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The dorm room smelled like vanilla body spray, cedarwood candles, and the faint copper tang of Wednesday’s latest blood-letter correspondence. Enid Sinclair sat cross-legged on her pastel-pink comforter, knees bouncing, phone clutched so tightly the case creaked. She hadn’t scrolled in ten minutes. She was just staring at the same frozen TikTok frame—a blurry shot of two girls laughing in a coffee shop, one of them captioned “when your gf brings the strap collection to movie night 🖤🔥”.
Enid’s stomach twisted. Not jealousy. Not exactly. More like… comparison.
She glanced sideways at Wednesday, who was—as always—perched at her antique writing desk like a raven on a gravestone. Black turtleneck, sleeves rolled to the elbows, fountain pen moving in sharp, deliberate strokes across thick cream stationery. The lamplight carved her cheekbones into cruel geometry and turned her eyes into twin obsidian pits.
Enid swallowed. “Weds?”
“Mmm.” The pen didn’t pause.
“Do you… ever think the strap is better?”
Wednesday’s hand stilled. Just for a heartbeat. Then the pen resumed its autopsy of the page. “Better at what, precisely?”
Enid’s ears burned. She tugged at the hem of her oversized pastel hoodie (the one with little cartoon werewolves wearing party hats—Wednesday had once called it “an assault on good taste”). “You know. Like… in bed. With me. The—the real thing. Versus… versus something you can just… take off. Or size up. Or whatever.”
Wednesday set the pen down with surgical precision. She rotated her chair one hundred and eighty degrees until she faced Enid fully. Legs crossed at the ankle. Hands folded in her lap like she was presiding over an execution.
“Elaborate,” she said.
Enid groaned and flopped backward onto the mattress, arms splayed. “I heard Bianca talking to Yoko in the quad yesterday. She was joking—well, half-joking—that you probably have a whole drawer of straps because ‘Addams family values demand variety and permanence’. And then Yoko laughed and said something about how silicone doesn’t get performance anxiety or knot weirdly or… or take forever to go down after.”
Silence stretched thin and dangerous.
Enid peeked up through her lashes. Wednesday hadn’t moved. Her expression was unreadable, which was worse than anger.
“I’m not saying I think you’re unsatisfied!” Enid rushed on, sitting up so fast her braid whipped her cheek. “I just—sometimes I overthink it. Like, what if you secretly prefer something… consistent? Controllable? No mess, no refractory period, no ‘oh god sorry I knotted too fast again’ moments? I mean, I get it. Straps are… customizable.”
Wednesday tilted her head half a degree. “You believe I would prefer an inert length of silicone over the living, throbbing anatomy currently tenting your sweatpants?” Enid’s gaze dropped automatically. Oh. Yeah. She was hard. Had been since the second Wednesday turned the chair. The thick outline strained obscenely against soft pink fleece, the head already smearing a dark wet spot the size of a quarter.
She whimpered. “It’s not fair. You just… look at me like that and it happens.”
Wednesday rose. Slow. Graceful. Predatory. She crossed the three steps between desk and bed without breaking eye contact. Then she planted one knee on the mattress, the other following, straddling Enid’s thighs but not sitting yet. Just hovering. Close enough that Enid could feel the heat radiating off her through two layers of black fabric.
“Enid Sinclair,” Wednesday said, voice low and deliberate, “if I preferred silicone, I would be using it right now. Instead, I am about to spend the next several hours proving—to the point of physical exhaustion—exactly how much I prefer the real thing.”
Enid’s breath hitched. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” Wednesday leaned in until their noses brushed. “I want to take you apart until the only thought left in that colorful little brain is how perfectly you were made to fill me. Until you’re crying, begging, leaking, knotting, and still convinced I might prefer plastic. And then I will make you watch while I ride you until neither of us can remember the word ‘strap’.”
Enid made a broken noise somewhere between a whine and a growl. Her hands flew to Wednesday’s hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “Weds…”
“Shhh.” Wednesday pressed two fingers to Enid’s lips. “First rule: no more apologizing for your anatomy. Second rule: you do not come until I say the words ‘real is better’. Third rule…” She slid her hand down, palmed the fat length through fleece, and squeezed. “You keep your eyes on me the entire time. I want to see every flicker of doubt die.”
Enid’s hips jerked up into the grip. “Fuck—okay. Okay. Yes.”
Wednesday’s mouth curved. Not a smile. Something darker. Hungrier.
