and spills across Pugsley's shoes satisfyingly enough. Her brother yelps, skittering back a step.
She holds Tyler's amused stare the entire time, watching his mouth twitch as he wisely withholds his laughter. He clears his throat, holding out one hand for her, and when she deigns to slip her fingers into his palm he glances towards her cousins with an apologetic smile so plainly fake that even an idiot could read the insincerity in it. "Duty calls. Nice to meet you."
Wednesday sweeps off without bothering to spare another glance for Flora and Fauna and their snickering, assured in the knowledge that Tyler will fall into step beside her immediately despite the abruptness of her departure. And he does, only twisting briefly to bid goodbye to Pugsley.
"You should know better than to encourage sycophants," she points out dryly, allowing Tyler to thread his fingers between her own as they cross the yard towards the decadent bar tent. His shoulder bumps lightly against her own, warm. "Pugsley will only grow increasingly insufferable, and he is already intolerable enough."
"I think it's good that your brother likes me," Tyler insists, because of course he does. He has a crippling desire to be liked in general. "Especially since he's going to be my brother."
He lowers his voice on the last part, the words just for her, and Wednesday casts a glance up at him in time to see the genuinely pleased smile on his face. He catches her catching him and shrugs one shoulder, explaining before she can call him ridiculous for it, "I mean, we didn't exactly get off on the right foot."
This again. Wednesday is not exactly surprised, particularly not when her dear cousins had seen fit to dig up old graves.
"You know Pugsley loved it." She curls her fingers tighter around his, squeezing his hand once sharply to drive home her point—like a stake to the heart. "He can hardly shut up about it, whenever you come up. It is probably the most excitement he will ever have in his sorry, uneventful life."
Tyler exhales, half-sigh and half-laugh. "Yeah, no, I know. It's just—you know. I'm glad he doesn't hate me."
She lets the admission rest, well aware that they have already had this conversation (numerous times, in fact) and that Tyler does not really need a response from her. Besides, she knows that this is not something he would want anyone else to overhear, and they are already drawing up to the bar, where Lurch and Thing are manning the alcohol operation.
"Thank you," Wednesday hums when Lurch slides a new flute of champagne towards her before she has to ask. She takes a slow sip as she watches Tyler lean against the bar, chattering with Uncle Thing about recommendations.
He is never content to just stick to one drink over the span of a night; inevitably he insists on trying something new each round, too intrigued by the possibilities to commit to just one favorite. It is... mildly endearing. At the very least, she can appreciate a mind that hungers for knowledge and experimentation, even if this particular pursuit is hardly a useful one.
"You want to try?" he asks her with a quirk of a smile when he and Thing finally settle on some creamy looking concoction in a champagne flute of his own. "It's called a Godchild, I guess. Uncle Thing said it's good."
Wednesday eyes it, nose scrunching the slightest bit in distaste at the notion of the heavy cream mixing with the liquor. "I think not. It undoubtedly tastes horrible."
— ⋆⭒˚.⋆ —
It is very, very rare that Wednesday Addams is wrong about anything. She will admit that it was a more frequent occurrence in her youth, when she was guided far too much by impulse rather than cold rationality. But even then, when she was wrong it was typically only partially wrong.
Nevertheless, it seems she was wrong about the Godchild.
The hideous creamy monstrosity tastes excellent when she licks it out of Tyler's mouth, chasing every last trace of the nutty sweetness on his tongue as she grips his curls tightly and hitches her leg over his hips. He moans loudly and she swallows down the sound, her weight settling on top of him heavily as she situates herself comfortably astride his lap.
Wednesday feels just a bit out of control, a restlessness burning through her veins as she bites his lower lip and drops her hands from his hair, seeking out the buttons of that silky shirt. She wrenches them open swiftly, nails scratching over his bare skin, and then she is flattening her hands over his chest, feeling his heart thud against her palm.
"Fuck, sweetheart," Tyler pants, his legs spreading under her as he braces his heels against the ground and rocks his hips up. He is hard and hot beneath her, straining against his slacks as he grinds himself into her core with just the right degree of pressure to make her shudder. "Want you so bad."
His voice is low and raw, scratching down her spine pleasantly, so nicely that Wednesday lets him get away with stating the obvious. She yanks his belt open as his hands spread over the backs of her thighs, pulling her down harder against him as he rolls his hips again.
He drags against her clit just-so, her hips twitching as her body fights to collapse into the pressure, and it is good—good and distracting and utterly unhelpful. She bites his lower lip in punishment when her fingers fumble on his zipper.
"You are presently your own enemy," she huffs, slamming her hips down against his hard to hold him in place as he squirms and moans beneath her. It gives her enough time to finally get his pants undone, and then her hands are reaching back to find his wrists and squeezing pointedly. "Why aren't you taking my clothes off?"