“Good girl.”
She shoved Enid flat onto her back.
Wednesday didn’t waste time on ceremony.
She hooked both hands into the waistband of Enid’s sweatpants and yanked them down in one brutal motion—past hips, past thighs, past knees—until the fabric bunched around Enid’s ankles like shackles. The cock sprang free, heavy and flushed dark pink at the tip, already glistening with precome that strung from the slit in a thin, obscene thread. It slapped wetly against Enid’s toned stomach, leaving a shiny smear just below her navel.
Enid hissed through her teeth. The cool air of the dorm hit her overheated skin like a slap, making the whole length twitch and leak another fat bead.
Wednesday paused—only for a second—to look.
Her gaze dragged from root to tip like she was cataloging evidence at a crime scene. The vein that ran thick along the underside. The slight upward curve that always made Enid hit just the right spot inside her. The way the head flared wider than the shaft, flushed almost purple now, shiny and slick. The heavy balls drawn tight beneath, already aching.
Enid squirmed under the scrutiny. “Weds, you don’t have to—”
“Quiet.” Wednesday’s voice was velvet over steel. She wrapped one pale hand around the base—fingers not quite meeting—and gave a single, slow, deliberate pump from root to crown.
Enid’s back bowed off the mattress. A strangled growl ripped out of her throat.
Wednesday’s thumb swiped over the slit, collecting the steady drip, then brought it to her own lips and sucked it clean with obscene slowness. Her tongue flicked out, tasting. Her eyes never left Enid’s.
“Silicone,” she said conversationally, “does not do this.”
Another pump. Firmer. Enid’s hips jerked helplessly.
“Does not leak like this when I look at it.” She twisted her wrist on the upstroke, thumb pressing hard against the sensitive frenulum. Enid’s claws punched out instinctively, shredding pink sheets on either side of her hips.
“Does not throb like a living heartbeat when I squeeze.” Wednesday tightened her grip until Enid whimpered—high and desperate—and a fresh gush of precome welled up, rolling down the shaft to coat Wednesday’s knuckles.
“And it most certainly,” she continued, leaning down until her breath ghosted over the slick head, “does not beg.”
Enid was shaking now. Full-body tremors. Her pupils blown so wide the blue was just a thin ring around black. “Please—Weds—fuck—”
Wednesday smiled. Small. Sharp. Merciless.
She lowered her head and took just the tip into her mouth.
Enid’s howl was muffled by her own bitten lip. Her hands flew to Wednesday’s hair—black braids spilling like ink over pale shoulders—then froze, trembling, afraid to pull, afraid to push.
Wednesday didn’t give her the choice.
She sank down in one smooth, unrelenting glide until her nose brushed Enid’s pelvis and the thick length was buried to the hilt in her throat. No gag. No hesitation. Just the wet, hot, tight suction of a mouth that had long since learned exactly how to take her.
Enid’s hips snapped up on instinct. Wednesday pinned them with bruising force, forearms like iron bars across Enid’s thighs.
Then she hummed.
Deep. Low. Vibrating straight through Enid’s cock and into her spine.
Enid’s eyes rolled back. “Oh fuck—oh fuck—Wednesday—”
Wednesday pulled off with a wet, filthy pop, strings of saliva connecting her swollen lips to the glistening head. She licked a slow stripe from balls to tip, then spoke against the twitching shaft.
“Compare this,” she murmured, “to plastic.”
She swallowed Enid again—deeper this time—until her throat fluttered around the intrusion. Enid’s claws shredded more bedding. Her tail—when had it even manifested?—thrashed wildly against the mattress.
Wednesday worked her slowly. Torturously. Alternating between long, dragging sucks and short, teasing flicks of tongue against the slit. Every time Enid’s hips tried to thrust, Wednesday pressed harder, keeping her pinned, keeping her helpless.
When she finally pulled off again, Enid’s cock was obscene—shiny with spit, veins standing out, head so swollen it looked painful. A steady stream of precome dripped down the shaft, pooling in the crease of Enid’s thigh.
Wednesday sat back on her heels and regarded her work.
“Still think I’d prefer silicone?” she asked softly.
Enid could barely form words. “N-no—god no—but—”
“But?”
Enid’s voice cracked. “What if—what if it’s too much? Too big? Too messy? Too… werewolf?”
Wednesday’s expression didn’t change, but something dangerous flickered in her eyes.