Tyler laughs into her mouth, completely unrepentant, his fingers digging into the backs of her thighs before he drags them higher, hooking them under her lacy panties to squeeze her ass appreciatively. "Maybe I wanted to fuck you in the dress. It looks so good on you, Wens, really. You're beautiful."
Despite his tantalizing words, he starts to peel the lace down her thighs obligingly, fingers stroking up the inside of her thigh playfully. Wednesday releases his wrists, satisfied that he is now doing something useful, and lifts herself up long enough to wrestle his pants down over his hips.
"Then leave it on," she breathes as she curls her fingers around him tightly, stroking down over the length of him once just to hear the punched out groan that works its way up his throat. And then impatience is urging her onwards as she bats lace out of the way and guides him to her heat, her mouth grazing down his jawline when his head falls back against the chair.
She sinks her teeth into his throat even as she sinks down onto his cock, muffling her own loud moan against his skin as her body stretches with a delicious agony. She takes him too quickly, with too little prep—just how she likes him, just shy of too painful. And the burn is perfect.
"God," Tyler groans low in his throat, his hands finding her hips under the fanning skirts of her dress and gripping her tightly. She can feel the Hyde's strength bleeding through, imprinting finger-shaped bruises in her skin, and heat licks up her spine at the thought of the mess he is going to make of her as his control unravels. "Fuck, Wens, you feel good."
The praise drives its way through her skin, white-hot, and ignites in her veins.
"Shut up and fuck me," she snaps against his jugular, her whole body thrumming with liquid fire as she slowly rocks her hips forward and back, grinding him in deep. Her spine curves when he starts to lift her by her hips, his dick dragging against her inner walls, and it feels like her moan is being ripped from her marrow when he presses her back down onto him.
"So good—"
Wednesday's hands find his shoulders, nails digging into his skin for leverage as she brings her lips back up to his to swallow down his nonsensical compliments. He kisses her back filthily, tongue plunging into her mouth as his hips start to roll under hers. He still tastes like that stupid cocktail, rich and creamy and hers.
Pleasure shudders through her veins as she rocks her hips, rising and falling on him with a vicious efficiency as she chases that mounting pressure building up in her gut. Tyler keeps one hand anchored on her hip, pushing and pulling at her urgently as his free hand fumbles its way out from under her dress to glide up her ribcage.
She presses forward into his palm as he cups her breast, breathing out a moan when he pinches at her nipple through the thin fabric of her dress, a quick shock sparking in her bloodstream. He moves on too quickly for her tastes, but Wednesday decides that it is an acceptable oversight when his fingers make quick work of the ribbon at her throat, diving into the parted collar to find her necklace, and she realizes what he is after.
It helps that he fucks up into her hard as he loops his fingers around the thin chain, tugging her ring free and yanking her forward against his chest. Wednesday groans into his mouth when she falls into him and the angle shifts, his cock pressing into her just right and her clit grinding against his body in a way that makes her hips stutter in their merciless drive.
"My pretty little fiancée," Tyler growls quietly, his teeth scraping along her jawline, too-sharp, delicious; Wednesday exhales noisily, tipping her head back as her hips roll again and again, and the Hyde seizes on the offering immediately, mouth closing over the thin skin of her throat. "In this pretty little dress. Can't believe you're mine."
Her thoughts blur together when he bites down, driving his teeth into her neck harshly, the pain flickering into a pleasure so sharp it burns through her blood when he starts sucking over the bite. Bruises blooming under his insistent mouth, under the fingertips digging into her hipbone—
She wants to be covered. She wants more.
"Harder," Wednesday hisses between clenched teeth, her hands smoothing up his neck and into his hair. She barely gets a chance to fist his curls before he is moving, the hand at her hip disappearing as he anchors his arm across her lower back and surges to his feet. She groans at the sudden movement, her heels scrambling to lock together behind his back, and in the next moment she is on her back.
The air rushes out of her lungs when Tyler drops her on the bed and she hisses at the loss when he slips out of her. Her glare snaps up to him; much as she can appreciate the unobstructed view of his body as he shrugs his shirt off the rest of the way, he is wasting time.
He flashes her a smile in response, sharp, and reaches out to yank her closer by her ankle. Wednesday slides down the bed with a jerk, an indignant noise rising in the back of her throat even as her stomach clenches hotly at the careless show of strength.
"Tyler," she growls, impatient, but he just ignores her and slides his hand up her leg to yank her panties the rest of the way off. She is about to issue another demand when he shoves her legs apart roughly, his weight pressing her into the mattress as he finally follows her down.
His curls hang down in his eyes as he settles above her, but she can still see the golden flecks in his irises burning brighter, a feral gleam taking over when his gaze sweeps down over her. Anticipation thrums through her, hot and sweet, and Wednesday yanks on his hair hard, dragging his eyes back up to her own. His teeth flash, half-sneer, half-grin; a thrill rackets up her spine when she recognizes that look.