She reached behind her back, unzipped her black skirt, and let it fall. Then she peeled off the black lace boyshorts underneath—already soaked through at the crotch—and tossed them onto Enid’s face.
Enid inhaled automatically. The scent hit her like a drug—musk and iron and Wednesday—and her cock jerked so hard it slapped her stomach again.
Wednesday straddled Enid’s hips once more. This time she didn’t hover.
She lined herself up—wet, swollen folds kissing the head—and sank down in one brutal, breathtaking drop.
Enid screamed.
Wednesday took her to the hilt in a single stroke. No warm-up. No mercy. Just the tight, scalding clutch of her cunt swallowing every inch until her ass rested flush against Enid’s balls.
For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then Wednesday leaned forward, palms braced on Enid’s chest, nails digging crescent moons through fabric.
“Too big?” she whispered.
Enid could only whimper.
“Too messy?”
She rolled her hips once—slow, deliberate—and Enid felt the slick gush of Wednesday’s arousal coat her shaft, drip down her balls, soak into the sheets.
“Too werewolf?”
Wednesday clenched hard around her. Enid’s knot—already starting to swell at the base—throbbed in protest.
Wednesday’s voice dropped to something almost tender. Almost cruel.
“Then why,” she breathed, beginning to ride in short, punishing strokes, “are you crying like you’re finally home?” Enid’s tears spilled over. Not from pain. From relief. From the overwhelming rightness of being buried inside the one person who wanted every messy, desperate, animal inch of her.
Wednesday kissed the tears away with surprising gentleness—then bit Enid’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood.
“Eyes on me,” she ordered. “And do not come until I say the words.”
She started to move in earnest.
Wednesday rode like she was trying to break something.
Not Enid—not really. Just every last fragile, self-hating thought still clinging to the inside of Enid’s skull.
Her hips snapped down in short, brutal punches at first—each one driving the thick cock so deep Enid felt it press against the sharp edge of her cervix, a dull, delicious ache that made her eyes water. Then Wednesday shifted angles, grinding forward in slow, filthy circles that dragged the flared head against her front wall over and over until Enid’s claws gouged long furrows into the headboard.
Enid was loud.
She couldn’t help it.
Every downward stroke punched a whimper out of her. Every grind made her growl. Every time Wednesday clenched deliberately around her knot—still swelling, still not quite popped—her whole body jerked like she’d been electrocuted.
“Fuck—Weds—slow—please—”
Wednesday’s laugh was low and dark, vibrating where their bodies joined.
“Slow?” She planted both hands on Enid’s chest for leverage and lifted herself almost all the way off—until just the head remained nestled inside—then slammed back down so hard their pelvises clapped together wetly.
Enid’s vision whited out for a second.
“Slow is for people who are satisfied with adequate,” Wednesday hissed, rolling her hips again, grinding until Enid’s knot bumped insistently against her entrance. “I am not satisfied with adequate. I want ruinous. I want obscene. I want you so deep inside me that every time you breathe I feel it.”
She leaned down until their foreheads touched, black braids curtaining them like funeral drapes.
“And I want you to feel exactly how much better this is than anything detachable.”
Enid’s hands flew to Wednesday’s waist—fingers spanning almost the entire narrow circumference—and she thrust up to meet the next drop. The wet squelch was pornographic. Wednesday’s slick coated them both now, dripping down Enid’s balls, soaking the sheets, making obscene little puddles beneath her tail.
Wednesday’s breath hitched—just once—but it was enough. Proof.
Enid latched onto it like a lifeline.
“You’re—so wet—” she panted. “For me. Not—not a toy. Me.”
Wednesday’s nails dug into Enid’s pecs hard enough to leave crescent moons through the hoodie.
“Correct,” she breathed. “Keep going.”
Enid did.
She planted her feet on the mattress and started fucking up into Wednesday in earnest—long, deep strokes that made Wednesday’s thighs tremble and her usually iron composure crack at the edges. A soft, involuntary moan slipped out when Enid’s knot finally caught just inside her entrance, stretching her open on the upstroke before popping free again.
Wednesday’s head fell forward. Her braids brushed Enid’s collarbones. Her rhythm faltered for the first time.
Enid felt it—the flutter, the sudden gush of fresh wetness—and growled low in her chest.
“You like that,” she rasped. “When it almost knots you. When it stretches you so much you can’t think.”
Wednesday’s response was to sink down hard and stay there, grinding in tight, desperate circles while Enid’s knot throbbed against her rim.