She hooks her legs around his waist again, heels driving into his back hard as she leverages him closer and goads, "Come, mi monstruo, make me yours."
"You're already mine," Tyler murmurs darkly, one palm covering her ring where it has fallen against her clavicle. He presses down hard enough that she can feel it digging into her skin through her dress, petals prickling into her sharply as his other hand drops. He rubs the head of his cock against her entrance languidly, intentions lazy, while his gaze traces over her exposed throat.
He looks at her skin with a starved sort of greediness, eyes gleaming in the low light. Wednesday thrums, intent on focusing that hunger where she wants it, and pulls on his hair in a silent demand for him to meet her gaze again.
She bares her teeth at him when he finally raises his eyes, his attention torn away from her neck with a sluggish reluctance. She can hear the breathiness in her voice, her own hunger clawing up the back of her throat, but she can also hear the mocking taunt of it when she asks sharply, "Am I?"
His eyes flash, the Hyde lunging forward from the depths with a spark of possessive anger to dispel that lazy regard, and she thrills with triumph when Tyler's control fractures. A growl rumbles in his chest, vibrating through her bones, and the hand on her chest darts up to curl around her throat with a latent threat.
"Yes," Tyler breathes, voice dripping with self-assured heat, and Wednesday feels her spine bowing as he pushes his cock into her torturously slowly, tension racketing up higher as they balance on the precipice. "You are mine."
Her blood goes hot, her pulse thundering in her temples as she strains forward against the fingers digging into her jugular. Her voice drops to a whisper, forcing Tyler to lean down closer to hear her, his breath mingling with hers. "I'm not convinced."
He freezes, muscles locking up tightly as his pupils rapidly contract and then expand. Wednesday tightens her legs around his waist, driving him into herself deeper as she yanks on his curls, anything to push him over the edge. She gives his sanity a brutal shove: "Are you sure?"
His control finally snaps, a furious growl rising in his throat, and it is glorious. Tyler fucks her into the mattress so hard that for the first time in her life, Wednesday Addams is looking forward to being married.
He fucks her again in the morning, when she wakes up with her face pressed into her silky black sheets and his weight warm and heavy against her back, pushing her down into the mattress even as his big hand spreads across her stomach to hitch her hips upwards for his cock. She is half asleep and can barely breathe, her head fuzzy with an enchanting oxygen-less haze and his quiet panting moans in her ear as he ruts into her lazily, and it is better than glorious. It is exceptional.
— ⋆⭒˚.⋆ —
Her neck is a canvas of mottled bruises, Tyler's fingers imprinted on either side of her throat and dotted with hickeys and bite marks that trail down across her collarbones. Standing there in nothing but her black bra and boyshorts, she can see the hallmarks of his love emblazoned across her body is sickly purples and blues, so dark by virtue of her pale skin and his passionate fervor.
She looks like she was mauled by a wild animal. A hint of a smirk tugs her lips upwards at the thought.
The marks disappear under a single pass of her mother's ashen cream, evidence of their trysts gradually fading away and sinking into her skin as she massages the concoction into her neck efficiently.
Tyler typically likes to do this for her. Frequently, he makes a fuss out of snatching the little jar away from her and pestering her until she relents and lets him rub it into her skin gently. This morning, however, he sits on the edge of the bathtub and watches her apply it without interference, his stare dark and focused.
Wednesday sets the jar aside when she is finished, studying his profile in the mirror. There is something acutely predatory about his stillness and the weight of his gaze on her. She turns, arching a brow at him in silent question, but he is not meeting her eyes; his attention is fixed lower, where she has not yet applied the cream to the bruises circling her wrists.
"You are staring," she observes flatly, and that draws his gaze up to hers. "What it is?"
It is not as though she does not have a theory. Of course she does—he is being ridiculously transparent. But she still relishes in forcing him to say it aloud.
His voice is low, but it lacks any embarrassment or remorse. "I want my mark on you. More than usual."
Wednesday considers that. It takes no stretch of the imagination to guess why his possessive streak is rearing its head; it seems her Hyde is struggling with the charade sooner than either of them anticipated.
After studying him for another moment, she picks up the cream and takes a step towards him. He parts his legs readily when she steps between them, tilting his head back to look up at her as she lifts her free hand to his face. His lashes flutter, cheek pressing into her open palm as she regards him.
She waits until his breathing has aligned with hers before she holds up the jar wordlessly. Tyler accepts it without protest, shifting back from her hand so that she can lower it for his perusal.
He rubs the cream into her wrists gently, one at a time, his thumbs pressing in slow circles along the delicate bones as he massages her skin slowly. He keeps going well after the bruises have faded under his touch, just breathing with her and touching her quietly, and then he shifts his attention to her thighs.