“I like,” she said through gritted teeth, “when you stop talking and fuck me like the animal you are.”
Enid snapped.
She flipped them in one brutal motion—Wednesday’s back hitting the mattress, legs splayed wide, black skirt rucked up around her waist. Enid didn’t pull out. She just braced her forearms on either side of Wednesday’s head and started pounding.
Hard. Fast. Relentless.
The headboard slammed against the wall in time with their bodies. Wednesday’s nails raked down Enid’s back—through fabric, through skin—drawing thin lines of blood that only made Enid fuck her harder.
Wednesday’s mouth fell open on a silent scream. Her thighs locked around Enid’s waist, heels digging into the small of her back, urging her deeper.
“Harder,” Wednesday demanded. Voice wrecked. “Deeper. Knot me—knot me like you mean it—”
Enid’s knot was fully swollen now—thick, hot, unyielding—and every thrust stretched Wednesday wider, the fat bulge catching and dragging against her entrance until she was shaking, gasping, clawing at Enid’s shoulders.
Enid leaned down and bit the side of Wednesday’s throat—not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to leave perfect teeth marks.
“Say it,” Enid growled against her pulse. “Say it or I stop.”
Wednesday’s laugh was breathless, delirious.
“Real—” she gasped as Enid slammed home again. “Real is—fuck—better—”
“Louder.”
“Real is better!” Wednesday’s voice cracked on the words. Her cunt clenched like a fist. “Your cock—your knot—fuck—Enid—real is better—don’t you dare stop—”
Enid roared.
She drove forward one last time—knot catching fully this time—and popped inside with a wet, obscene sound that echoed in the small room.
Wednesday arched off the bed like she’d been struck by lightning. Her eyes rolled back. Her mouth opened on a soundless wail. Her walls fluttered and spasmed around the thick intrusion, milking it desperately.
Enid couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Just buried to the hilt, knot locked tight, pulsing inside the tightest, hottest grip she’d ever felt.
Wednesday’s hands flew to Enid’s face—cupped her cheeks—pulled her down until their lips crashed together in a messy, bloody, perfect kiss.
When they broke apart, Wednesday’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Feel that?” she breathed. “That’s what silicone could never do. That’s what I want. Every time. Only you.”
Enid’s tears fell onto Wednesday’s collarbone.
She nodded.
Broken.
Believing.
“I’m yours,” she whispered.
Wednesday smiled—small, sharp, triumphant.
“Then come inside me,” she ordered softly. “Fill me until it leaks out for days. Mark me. Claim me. Prove it.”
Enid’s hips gave one helpless jerk.
And then she came.
Enid came like the world was ending.
Her knot pulsed once—twice—then locked impossibly tighter as the first thick spurt erupted deep inside Wednesday. The force of it made Wednesday’s breath punch out in a sharp, startled gasp. Enid’s whole body seized, muscles locking, tail thrashing so violently it knocked a stack of Wednesday’s grimoires off the nightstand with a heavy thud.
She couldn’t stop.
Wave after wave flooded Wednesday’s cunt—hot, endless, viscous—until Enid could actually feel the pressure building inside, the way her release had nowhere left to go. Wednesday’s walls fluttered helplessly around the swollen knot, milking every drop with rhythmic, greedy contractions that dragged broken whimpers from Enid’s throat.
“F-fuck—Weds—I’m sorry—there’s so much—”
Wednesday’s hand shot up and clamped over Enid’s mouth.
“Do. Not. Apologize.” Her voice was wrecked—husky, trembling at the edges—but the command was iron. “You will fill me until I am dripping for days. Until every step I take reminds me exactly who owns this cunt.”
Enid’s eyes rolled back at the words. Another pulse. Another gush. Wednesday’s lower belly actually distended the tiniest bit under the sheer volume, a soft, obscene swell that made Enid growl low and primal.
Wednesday’s head tipped back against the pillow. Her throat worked on a swallow. One pale hand drifted down between their bodies—fingers splaying over that subtle bulge—and pressed.
Enid jerked like she’d been branded.
“Feel that?” Wednesday whispered, pressing again, harder. “That’s you. All of you. Not silicone. Not detachable. Not temporary.” She rolled her hips in a tiny, torturous circle—knot grinding against every oversensitive inch inside her. “This is permanent. This is mine.”
Enid sobbed against Wednesday’s palm. Tears streaked down her temples into black hair. Her claws had retracted at some point—she didn’t remember when—but her fingers were still curled tight around Wednesday’s hips, anchoring herself as the aftershocks kept wringing more come from her.
Minutes passed.
Maybe longer.
Enid’s knot showed no sign of going down. If anything, the steady throbbing seemed to keep her release flowing in slow, lazy pulses—enough that Wednesday could feel the warm trickle starting to leak out around the seal where they were joined, sliding down her ass and pooling beneath her on the already-ruined sheets.
Wednesday finally lifted her hand from Enid’s mouth.
Enid immediately started babbling.
“I—I didn’t mean to come so hard—I tried to hold it but you said—fuck—you said to fill you and I just—lost it—sorry—”
Wednesday silenced her with a kiss. Slow this time. Deep. Possessive. She licked into Enid’s mouth like she was claiming every inch of it too.
When she pulled back, a thin string of saliva connected their lips for a heartbeat before snapping.
“You did exactly what I wanted,” Wednesday murmured against Enid’s cheek. “Now be still.”
She shifted—carefully—testing the knot. It didn’t budge. Locked tight. Perfectly lodged.
Wednesday hummed in approval.
Then she started to move.
Not thrusting—impossible with the knot—but small, rolling grinds. Tiny circles. Forward and back. Side to side. Each motion tugged at Enid’s oversensitive length, dragged the swollen base against Wednesday’s stretched rim, made fresh sparks shoot up both their spines.
Enid’s arms gave out. She collapsed forward, face buried in the crook of Wednesday’s neck, breathing hard.
“Too much—too much—Weds I can’t—”
“You can.” Wednesday’s nails traced lazy patterns up Enid’s spine. “And you will. Because I’m not finished proving my point.”
She clenched deliberately around the knot.
Enid yelped—high and helpless—and another weak spurt leaked out.
Wednesday’s lips curved against Enid’s ear.
“See? Still hard. Still leaking. Still desperate to give me more.” She clenched again. “Plastic could never recover this quickly. Could never stay buried this deep. Could never make me feel this—” Her voice hitched as she ground down harder. “—full.”
Enid’s hips gave tiny, involuntary jerks. Each one made Wednesday gasp softly—little broken sounds she would deny making later.
They stayed locked together like that for what felt like forever.
Wednesday kept up the slow, torturous rocking. Enid kept leaking. Kept trembling. Kept whispering broken little “yours” and “only you”s against Wednesday’s throat.
Eventually—slowly—the knot began to soften.
Not much. Just enough.
Wednesday felt the first real give and immediately rolled them again.
This time Enid ended up on her back, Wednesday straddling her once more. The movement dislodged the knot with a wet, filthy pop—followed by a gush of come so thick it splattered audibly against Enid’s thighs and puddled on the sheets.
Wednesday didn’t let her pull out.
She sank right back down—taking the still-hard length to the hilt in one smooth glide through the slick mess.
Enid’s head thumped back against the pillow.
“Wednesday—”
“Shhh.” Wednesday braced her hands on Enid’s chest and started riding again. Slower this time. Deeper. Letting every inch drag against her walls, letting the come already inside her squelch obscenely with each stroke.
“Look at me,” she ordered.
Enid’s eyes fluttered open. Glassy. Worshipful.
Wednesday leaned down until their noses brushed.
“Real,” she whispered, punctuating the word with a hard downward stroke, “is better.”
Another stroke.
“Real fills me until I ache.”
Another.
“Real leaks and knots and begs and still wants more.”
She kissed Enid—soft this time. Almost sweet.
“Real is you.”
Enid’s arms wrapped around her. Tight. Desperate.
“I believe you,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I believe you.”
Wednesday smiled against her mouth.
“Then come again,” she breathed. “And keep coming until you have nothing left to doubt.”
She started moving faster.
Enid broke beautifully beneath her.
Enid came a second time like she was being unmade.
It wasn’t the explosive, roaring release of before. This one built slow and merciless under Wednesday’s steady, rolling rhythm—each downward grind milking her oversensitive length until the pleasure edged into something almost painful, almost too bright. Her knot had softened enough to let Wednesday move freely again, but it still throbbed with every pass, still caught deliciously on the rim before sliding back in through the slick mess of come and arousal.
Enid’s hands clutched Wednesday’s thighs so hard the skin blanched white around her fingertips. Her tail curled tight around Wednesday’s calf like it was trying to anchor her there forever. Tears streamed freely now—silent, steady—sliding into her hairline and soaking the pillow beneath her head.