"Leave those," she says, plucking the jar out of his hand and holding her own out for the lid. Tyler's gaze flickers up to hers as he sets it in her palm, watching her twist it back onto the cream. "I would like your mark on me, too."
He blinks before smiling up at her. It lacks any of the suggestive heat she might have expected; this smile is all soft affection, his eyes glowing with adoration, as though she has just offered him something far more precious than his teeth marks on her thighs. "Thanks."
Mildly perturbed by the sheer sweetness in his quiet voice, Wednesday bends down to press a chaste kiss to his mouth. Her confession is murmured against his lips. "I do not need a thousand hickeys for everyone to know that I am yours, Tyler."
He smiles against her lips, not yet backing away either as he whispers back warmly, "Maybe just a hundred?"
Wednesday stops herself from rolling her eyes, unwilling to deign his teasing with that much of a reaction, but she is pleased to note that his mood must be considerably improved if that damnable playfulness is creeping out once more.
Satisfied, she gives him one more kiss before stepping back and turning to put the cream away.
— ⋆⭒˚.⋆ —
With the second night comes the latest round of reinforcements. Wednesday had laid out the battlefield for Tyler before they even left for the Addams estate, detailing the expected three-wave onslaught, but she still sets her hand on his wrist when he reaches for the door that night and warns ominously, "There will be more of them tonight."
Tyler shoots her a wry smile, his amusement belying that he is not quite taking the threat of a well executed swarming tactic seriously. He turns his hand over, sliding his wrist through her grasp until he can link his fingers with hers, and opens the bedroom door with his other hand. "Don't worry, General, I'm ready."
She narrows her eyes at him, deems that he is only being a little sarcastic (acceptable), and steps through the door imperiously. He follows her with a widening smile, undoubtedly pleased to have gotten away with it, and she deigns to let him have this.
"You look beautiful, by the way," he murmurs, pulling her to a stop in the hallway before she can march off and stepping closer. His eyes gleam with an easy, immediate adoration as he brushes a trailing wisp of her bangs out of her face. "I really do like this dress."
Of course he does. After all, he chose it for her, toting it home last month with Thing and a conspiratorial smile. And while the sweetheart neckline is not something she would ordinarily choose for herself (for more reasons than just the atrocious name), she knows exactly why he is so drawn to it: the fluttering black tulle calls to mind her dress from the very first Rave’N he escorted her to.
Never mind the fact that her exposed collarbones and bare shoulders have always appealed to him, as though he is some self-repressed Victorian stooge fainting at the sight of her ankles—and that is to say nothing of the way the high-low cut of the skirt exposes her lower thighs. Given the way Tyler's fingertips trace down her cheekbone and jaw, dipping to graze her throat before hooking in her necklace, she can only assume that he particularly enjoys how the lower cut means the chain is just barely long enough to stay tucked safely into her bodice.
He tugs gently, as though to pull it free for one last peek prior to the festivities, and then frowns when it holds fast. Wednesday feels her own lips tilt upwards with self-satisfaction as she informs him mildly, "I had time to stitch it in. I will not fall victim to something as ridiculously predictable as a wardrobe malfunction."
She nearly shudders to think of how wretchedly idiotic such a mistake would be. Wednesday can see it now: her mother sweeping across the cobblestones with a fawning cry of delight, drawing everyone's attention to the fact that Wednesday's engagement ring had slipped out of her dress at some point. If the mortification did not kill her, she is positive that she would at least die of the shame of being so utterly short-sighted.
Tyler's frown tips into a pout, but he releases the necklace carefully and smooths the chain flat again in recognition of the fact that the stitching is fragile. "Smart."
"You do not have to sound quite so disappointed about it," she observes wryly, mildly amused by how quickly and openly he cycles through moods. She can appreciate that she so rarely has to guess at his emotions these days. "Besides…"
She takes a neat step backwards, letting her gaze drift down over him languidly. The black material of his dress shirt mimics the tulle of her dress, as do the lace flowers dotted across the surface. It is just sheer enough that she can see the faint lines of his body, the tantalizing whisper of skin, and more importantly: the silver of his vial, visible through the thin layer.
Wednesday lifts a hand, tapping her nail against the vial lightly, and slowly raises her gaze back to his. "Yours is visible tonight. As though anyone needs a reminder."
His pupils are wide and dark as he slides one hand to her waist, just gripping her tightly as he takes a step forward, eating away the fraction of space she had garnered for herself. She lets him, warmth licking up her spine, and accepts the firm kiss that he presses to her mouth. It is brief, closed-lipped, but he seems pleased with himself when he lifts his head.
"You should stop looking at me like that," he flirts, voice warm and honeyed, and Wednesday feels her skin prickle with warmth when his tongue darts out to lap at his lower lip, where her plum-dark lipstick is just slightly smudged.