Wednesday didn’t stop.
She rode through every tremor, every broken sob, every helpless twitch of Enid’s hips. Her own climax had been building since the knot first locked—slow, coiling heat that finally snapped when Enid’s second release flooded her again. Wednesday’s head tipped back, black braids swinging, mouth falling open on a rare, unguarded moan that echoed in the small dorm room like a hymn in a crypt.
Her walls clamped down hard—rhythmic, fluttering spasms that wrung another weak spurt from Enid even as her own release gushed around the thick shaft, mixing with everything already inside her until the wet sounds were obscene, unmistakable.
They shuddered together.
Wednesday collapsed forward—forehead pressed to Enid’s collarbone, breaths coming in short, ragged pants against sweat-damp skin. Enid’s arms wrapped around her instantly, pulling her close, holding her like something fragile and priceless even though they both knew Wednesday Addams was forged from obsidian and spite.
For long minutes neither spoke.
Just the sound of their breathing slowly evening out. The faint drip of come leaking steadily from where they were still joined. The soft rustle of ruined sheets. The distant hum of the Nevermore radiator that never quite turned off.
Eventually Wednesday lifted her head.
Her eyeliner had smudged into faint dark streaks beneath her eyes—making her look more like a beautiful gothic raccoon than the usual pristine mortician aesthetic. Enid thought it was the most gorgeous thing she’d ever seen.
Wednesday studied Enid’s face with that unnerving, unblinking intensity.
“No more doubts,” she said. Not a question.
Enid swallowed thickly. Voice hoarse. “No more doubts.”
Wednesday traced one fingertip along Enid’s jaw—gentle in a way that felt almost violent after everything else.
“Good.” She leaned in and kissed the corner of Enid’s mouth. Then the tear track on her cheek. Then the salt-slick skin beneath her eye. Soft, deliberate presses of lips that felt like punctuation marks at the end of a very long, very filthy sentence.
Enid let out a shaky laugh. “You’re covered in me.”
“An acceptable state.” Wednesday shifted her hips experimentally. The softening length slipped free with another wet gush—thick ropes of come sliding down Enid’s shaft, pooling on her stomach, dripping onto the sheets in slow, lazy rivulets. Wednesday watched it with clinical fascination, then dragged two fingers through the mess and brought them to Enid’s lips.
“Open.”
Enid obeyed instantly.
Wednesday pushed the fingers inside—letting Enid taste the combined flavor of them both. Salty, musky, faintly metallic. Enid sucked greedily, tongue swirling, eyes locked on Wednesday’s.
When she pulled her fingers free with a soft pop, Wednesday’s voice was almost tender.
“You will never question your place inside me again.”
Enid nodded—too wrecked for words.
Wednesday finally rolled off her—slowly, carefully—and lay on her side, facing Enid. One leg hooked possessively over Enid’s hip. One hand splayed over the center of Enid’s chest, right above her racing heart.
Enid mirrored the position—arm draped around Wednesday’s waist, fingers tracing idle patterns on the small of her back beneath the rucked-up turtleneck.
They stayed like that—sticky, sweaty, wrecked, perfect.
After a while Enid found her voice again.
“Weds?”
“Hmm.”
“If I ever start spiraling again… can we just… do this? Instead of talking it out?”
Wednesday’s lips curved—just the tiniest fraction.
“Talking is overrated.” She pressed a kiss to the underside of Enid’s jaw. “Fucking the doubt out of you is far more efficient.”
Enid laughed—soft, tired, happy.
“Deal.”
Wednesday’s hand slid lower—cupping Enid’s softening length gently, almost reverently.
“Real,” she murmured against Enid’s throat, “is infinitely superior.”
Enid turned her head and kissed Wednesday slow and deep—one last claim before sleep finally dragged them both under.
When they woke up hours later—tangled, crusty, gloriously ruined—Wednesday’s first words were:
“Shower. Then round three.”
Enid grinned so wide her cheeks hurt.
“Only if you say it again.”
Wednesday’s eyes glittered.
“Real is better.”
Enid pulled her closer.
“Louder.”
Wednesday rolled on top of her—already reaching between them.
“Real,” she said, voice low and dangerous and perfect, “is better.”
And then she proved it.
Again.
And again.
Until the only thing left in Enid’s mind was the truth she’d finally—completely—accepted:
Real was hers.
And she was exactly where she belonged.