For a moment, she considers leaving it. And then she lifts her hand, eyes locked on his as she curls her fingers along his jaw. She presses her thumb to his lip, tugging gently when his mouth parts marginally, then drags it slowly across his skin. He lets her wipe away the lipstick smudge before he moves, his teeth flashing for half a moment before he nips at her thumb.
"You're still looking at me," he hums lowly, hazel irises nearly swallowed by his pupils, and Wednesday feels her mouth curve upwards slightly. His gaze breaks away from hers, dropping to her lips, and she takes that moment to lower her hand and step backwards out of his space.
The tension eases. When Tyler's eyes flash back up to hers, he looks at once disappointed and relieved. She has to admit to sharing the sentiment—the heat lurking in her blood calls out for him, sharp like hunger pains, but she knows better than to hope to evade her family for much longer.
"Wedddddnesday!" Pugsley hollers from the stairs, his grating voice ricocheting through the hall moments before there is the clattering rumble of his stomping feet. "Mom's looking for you! Hey, is Tyler with you?!"
It is just Tyler there to see it; she lets the eye roll go without fighting it, annoyance putting a swift end to her temptations. Typical. Absolutely typical.
"Obviously you are with me," she mutters, ignoring the Hyde's quiet laugh, before she turns to sweep down the hall in the opposite direction. "Come. Quickly. We will take the other staircase and lose the little twerp."
— ⋆⭒˚.⋆ —
"—Wednesday's boyfriend, yes," Grandmama sniffs, giving Tyler a single once over that conveys her condescension quite expertly. "I seem to recall you kidnapping my grandson. Trevor, was it?"
At her side, Tyler tenses slightly but his tight smile does not falter. Wednesday exhales noisily, reminding herself that antagonizing family members is one of Hester Frump's favorite past times. This snide attitude is more about getting under her skin than it is about any genuine disapproval for Tyler's existence.
Still. Tyler does not know that. And he has already been subjected to several rounds of prodding tonight.
"You know who Tyler is," Wednesday says flatly, willfully ignoring the fact that the characterization of him as her boyfriend is decidedly incorrect. "You might also recall his assistance with the apocalyptic disaster in waiting that you were keeping locked up in the basement."
Grandmama's eyes brighten with a dark gleam, obviously amused by having lured Wednesday into the fray even momentarily. "Ah, yes. I suppose I expected him to be a touch more... fleeting."
"Nope," Tyler says mildly, though Wednesday detects the undercurrent of something sharp lurking in the afterbite, "Still here."
"So it seems."
"We are going for a walk," Wednesday cuts in, holding her grandmother's gaze as she lets her fingertips graze along the inside of Tyler's wrist. Very deliberately, she slides her hand into his, feeling the warmth of his palm when their fingers slot together snugly. "Now."
Hester smiles at her slyly, like they are sharing a secret, and Wednesday gives her a curt nod in response before she tugs Tyler away. They weave through the crowd like that, she a dark wraith on a mission, he her rippling shadow, until they reach the edge of the garden.
The woods stretch on before them, dark and haunted, full of possibilities. Wednesday leads Tyler into them without a word, determined to give him a moment to breathe and reset his mood before they venture back into the battlefield.
— ⋆⭒˚.⋆ —
Bark scrapes across her bare shoulders as Tyler knocks her back into a tree, his hands cupping her face as he ducks down to claim her mouth with a heady eagerness. Wednesday hums in pleased surprise, lips already parting to let him in, and he plunders her mouth greedily.
He tears away from her before she can get a firm enough grip on his hair to hold him in place. Her eyes fly open, a cold sort of annoyance flashing through her at the sharp denial, but her protests die a swift death.
He falls to his knees, dead leaves crunching under his weight, and he is a vision in the moonlight with his messy curls and bright eyes, looking up at her with a hungry reverence. The high-low skirt flutters around him, her bare legs stretched out before him as though this dress had been designed with his starved devotion in mind.
She already knows what he wants when he reaches for her, her stomach tightening with anticipation, and she does not stop him when his palms skate up her legs, smoothing up the insides of her thighs.
"I love this dress," he breathes out against her skin, lips on her thigh, and then he is rucking her skirt up her hips and surging forward to press his mouth against her cunt. Tyler lets out a groan, mouthing at her wetly through the lace, and she has to lock her knees to keep her legs from shaking as his hot breath and hotter voice wash over her. "You smell so good. Fuck, you've got to let me taste you, Wens, please."
"Get on with it, then," she murmurs, dictatorial, though the hitch in her breathing when he curls his fingers in her boyshorts to pull them down her hips gives away just how terribly she wants him. She burns with it, her pulse beating in her wrists and at the hollow of her throat.
He does not tease her. Does not even seem to consider it, not with the way he falls on her as if starved, his lips closing over her clit immediately in a harsh suckle. Wednesday's spine arches up off the tree with a bitten off gasp, her fingers scrambling for purchase in his hair, and his tongue drags over her hungrily as he covers her cunt with sloppy, open-mouthed kisses.
It's—it's so—
"Good boy," she chokes out on an exhale, half-mocking, to stop herself from letting anything more damning leave her lips as she settles into the burning pleasure—and Tyler groans against her in response, loud in the silent woods, as he fucks his tongue into her and devours her even more eagerly.
The noises he is making are filthy. Wednesday feels her weight sink lower against the tree as her hips twitch forward in response, her breath stuttering into a moan as she forces his head closer with a fist in his curls and presses her clit more firmly into his mouth.
Tyler moans brokenly, chest pressing into her knees as he tries to crowd into her. His hands are on the backs of her thighs then, pulling and spreading them open wider around his head as he presses even closer, tilting his jaw just so to urge her to ride his face.
Her hips buck forward as her whole body lights up with pleasure, chasing the heat of his mouth and the faint scrape of his teeth with a quiet groan, forcing her weight down as she grinds against him. She's already right at the edge, stomach twisting tightly as she clenches down on nothing.
Clever Hyde that he is, he seems to know exactly what she needs before she can demand it. When he fucks two fingers into her, they sink in to the knuckle without resistance, her mouth dropping open in a silent whine as her spine arches.
"Fuck, you're wet," Tyler groans, voice hoarse as he pants open-mouthed against her cunt—sounding almost awed, as though he is not the one who made such an almighty mess of her, and she rocks her hips down more urgently as his fingers curl deliciously. "God, sweetheart, wanna feel you come."
It is sloppy and loud when he pumps a third finger into her, stretching her out as she moans, even louder when he starts fucking them into her quickly, harder, coaxing her towards her impending meltdown as he closes his lips over her clit and sucks harshly.
Her body seizes up, fingers twisting in his curls as the orgasm blindsides her—from lurking just out of reach to crashing over her so suddenly and viciously that her breath punches out of her lungs in a loud moan, hips rolling frantically against his mouth.
Her legs are still shaking when he surges to his feet, crowding forward to capture her lips with his, and Wednesday groans at the taste of herself on his tongue as he licks his way straight into her mouth and runs it across the backs of her teeth hungrily.
"Fuck, tell me I can fuck you," he pants into her mouth as he breaks away, eyes bright and wild in the moonlight, and he ducks forward to kiss her again when she nods, her hands already wrenching open his belt.
He helps her get his pants unzipped and his cock out with fumbling fingers, his shaking with need, hers with the aftershocks, and then his hands are spanning her waist as he hauls her up against the tree.
Her lungs tighten traitorously, body throbbing with want at how easily he throws her around, her legs locking around his hips with a needy impatience. They both moan when his dick notches against her heat, and she grinds forward against the hard line of him, the pressure on her clit so damn nice that she rubs up on him like that again with mindless rolls of her hips.
"Baby," Tyler groans, one of his hands dropping to wedge between their bodies, and then he is lining himself up to press into her with a sharp snap of his hips, the burn so delicious that her thoughts white-out for a moment.
And then he pulls out, slamming back into her with more force, and she snaps right back into her body.
"Fuck," Wednesday hisses between her teeth, wrenched out of her, and she drives her heels into his back when he sets a bruising pace immediately, fucking her up against the tree as bark rains down around them. "Fuck, Tyler."
"Shit," he swears, mouth against her jawline when his hips stutter at the sound of his name and her head thuds back against the trunk in response, "Not gonna last—"
"Fuck me," she demands, as though he is not already driving into her so hard that her back keeps hitching and sliding up the tree violently; the leaves are hazy above her, her vision blurring as she locks her legs around his waist tighter, clenching around his dick even more tightly, her demand clear even before she gives breath to it: "Fuck, Tyler, come in me."
With her clinging onto him, he doesn't even need to hold her weight up—and he doesn't, releasing her waist as one hand fumbles for purchase against the tree beside her head. Wednesday turns her face into his forearm, about to bite him, sink her teeth into his sweaty flesh just to have more of him, but his other hand snatches ahold of her necklace and wrenches, dragging her face down to his.
Her body hums with the violence of it, flushing hot when he kisses her sloppily, all teeth and panted desperation and his broken moan as he fucks up into her and loses control. Wednesday tastes blood in her mouth and feels the burning heat of it when he starts coming inside her and it all hits her harder than a vision, her head jerking back with a gasp as her brain shuts off and her body convulses against his.
She thinks she loses time. She thinks she comes twice, Tyler's palm grinding against her clit and his mouth pressing the words please, baby, one more into her throat as he fucks his come into her until his cock finally starts to soften. She thinks...
That she may have been wrong. Mabon is an excellent sabbat.
Her head is still spinning when Tyler pulls out of her slowly, her body throbbing unhappily at the sudden emptiness for only a moment before the hand still pressed against her cunt slides down to cup her warmly, his long fingers pushing his come back inside her. Wednesday hums, indulging him as she catches her breath.
When she tilts her head down finally, her gaze drops to his mouth immediately. His lips are swollen, yes, but his mouth is also smeared with her dark lipstick and blood, a mottled wet mess that has her tired body twitching with interest. Her tongue flickers out against her own lower lip, prodding at the bloody punctures from his too-sharp teeth; they ache pleasantly with a burning pain.
She is not surprised to see that the green of Tyler's irises have yellowed when he leans his forehead against hers, his eyes half-lidded and smile languid with a warm affection. The grip on her necklace loosens, his knuckles resting gently against her chest. "Sorry about your lip."
His voice is completely shattered. Her skin buzzes pleasantly.
"I am not," she informs him flatly, still slightly out of breath as she lets her pulse settle, and he smiles wider.
Her legs are shaking when he sets her on her feet, balanced precariously on her kitten heels, and he slides an arm around her waist to steady her before he kneels down in front of her. Wednesday rests her hand on his head, scrunching his curls—purely for balance, of course—as he helps her back into her boyshorts, his fingers warm and soothing.
She is feeling particularly benevolent, quite thoroughly fucked as she is, so she does not say anything as he pauses to wipe up the come leaking down her inner thigh and feed it right back into her before he tugs her shorts into place. She almost feels giving enough to tell him that she rather appreciates this obsessive desire to keep her full. Almost.
Tyler rises back to his feet finally, and he takes a half-step backwards to give them both enough space to start straightening out their attire.
It is when she reaches up to smooth down her bodice and fix her necklace that she realizes that her ring is still sewn into place. Wednesday pauses, processing, and then breathes out a huff that is nearly a laugh.
He fucked her with the Hyde's strength, gnawing at her lip with sharp fangs as his control bled apart, and yet somehow he did not tear the delicate stitches keeping her ring safely tucked out of view. Ridiculous.
"What?" he asks with a quirk of a smile, peering at her through his lashes as he glances up from buckling his belt. His eyes gleam in the dark, but they are more green than yellow—more man than Hyde—once more. His curls are a riotous disaster, his mouth still bloody and plum'd, sleeves rolled up and collar askew, looking like sex incarnate even as he starts to wipe at his lips. He smells like sex, too.
Wednesday feels quite pleased with herself. "Nothing. We will have to make a strategic retreat. You look too indecent."
That, and her body feels wrung out and exhausted, pleasantly destroyed. She will sooner burn the estate down with her entire extended family inside it before she risks collapsing in front of everyone, struck down by the ailment of having been fucked too well.
Tyler grins at her, boyish and dirty. "That's a shame. I was kind of looking forward to watching you try to talk to people with your pussy full of my come."
Said pussy (so vulgar; cunt is harder, sharper, sounds significantly less filthy to her ears—a fact that he is well aware of) throbs at the reminder, still warm and wet and, yes, full.
"Devastating," Wednesday deadpans, voice only slightly breathier than normal, before she turns to start the trek back out of the woods. His laughter follows her a moment before he does, leaves crunching under their feet.
She makes it six careful, precise steps before her legs start to wobble slightly, her heels catching in the uneven dirt. Tyler hooks his arm under her knees and scoops her up off her feet before she can protest, tucking her close to his chest with a grin, and she only lets him get away with it because she is still feeling generous.
He has been a good boy, after all; she supposes he deserves it.
— ⋆⭒˚.⋆ —
Wednesday wakes up face-down in her sheets again, Tyler's hand spread between her shoulder blades to hold her in place and his cock grinding into her slowly. There is a tacky stickiness to it; he is forcing his come deeper inside her, adding to the mess from last night. Her lungs flutter pleasantly, burning faintly, as her back arches accommodatingly, hips canting backwards.
Distantly, she remembers taking a bath last night, Tyler's fingers gentle as he helped her clean up. Her thoughts confront that sleepily, the memory's significance eluding her until she realizes that he must be fucking new come into her; that he must have already come inside her once this morning.
She moans sleepily into the mattress, orgasm crashing over her gently, and she hears his quiet grunt as her body tightens around him greedily and he follows her over the edge, spilling inside her again.
Wednesday is already half-way back to sleep when his arm curls around her waist, lifting her back into his chest as he rolls them both onto their sides. She hums in approval when he does not pull out, content, and falls asleep again easily.
— ⋆⭒˚.⋆ —
"I think you have a kink," she informs him dryly later that morning, watching him in the mirror as he stands behind her and carefully applies the ashen cream to the scrapes and scratches littering her shoulders and back, fingers prodding around the imprint of his teeth in her shoulder before he covers that, too.
Tyler's mouth quirks upwards with amusement—though not, she notes, without a slight dusting of a flush across his cheeks. His gaze flickers up to meet hers in the mirror. "Which one?"
A good point. Wednesday considers, then observes mildly, "I was talking about this... breeding obsession you seem to have developed rather suddenly. The somnophilia is not that new."
Nor would she really consider him much of a somnophile, recent evidence to the contrary aside. After all, he has before woken up with his dick already tucked snugly in the back of her throat, and she would not consider herself a somnophile. She chalks this resurgence up to his sexual appetite being ridiculous in general recently.
Tyler blinks, his blush deepening as he pauses in his task. She can see it creeping down his throat, ghosting over his collarbones. Interesting; he rarely balks in the face of his own desires—he is generally shameless about them, in fact—but this one actually seems to embarrass him. "Uh. Yeah, I don't know. I think that's... Hyde related."
Wednesday is of the opinion that it is rather obviously Hyde related. But confirmation of a correct deduction is always nice.
"Are you trying to get me pregnant?" she asks bluntly, without accusation; she is genuinely intrigued, already considering how this information could potentially slot into her budding theories around how Hydes respond to life changes such as engagement.
He makes a choked noise, eyes widening slightly, but Wednesday is quite interested to see that his eyes have darkened, pupils blooming outwards. "No—I mean—well, yes, I guess, but not really. I mean, because I know I can't, it's—I like to try." Tyler stops, looking mildly concerned. "I can't, right?"
Wednesday feels her lips twitch upwards in amusement at the slight flare of panic in his tone. Honestly; does he really think she would be letting him shovel semen into her body before they revisited their five year plan if there was a possibility of it getting her pregnant? She suspects that he does not, but that his irrationality is winning anyway. "I think I would recall performing the counter-ritual."
"Right. Just checking," he breathes, flashing her a quick smile in the mirror before dropping his gaze back to her shoulder. She is almost endeared by the fact that he seems to think he can just go back to cleaning up her scrapes and escape from this conversation.
She lets him have the delusion for a few moments before she finally breaks the silence again. "I suspect that letting you con me into agreeing to marry you has set off some sort of Hyde mating response. You have been rather... feral as of late."
"Con," Tyler echoes with a huff of a laugh, amused, before he seems to process the rest of her observation. He stops in his task again, considering that, and she considers him.
This time, he reaches past her to set the jar down on the bathroom counter. Rather than withdraw his arm when he is finished, however, he curls it around her, hand spreading flat across her stomach as he steps forward to press up against her back. His warmth blankets her comfortably, her gaze locked on his in the mirror as he hooks his chin over her shoulder. His breath fans against her cheek.
His hand presses against her, inching her back marginally, and Wednesday arches a brow as she indulgently cants her hips backwards into him. She is not even remotely surprised to feel that he is hard in his jeans, nor to hear the low hum in his voice as he murmurs, "I haven't heard you complaining."
Wednesday pauses, lips pressing together. She has no defense against that. She has been rather enjoying herself, but it would not do to feed his ego any more than she already has. "I have always been good about treating my pets well."
Tyler laughs brightly at that, tilting his head down to nuzzle at her shoulder, and she feels her mouth twitch again. Accursed affection bubbles forth in her chest as he rubs his cheek against her like a needy cat.
"Mmm, that's true. I am feeling very well treated, Wens." His eyes slit open, gaze flickering up to hers in the mirror as he peers at her through his lashes, and she feels his cheeky smile pressed into her shoulder. His hips shift once, rubbing his dick against the curve of her ass. "Wanna treat me even better?"
She eyes him dubiously. They have already fucked twice this morning (well—he has fucked her twice), her body is still exceptionally (excellently) sore from last night, she just showered, and yet. She does consider it, for a moment. But only for a moment.
"You are welcome to rub off on me," she finally says mildly, watching his interest pique, "but if you insist on being that pathetically desperate, you have to come in your jeans. It is only fitting."
Tyler pauses. She will admit that she had expected that to be a nonstarter for him, but she should have known better: he actually looks tempted. And then he seems to reunite with his better sense—and, perhaps, to realize that she fully intends for him to still wear those jeans this morning if he does, wandering around the house in his own mess.
With a dramatic sigh, he wraps his other arm around her, this time just to squeeze her against him in a quick hug, before he lets go and disengages. Wednesday watches him shamelessly as he adjusts himself in his jeans, ignoring the smirk he tosses her as she allows herself the indulgence of admiring the vision he makes, shirtless and visibly hard.
"Alright, I'm getting coffee before I change my mind," he announces, backing out of the bathroom so that he can smile at her in the mirror the whole time, before he disappears into the bedroom.
She breathes in deeply in his absence, letting the air out slowly as she urges her own rampant cravings to subside, and grimly reflects on the fact that she may have unleashed a monster.
It is fortunate that they only have to survive two more days.